An Ember in the Ashes (Ember Quartet #1)(77)

Without waiting for a reply, she pulls me to the dance floor, a remarkably bold thing for a Tribal girl to do. I look at her closely and realize that she’s not a girl but a grown woman, perhaps a few years older than me. I eye her warily. Most Tribeswomen have a few children by their midtwenties.

“Don’t you have a husband who’ll take off my head if he sees me dancing with you?” I respond in Sadhese.

“I don’t. Why, are you interested in the position?” She runs a warm, slow finger down the skin of my chest and stomach, all the way to my belt. For the first time in a decade or so, I blush. Her wrist, I notice, is free of the Tribal braid tattoo that would mark her as married.

“What’s your name and Tribe, lad?” she asks. She’s a good dancer, and when I match her step for step, I can tell she’s pleased.

“Ilyaas.” I haven’t spoken my Tribal name in years. Grandfather Martialized it within about five minutes of meeting me. “Ilyaas An-Saif.” As soon as I say it, I wonder if it’s a mistake. The story of Mamie Rila’s adopted son being taken to Blackcliff isn’t well known—the Empire ordered Tribe Saif to keep it quiet. Still, Tribesmen love to talk.

But if the woman recognizes the name, she doesn’t acknowledge it.

“I’m Afya Ara-Nur,” she says.

“Shadows and light,” I translate her first name and her Tribal name. “Fascinating combination.”

“Mostly shadows, to be honest.” She leans toward me, and the smolder in her brown eyes makes my heart beat a little faster. “But keep that between us.”

I tilt my head as I look at her. I don’t think I’ve ever met a Tribal woman with such sultry self-possession. Not even a Kehanni. Afya smiles a secret smile and asks me a few polite questions about Tribe Saif. How many weddings have we had in the past month? How many births? Will we journey to Nur for the Fall Gathering? Though the questions are suitable for a Tribal woman, I’m not fooled. Her simple words don’t match the sharp intelligence of her eyes. Where is her family? Who is she, really?

As if sensing my suspicion, Afya tells me of her brothers: rug-traders based in Nur, here to sell their wares before bad weather closes off the mountain passes. As she speaks, I look around surreptitiously for these brothers of hers—Tribal men are notoriously protective of their unwed women, and I’m not looking for a fight. But though there are plenty of Tribesmen in the crowd, none of them so much as look at Afya.

We stay together for three dances. When the last is over, Afya curtsies and offers me a wooden coin with a sun on one side and clouds on the other.

“A gift,” she says. “For honoring me with such fine dances, Ilyaas An-Saif.”

“The honor is mine.” I’m surprised. Tribal tokens mark a favor owed—they’re not offered lightly and are rarely given out by women.

As if she knows what I’m thinking, Afya stands on her tiptoes. She’s so tiny, I have to stoop to hear her. “If the heir of Gens Veturia should ever need a favor, Ilyaas, Tribe Nur will be honored to be of service.” Immediately my body tenses, but she puts two fingers to her lips—the most binding of Tribal vows. “Your secret is safe with Afya Ara-Nur.”

I raise an eyebrow. Whether she recognized the name Ilyaas or has seen me around Serra masked, I don’t know. Whoever Afya Ara-Nur is, she’s no simple Tribal woman. I nod in acknowledgment, and her white teeth flash.

“Ilyaas . . . ” She drops down, no longer whispering. “Your lady is free now—see.” I look over my shoulder. Laia has returned to the dance stage and is watching the redhead walk away from her. “You must claim her for a dance,” Afya says. “Go on!”

She gives me a small shove and disappears, the bells on her ankle tinkling. I stare after her for a moment, looking at the coin thoughtfully before pocketing it. Then I turn and make my way to Laia.





XXIX: Laia


“May I?”

My mind is still on Keenan, and I am startled to find the Tribal boy standing beside me. For a moment I can only stare dumbly up at him.

“Would you like to dance?” he clarifies, offering a hand. The low hood shadows his eyes, but his lips curve into a smile.

“Um . . . I . . . ” Now that I’ve given my report, Izzi and I should get back to Blackcliff. Dawn is still a few hours away, but I shouldn’t risk getting caught.

“Ah.” The boy smiles. “The redhead. Your . . . husband?”

“What? No!”

“Fiancé?”

“No. He’s not—”

“Lover?” The boy lifts an eyebrow suggestively.

My face grows hot. “He’s my—my friend.”

“Then why worry?” The boy flashes a grin tinged with wickedness, and I find myself smiling in return. I glance over my shoulder at Izzi, talking to an earnest-looking Scholar. She laughs at something he says, her hands, for once, not straying to her eyepatch. When she catches me watching, she looks between the Tribal boy and me and waggles her eyebrows. My face goes hot again. One dance can’t hurt; we can leave after.

The fiddlers are playing a lilting ballad, and at my nod, the boy takes my hands as confidently as if we’ve been friends for years. Despite his height and the width of his shoulders, he leads with a grace that is effortless and sensual all at once. When I peek at him, I find him staring down at me, a faint smile on his lips. My breath hitches, and I cast about for something to say.