Unearth The Shadows

37

Amyra Ore Olerin | 67th day of Sprout season

"How late can this friend of yours be?" Amyra asked, scanning Bjon, who remained completely indifferent to her question. He grabbed a handful of roasted peanuts from his bowl, threw it in his mouth, and chewed audibly. "He was supposed to be here yesterday."

They had gone over their plan to find the secret academy where Una and Bjon's wife were kept about a dozen times now. Because Amyra was wanted by the guard and Bjon was too much of a coward to show face, she would get to the secret academy alone. First, enter the first borough through the underground sewage tunnels. Then somehow find her way into the establishment.

Bjon had been generous enough to provide her with enough weapons and devices of Opace to keep Gulgrarii enemies away— daggers, vests, trousers, and even a headpiece.

While they waited for Bjon's informant who was meant to guide her, she had prepared even additional bombs of Flogos. Completely useless weight, Bjon had said but Amyra needed to busy herself one way or another. Ancients, she had depleted most of the will and strength she had in her. She feared if she didn't find Una fast enough, she would be too depleted to ever do it.

"We could contact someone more reliable," she huffed.

Bjon looked at her as if she was his ten-year-old daughter. As if a judgmental stare was meant to keep her from misbehaving. I could slap you now, Amyra thought.

"You haven't gotten it, have you?" he sneered. "My informant is the only one who can help us get to the academy. It's already a miracle I could get a hold of him. If he never shows up, my way to my wife will be the new Monarch. I'll drag him to Mistress Dalyr's."

The coldness of his tone sent a chill through Amyra's back. She knew that if it was revealed useful to Bjon, he would, too, deliver Amyra to Mistress Anya. It shouldn't bother her as she had once been ready to do the same to save her sister. Still, it disturbed her profoundly. It felt as if she was watching herself now. But not recognizing herself at the same time. How is it possible to readily see evil for what it was as long as it wasn't brought about by one's own hands?

"The trouble about Mistress Anya is that she will always ask more from you," she said. "And for now, there isn't much that can be blamed on the Monarch-to-be." It wasn't the first time Amyra had said those exact words, and as usual, Bjon smirked, disdainful.

"If—" he stuttered, "if it's forgiveness you want, the nearest temple isn't far from here. I'm afraid I only appear like a god. I am not one."

"Well, I have done that. Multiple times. And will continue to."

"One would think asking for forgiveness once is enough."

"That is what I would have thought as well. And why I warn you."

Bjon pinned his elbows on the table, stared away from Amyra, and ran his tongue along his front upper teeth, the skin under his nose bulging. He was annoyed with her again. I hate moments like this because of how it reminded Amyra of how unstable her situation was. She was among the Mali. They sheltered her and fed her like one of them. But not out of sympathy, as even Sheyla, who dragged Amyra outside for company when she wanted to smoke Lyliac roots, still looked at Amyra with suspicion from time to time.