The Silent: Irin Chronicles Book Five(51)

Kyra took the fabric. It was a handwoven length of cloth, designed to be hung on a wall or pieced into a jacket. “Intira, this is beautiful. Did you make this?” Kyra knew Bun Ma had been teaching the girl how to weave as part of her meditation practice, but she had no idea her weaving was so advanced.

“Yes.” Intira jumped up and down. “Give it to Prija and she’ll come home.”

Kyra looked at the fabric. Clusters of knots were worked into colored lines that ran the length of the fabric. At first she thought they were stars, but then she realized it was far more regular than stars. This was a system or code of some kind.

“Intira, what is this?” Kyra looked at Bun Ma and Kanchana, but both of them looked as mystified as she was.

The girl was still jumping up and down. “Prija will know. She’ll know, Kyra. Just show it to her. Tell her I figured it out, but she has to come back so I can finish.”

Only half the fabric was knotted. While the bottom half of the piece was beautifully woven, it lacked the knots on the top half. Kyra had so many questions, but she knew Intira loved her surprises, and she’d never tell before she was ready.

“She’ll know what this is?” Kyra asked, holding out the weaving.

“Mm-hmm!” Intira nodded. “She’ll know.”

“Okay.” She carefully folded the woven panel. “I’ll give it to her.”

“And tell her I’m only going to finish if she comes back.”

“I’ll tell her,” Kyra said. She opened her arms, and Intira ran to her, giving her a swift hug before she ran back to the forest, her ever-present brothers jogging behind her.

“That girl is spoiled,” Kanchana said.

“That girl is precious.” Bun Ma held out her hands. “Let me see it?”

Kyra handed Bun Ma the weaving.

“This is very good,” Bun Ma said. “But so different from anything I make. She’ll progress past me within a few years.”

“She’s too bright to keep here,” Kanchana said. “But where would she go?”

“If she had more magic,” Kyra said, “she could go anywhere. Anywhere at all.”





Prija III





She sat in the back of a windowless van. Her captors were not intelligent, but they were stronger than her. They tried to torment her by forcing skin contact—no doubt thinking it would have a detrimental effect on her psyche—but Prija didn’t react. She stared straight ahead and tried to give every appearance of being unaware.

Silent.

She was good at being silent.

But of course she was aware. She was aware of everything.

They were in Myanmar now. She could hear the language change when they stopped for petrol. Feel the roads grow rougher. They spent one night at a Grigori outpost, but the men there wanted nothing to do with these combative sons of Arindam and the Irin scribe who skulked in the background.

“We don’t traffic in our own,” one said. “They are untouchable.”

Prija smiled when she heard that. Untouchable. She liked the label.

“That’s not what we want her for,” her captor said. “That’s not why our father wants her. She’s something different.”

“Then we really don’t want her.”

“She’s powerful.”

“All the more reason she’s not welcome here.”

So her captors knew her lethargy and blank stares were an act. Not surprising. What was surprising was the case in the corner. They’d stolen her instrument from her cottage and taken it with them, even though they didn’t let her play. Did they know? Perhaps what had happened to Tenasserim wasn’t as much of a secret as she and her brothers had thought.

What do you want with me?

“She’s an offering,” they told another outpost, “for our father. She will please him.”

Why would she please Arindam? She had nothing but contempt for the Fallen angel. She had even more contempt for Arindam’s sons, who had dishonored Kanok’s memory with their cowardice. He’d sacrificed his life only to have them back out of their bargain. He’d sacrificed his life, and now Prija was alone.

On the third day of traveling, Prija decided to kill the scribe.

He’d sat in the back of the van with her. He sat on the opposite bench and looked at her with greedy eyes. He’d taken out her saw sam sai and run his filthy tattooed hands all over the wood.

“Beautiful,” he’d said. He looked and sounded Indian, but she didn’t know enough about India to identify his accent. She knew it was a big country with many languages, but the man spoke English. “Your violin is beautiful.”

It isn’t a violin.

He tapped the blue jewel attached to the skin of the instrument. “This is valuable, isn’t it? It’s not a fake.”

Of course it wasn’t. Kanok had stolen the jewel for her. It was the last gift he’d given Prija. The scribe had no idea how valuable it was.

“Why do you hold your instrument in such high esteem?” he asked. “Is it your voice?”

She met his eyes and knew that the scribe understood.

“It is, isn’t it? I kept wondering why they called you dangerous. I kept wondering what it was that made you the one we needed to take. I voted for the little one. She’s a genius, isn’t she? A prize like that one could be very valuable if one could make her compliant. The right angel would have to—”