Obsidian: Retribution (Book 2)

Fifty Eight: A Touch of Light

On a makeshift bed, behind the iron bars of his prison cell, Lasura sat staring at the two figures on the other side with an unshakable feeling that the real catastrophe to eclipse the quake they'd just survived was about to come. From his mother.

His mother, who should have been held captive somewhere by Deo to use as bait, or leverage, or a weapon against his father, had somehow managed to talk her way out of a hostage situation, muscled Deo into giving her directions through the tunnels, and arrived at the Barai long before the quake had begun. She had come, she'd said, to bring his father the terms of alliance offered by Sarasef––terms she appeared to have negotiated on his behalf, from Lasura's own deduction of the story.

The directions had brought her into the Barai the same way they came––through Chief Yaran's chamber––and by pure chance during his conversation with the healer regarding the assassination of the Salar. Long story short, she'd stayed hidden until the room was vacated, followed the healer to his quarter and switched the content of the vial his father was to be given with something else, then got herself into the Salar's chamber to make sure everything went according to plan. She'd done all this by utilizing the windows, making her way across the building from the outside to avoid being seen. She was born and raised in the Vilarhiti, she'd said, where everyone was taught to scale mountains twice as high as the Djamahari to hunt. In winter. By ten.

His mother, who had also killed the healer with a blow on the back of his head using a nearby oversized paperweight, having waited to see if he'd truly poison the Salar, then dragged her husband off to shelter under a desk, saving his life in the process.

His mother, who was now reciting the list of ingredients for medicine to an assistant healer, after having snapped orders for Akshay to relocate the wounded to the prisoner quarters––the least damaged buildings from the quake––and to throw her injured son into a prison cell, lock the door, then hand her the key. To keep him from running out to find Djari, the moment she had been told what happened.

'Akshay has sent out men to look for them,' she'd said. 'You're nothing but a burden with your injuries, and I don't have time to chase after a missing son.'

She hadn't spoken a word to him after that. She'd spoken to healers, to guards, to messengers, to Akshay who had somewhat given her control of the Barai. Why? Because there had been no one else who could do a better job, because her orders had made sense, because she'd demanded it, because the Salar's life was in her hands, and because she had seemed to be––and truly was––the only one who had her wits about her in the midst of this chaos.

It made sense, in a way. She was a Bharavi who had been through a massacre, a riot, a burning, two decades of court maneuvering, and the only woman who understood Salar Muradi of Rasharwi more than anyone alive, whether she liked that fact or not. And Akshay, who had authority in the Barai and was smart enough to see all of this, had decided to simply hand her the command, discreetly, of course. There was no way a Shakshi––or a woman––could hold real and public power in the Salasar, but to those who found themselves under direct command of Akshay, she had, quite naturally and smoothly, held them all by the balls in less than a day.

It made his hair stand, seeing her grab these reins as the one in power, how fast she could do it, how efficiently, and how easily the men around her were willing to follow her instructions. She even looked like his father when she snapped her orders, when she stood her ground, when she gestured for someone to be dismissed, or killed.

She also had, as of this morning, threatened to throw a guard off the balcony, having forgotten they weren't exactly in the Black Tower anymore, and then mumbled something about having lived with his father far too long.