The Deepest Blue(20)
She didn’t expect a spoken answer. But she expected some reaction. Peeking up, she saw the woman in the center give a slight nod.
And from far below, in the cove below the overhang, she heard Kelo scream.
“No! Don’t hurt him! It was my idea! Mine! Blame me, punish me, but don’t kill him!” She launched herself at the Silent Ones, but the fire lizard leaped onto her hand, scalding it. She screamed and clutched her burned hand.
Reaching out with her mind, she tried to stop the spirits—
And then she smelled sweet flowers on a cloth held to her face. The world tilted, and she fell as she lost control of her body—Kelo’s screams softened into hazy silence, and then everything was quiet and dark.
MAYARA WOKE IN A DIMLY LIT ROOM TO THE SKRITCH OF A PEN across paper. She heard the tap of the pen against glass, probably the ink jar. Squid ink, she thought. And then her thoughts settled into place, memory flooded through her, and she sat upright.
“Where’s Kelo? Is he alive?” The words came out jumbled, as if her mouth were full of mud. She swallowed. She repeated, “Kelo—is he alive?”
The sound of the pen stopped, and a male voice said, “Drink water. You’ll feel better. The cartena flower is effective but does leave one a bit woolly-headed.” His voice was warm, as if he were a kindly uncle, but Mayara knew this was a stranger. She tried to see across the room.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“You know, I find it fascinating that none of your questions have been about yourself. Usually, in these situations, the first question is ‘Where am I?’ followed by ‘What’s going to happen to me?’”
She blinked—her eyes felt as woolly as her mouth—and she could make out the shape of a large, muscular man at a desk. She couldn’t see his features. A lamp was beside him, stuffed with firemoss.
“I know what’s going to happen to me,” Mayara said. “So it doesn’t much matter where I am. Please, tell me if my fiancé—my husband—please tell me if my husband is alive.”
“If you’re resigned to your fate, as you say, does his fate make much difference?” The man sounded genuinely curious. Yet not sympathetic, as if her worry were of scientific interest only.
She could have cried or raged, yelled or pleaded, but she didn’t think that would impress this strange man. So she simply said, “Yes.”
Trying to sit up more, she winced as her head began to throb. Stubbornly, she didn’t lie back down. I’m not going to face my fate prone. She spotted a glass of water on a small table beside her and drank it. The water felt cold, stinging her teeth, and it tasted faintly of flowers, but she couldn’t be sure if that was the water itself or an aftereffect of the drug the Silent Ones had used on her.
Instead of answering, the man rose and straightened the papers on his desk. She was able to see him more clearly now: dark hair and a pale beard against skin that was striped in swathes of black, white, and bronze. She knew that coloring, at least from reputation.
“You’re from the Family Neran,” she guessed. “And I’m in your fortress.”
That would explain the desk of solid wood—clearly shipped from the mainland. No island tree gave wood like that, with knots the size of her fist. She noticed the room was paneled in similar wood. It must have cost a fortune. Possibly as much gold as my village makes in a year. Belatedly, she realized that meant she was most likely addressing someone of importance in the Family Neran.
She added: “My lord.”
He chuckled. “Power and intelligence do not always go hand in hand. I’m pleased to see you have both. You may work out fine.”
“My lord, can you please tell me if my husband lives?” She kept her voice polite.
“I am here to record your choice and offer you guidance, if you need it.” He still sounded kindly, even though she could see no reason for him not to tell her. “Let me present to you your options—”
“I know my choices.” She took a deep breath as if she were about to face the sea. “But I will not choose until I know if my husband lived or died. My lord.”
He regarded her with even more interest. “I am the head of the Family Neran. Do you know what that means, spirit sister?”
She flinched at the name “spirit sister.” It was a title she’d run from for a long time—in some mouths, it was a name of respect. In others, it was a death sentence. And then she realized what he’d said about himself: the head of the Family Neran.
This was Lord Maarte himself, head of the ruling Family of her island, Olaku, second only in power and importance to Queen Asana herself and equal to the leaders of all the other islands of Belene.
Her head swam again, and she wished she were still lying down. She’d guessed from the richness of the room that this was someone of import. But she hadn’t imagined she’d be waking in the same room as the ruler of their island.
“It means,” he continued blandly, “that I am the final say in all decisions pertaining to this island. I approve the laws. I mete out the punishments. I sign the trade agreements. I determine which villages—”
“Don’t threaten my family.” The words burst out before she’d considered them.
“Excuse me?”
It was too late to take them back. She plunged on. “You’ve taken my freedom, my future, my family, my dreams, my everything from me. Fine. It’s the law. It’s tradition. It may even be necessary. But threatening my family? That’s cruel.”