Before She Ignites (Fallen Isles Trilogy #1)(74)

But now, as I read her delicate hand, a chill crept through me. These were not words I wanted to speak. To think. To know.

It was late, and the storm raged across the Shadowed City, but restlessness clawed at me. So I roamed the space, counting my footsteps, hoping Hristo would come. Maybe he had a plan, some kind of news about anything that mattered. Maybe my parents had sent him, since they couldn’t come themselves. Maybe he had a way to spirit me away from this awful place.

He was in disguise. Regardless of his motive and method for being here, he’d hidden his identity and needed me to play along. I’d learn the truth as soon as he was able to tell me; I just had to be patient.

Voices carried from the hall. They were too low for me to understand, but loud enough that I knew Hristo would not be able to come.

Again, a prisoner. This time with a nicer cell.

Had I ever not been a prisoner? The Luminary Council had always kept me like this, under close watch, under careful guard. I used to think it was because I was precious to them. Now I realized the cell had always been there, just invisible.

I hated the grim acceptance that settled inside me, but I was no heroine in a story. I was not the kind of girl who could leap from her window, dash through the stormy city, and disappear into the wilds. I couldn’t commandeer a ship and sail . . . somewhere. I couldn’t do anything but obey commands.

A pendulum clock tick-tocked on the wall; it was late. I moved around the room covering the noorestones with the squares of black velvet, blocking their cool blue light. Nine, ten, eleven.

I left the twelfth uncovered. The room stood as dim as my cell in the Pit, but when I closed my eyes, I couldn’t imagine myself back there. The Pit seemed far away, almost like a false memory. And the sounds: muted voices, thumping footsteps, the roar of thunder, and the crash of rain. It was all offensively loud.

Nor could I imagine what Aaru was doing right now. Had they moved him back to his cell yet? Were his feet healed enough to send him to the forge to work on the God Shackle? It was night, but the position of the sun meant nothing underground; perhaps he was awake right now, too, wondering about me.

Probably hating me.

I pulled back the heavy curtains and peered through the rain-drenched darkness. Below, I could just make out the glow of noorestones as the Luminary Guards patrolled the inn. Was Hristo down there? And what about Ilina? Was she here somewhere, too?

On impulse, I tested the window, but it was nailed shut. Someone had clearly believed I was brave enough to slip out and try to navigate down the steep roof.

The curtains fell closed as I backed away. Grimly, I returned to the speech and read it five more times.

If I spoke these words, like Elbena wanted, there would be consequences for thousands of strangers. If I refused, there would be consequences for my family, my friends, and four people I wanted to call friends.

With shaking hands, I covered the final noorestone over the headboard. Darkness washed across the room, but it wasn’t absolute.

The faint glow from the window.

The hints of light beneath the noorestone covers.

The dull illumination from beneath the door.

I closed my eyes against the not-darkness, feeling like I was melting into the bed. The speech swirled through my mind with its awfulness:

Seventeen years ago, the Mira Treaty took a stance against discrimination, against occupation, and against the pillaging of our islands. The treaty states that to truly honor the Fallen Gods, all islands must be equal and independent. Anything less is immoral. Unethical.

This truth is indisputable.

Since then, many strides have been taken toward making reparations, ensuring the success of Harta and her First Matriarch, and offering the freedom of choice for those who want to work and reside all across the Fallen Isles.

But in doing so, we have inadvertently disrespected the gods, and the standards of our individual islands. We must protect our cultures and societies as fiercely as we protect our people. Our history, values and ethics, accomplishments and triumphs, and divine gifts must be preserved.

Remember, our gods grant gifts to the people born of their islands—of their bodies. Those gifts become muted when we leave, and to leave forever is to forsake their gifts and graces. That is no way to give thanks. We must show our gratitude by staying loyal to our gods, and to our islands.

To that end, it is my belief that Bophans belong on Bopha, Hartans belong on Harta, and approving this decree will be the first step in restoring the balance the gods wanted for us from the beginning. We are united, and we are equal, but it is by our gods’ will that we remain separated.

There were so many problems in that speech, glossed over and hedged with pretty, reassuring statements, that even I could not count them all. I hated that someone could wrap so many lies in layers of truth.

This was how Chenda had ended up in the Pit: refusing to say something like this. And now the same choice fell on me, only I knew the terror of the Pit.

And I didn’t want to go back.

ELBENA SPENT THE next day reminding me what it was like to be the Mira Minkoba.

She came to my room two hours after dawn, leading a troupe of five maids. The women kept their eyes downcast as they laid out a breakfast of salmon and cheese quiche, fresh berries drowned in yogurt and honey, and a strong, black tea that Mother never would have let me drink for fear of staining my teeth.

“This is a traditional Bophan breakfast,” Elbena said, scooping a spoonful of yogurt. Behind her, the maids glanced at one another, exchanging looks I couldn’t fully decipher—but I knew they weren’t positive.