Before She Ignites (Fallen Isles Trilogy #1)(29)
At Aaru’s cell, I glanced in, but he was perched on his bed with his knees up to his chest, his forehead rested on folded arms. Tall. Lanky. Not soft. The cup sat in the center of his space, catching the drip from his ceiling. After that first day, I hadn’t let him give me any more water; I got enough, because I was cleaning.
Down the hall, I glanced through iron grilles to see the tattooed man lying on the floor and muttering prayers to his god: Hurrok, maybe. A woman petted the somewhat clean walls of her cell, and another man was shoving fistfuls of air into his mouth as though faced with an incredible—and invisible—banquet.
My dislike of them had thinned over my ten days here, and I suspected that at least two weren’t (necessarily) criminals, just ill. They didn’t belong here any more than I did. Mostly, I wished they’d shut up and let me sleep when the noorestones went dark.
Out of the cellblock, Altan took me past several familiar corridors. Numbers floated in the back of my head: steps, halls, intersections.
“You’ll get half an hour,” Altan said as we came to a large stone door. The arch above it bore the customary crossed maces, but these were made of inlaid gold, with gilt flames circling Khulan’s holy symbol. “Everything you need is in there.”
He wasn’t coming in with me? That was a relief.
“This is the only door into this chamber,” he said. “I’ll be out here the whole time. Unless you want me to help you, of course.”
My stomach turned and I pulled my belongings over my chest. Gerel’s assurance that none of the warriors would take an unwilling partner rattled through my head again. I had to believe her.
I went inside. Alone.
It wasn’t a large space—maybe ten steps deep and fifteen wide, and most of that was dominated by a steaming pool of sulfur-smelling water, lit by ten blue noorestones embedded in the walls. Four benches stood around the pool, with thin gray towels, baskets of muddy-looking soap, and piles of rags. There was even a comb, though the teeth were dull and three were missing.
One bench had clothes and a blanket drying over the back.
A figure pulled out of the shadows, a towel wrapped tight around her body, and her braids piled into a bun on top of her head. “Hot springs.” Tirta loosened her death grip on the towel. “There’s a whole series of them down here. This is the smallest and smelliest, so they sectioned it off for prisoners.”
Actual hot water. I wanted to dive right in.
“I’m glad it’s just you,” she went on. “They try to keep it to a few prisoners at a time—so we don’t conspire against them, you see—but you never know who you’ll be stuck bathing with.”
“So we’re safe in here?” I asked.
“As safe as we are anywhere in the Pit.” She draped her towel over the nearest bench and stepped into the water. “Do your laundry first, that way it can dry some before you have to put it back on.”
I followed her advice, unloading my belongings. “How long have you been here?”
“Just a few minutes. I do my laundry fast.”
Apparently. “I meant in the Pit. As a prisoner.” Hopefully that wasn’t too rude to ask.
“Oh. I’m not sure.” She scrubbed water over her face, careful not to get her hair wet. “Time gets confusing down here. No sun. No proper calendar for prisoners.”
She didn’t know? It must have been a long time.
“Well, today is the tenth of Zabel. Just two decans until the Hallowed Restoration.” Those were the five days at the end of every year. Six days every fourth year. The Hallowed Restoration was supposed to be for reflecting on the previous twelve months and looking forward to the new year.
“Oh, I love the Hallowed Restoration.” She smiled dimly. “We don’t get to celebrate here, of course, but my family lights remembrance candles every evening, praying for health and guidance. Sometimes we exchange gifts.”
Lots of families had sweet traditions like that. I usually spent hours under the mistress of beauty’s brushes, followed by thirty minutes of time alone in the parlor with my family, during which Mother would tell all of us how we’d disappointed her throughout the year and how we could improve over the next. Then we often accepted invitations from Elbena Krasteba; the Luminary Councilor was—by general agreement—the best hostess. Sometimes her gatherings went on until dawn.
Mother probably would have a lot to say about how I’d disappointed her this year.
I turned my attention back to Tirta. “Why are most of the prisoners our age?” I’d seen a few adults in my cellblock and in the mess hall, but not as many as I’d have thought. “Do adults not get sentenced to the Pit?”
Her expression darkened. “Oh, adults are sent here too, but they expect things, you know? And then they die. We adapt better.”
I didn’t want to adapt. I wanted to go home.
But instead of saying so, I scrubbed my clothes and belongings clean, using the foul-smelling soap and a slanted area in the pool with several ridges carved into it. Not that I’d known how to wash my clothes until this very instant; I followed Tirta’s instructions.
“You’re going to do well here.” Tirta wrapped herself in her towel again. “You work hard. You behave. I can’t help but be curious how someone like you ended up in the Pit.”