Meera watched Rhys as he climbed up the ladder and Ata handed him the palmetto leaves. Apparently if they were going to sleep in her village, she was happy to use their labor. Meera was grinding dried leaves in a round cypress mortar while Rhys was using his long reach to repair the roof of the bathhouse.

Like Ata, he was bare to the waist, and the dark lines of his talesm moved and flexed with his muscles. They labored in the filtered shade of the pines and cypress trees; she could hear short drifts of conversation pass between them as they worked.

A breeze floated over the mound, cooling Meera’s skin like the sweet, fresh herb she was grinding cooled her senses. She found herself humming an old song her grandmother had sung, rocking back and forth with the grinding pestle.

She couldn’t describe the sensation in her spirit. She felt settled. Rooted. Surrounded by old magic and verdant life.

Despite never having visited before, Meera felt connected to this place, to this foreign village so far from the centuries of tradition in her home country. There was magic here, familiar and old. The very ground beneath her was made with it. It was a place of immense power.

A shadow fell over her and she looked up.

“You’ve ground enough,” Ata said. “Thank you. You can pour the powder into that jar.”

Meera reached for the jar Ata had pointed to. “What is it?”

“The Creole call it filé—they use it for soups—but it was ours first. Sassafras leaf. I dry and cure it. It’s good for eating and medicine. It’s the fastest way to break a fever.”

“I’ll remember that.”

“You’ll remember everything when you agree to take my memories so I can die.”

“Ata, I can’t agree to that. Your magic is too necessary for our people. Though I can hold your memories, I cannot be your voice. And your voice is needed. Please come back with us. Just a visit would be a blessing.”

“So you say.” Ata sat beside her and took a carved wooden spoon hanging from a hook on the wall of the outdoor kitchen. She scooped the bright green powder from the mortar, using her hand as a funnel to pour the filé into the jar. “The soup last night had filé in it.”

Meera knew the subject had been officially changed. “It was good. I was wondering—”

“What does your mate want from me?” Ata didn’t look up as she asked. She kept methodically transferring the powder into the jar. “He is being very patient, but I can tell he wants something.”

“Yes.” Meera had decided to stop correcting Ata regarding the status and her and Rhys’s relationship. Ata ignored any protestations about Rhys and Meera not being mated anyway. “I’ve told you I want to record your language, but he has a different goal.”

“What is it?”

Meera debated whether to reveal Rhys’s plans but decided that for the Wolf, frankness was a better tactic than subterfuge. “Rhys wants to know your martial magic.”

“And you?”

“I want to know how you found peace.”

Ata raised an eyebrow.

“You and your brother achieved peace in this land. Lasting peace for over five hundred years. At no other time in Irin history has that been accomplished. How did you do it?”

Ata shook her head. “You’re not going to like the answer.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“We made them afraid,” Ata said. “Very, very afraid.”

The singer was right. Meera didn’t like that answer. “How?”

Ata frowned and dragged her foot though the dust. “What happened to the Irina on the other side of the ocean? Why don’t you have warriors anymore?”

“We do have warriors. My mother is a warrior. But… the Irina across the ocean—and the modern Irina here—don’t have battle spells anymore. Most Irina warriors died out or were killed in the Rending. The majority are scholars and healers now. Scientists and businesswomen. But fighting has been taken over by the scribes.”

Ata shrugged. “That makes sense since modern Irin are stupid.”

Meera blinked. “I’d like to think not all of us are stupid.”

“You are the somasikara, so of course you are not stupid. You carry the memories of our people, so you have their wisdom. But most modern scribes and singers?” She shrugged. “I have watched them. I think they are stupid.”

Was that why she was determined to die? So she could avoid the stupidity of modern life? “Why do you think so?”

“Modern Irin have become like the humans, fighting for unimportant things. They create laws and rules to fight the sons of the Fallen, who are animals meant to be driven from the earth. Grigori don’t deserve laws. They deserve death.”

Meera’s mouth fell open. “That’s… I mean… Do you know that there are free Grigori—Grigori whose angelic fathers are dead—who are trying to live in peace with us? At peace with humans? That there are female Grigori who have no magic and no ability to shut out the voices of humanity? Some of their brothers have become our allies. Some of the women have actually mated with Irin scribes.”

Ata’s face was blank. She stared across the village, watching Rhys go up and down the ladder. Without another word, she stood and walked away.

Meera let out a long breath. “So I’m going to guess she didn’t know that.”

* * *

Meera lay in bed that night next to Rhys. They’d been exhausted the night before after finding Ata’s mound, but now her mind was spinning. Ata’s isolation. Her determination. The magic she held without any desire to share it.

“How do you speak to someone who withdrew from the world over two hundred years ago?” Rhys mused. “Closer to three hundred. She’s completely disconnected from society. She feels no responsibility to it.”

“I was thinking the same thing. The humans and then the Grigori took everything from her. No other Irin came to help her people.”

“They were isolated. The council didn’t even know—”

“She doesn’t care about that.” Meera rolled on her side. “She doesn’t feel a larger responsibility except to the memory of her people. She’s ready to die.”

He shook his head. “I don’t understand giving up like that.”

“Maybe she doesn’t see it as giving up. Maybe she sees it as simply following the path all her people have traveled ahead of her. How would you feel if you were the last of your people? If all that was left of your language was your own memories? Think about it, Rhys. That’s a profound level of loneliness.”

His eyes moved from the thatched roof to Meera. “Your empathy is staggering. Is that part of being somasikara?”

“I suppose. Carrying the memory of thousands will do that to you.”

“I’m trying to wrap my mind around it, but I can’t.” Rhys put a hand on her cheek. “How do you bear that burden? How can one person carry a load like that?”

Meera smiled. “Um… magic?”

Rhys’s cheeks dimpled. “Is that your polite way of telling me ‘duh’?”

“Look at you smiling. It’s almost like you have a sense of humor.”

“Imp.”

“I would never say duh to you.” She lay down in the curve of his arm as he stretched it across the mattress and pulled her closer. “I have much more academic ways of telling you you’re missing the obvious.”

“Good to know you maintain academic standards in all things.”

Warmth welled up in her breast. He was wonderful. He became more wonderful every day they spent together. A small, rebellious part of Meera kept trying to push back her growing feelings for him. She didn’t want a mate chosen for her. She didn’t want to be a servant of fate. She didn’t want her love dictated by family or political obligations or the whims of heaven.

But he is exactly what you want.

“Rhys?”

He lay calmly beside her. “Yes?”

“Are you backing off?”

“From you?” His voice was deeper. “A little.”

“Why?”

“You wanted to focus on the mission. You told me that. The last thing I want to do is pressure you. I want to be a help here, not a hindrance.”

And he just became more wonderful. She turned her face up to his. “I do want to focus on the mission. But I am also very good at multitasking.”

He didn’t miss a beat. Before she could blink, Rhys’s mouth was on hers and he’d reached down to cup her bottom and hook her leg over his hip.

Meera’s mouth was invaded so skillfully her body surrendered without protest. She opened to Rhys and felt his tongue delicately trace the edge of her teeth and the tip of her tongue. He tasted of herbs, smoke, and the whiskey he’d shared with Ata after dinner.

Meera clutched his shoulder, her mind overwhelmed by a flood of sensation. His hand was warm and firm on her bottom, the other smoothed over her hip and over the curve of her waist, up her body until he was holding her breast and teasing the sensitive peak with his thumb.

“Your skin is so soft,” he murmured against her lips. “I want to touch you.”

“Yes.” She rolled away and pulled off the thin cotton gown she wore to sleep, leaving her bare to his very appreciative gaze.

“Meera,” he whispered, propping himself up with one arm and playing his fingers lightly over her skin. “I want to kiss you.”

She pulled him down and met his hungry mouth with her own. She luxuriated in the rich taste of his lips and the rasp of hair on his jaw. His chest pressed against her own, and she relished the weight of him, the solid muscle of his body against the softness of her own.

He kissed down her neck. “I want to kiss everywhere.”

Rhys kissed over her collarbone and down the valley between her breasts before he licked slowly up one mound and sucked the sensitive tip between his lips, teasing her nipple with his tongue and his teeth. Meera’s back arched with pleasure, but Rhys took his time, sampling each breast before he continued moving down.

“What—?”

“I told you.” He bit the soft skin under her belly button. “Everywhere.”

She’d taken a bath in the basin, but she still had to ask. “Are you sure?”

“Very sure.”

She smiled and spread her legs as Rhys slid off the edge of the bed, still in his boxers but sporting a very impressive tent. He knelt at the edge and tugged her toward him.

“While I’m down here,” he said, “I need you to tell me about these scrolls of magical congress you were talking about.”

She gasped as he nibbled the inside of one knee. “The scrolls?”

“Yes.” He licked slowly up to the juncture of her thighs. “For research purposes, I’m going to need you to be very, very specific.”

Heaven above, the man’s mouth was magic.

“The first—ah!—scroll was written around… uh… four hundred Common Era by…” She gasped and lost her train of thought when his tongue teased the tip of her clitoris.

Rhys raised his head and Meera tried not to cry in disappointment. “Written by…?”

“The scribe Jargrav. He wrote it as an ode of joy to his mate, Kashvi.”

Rhys went back to work, kissing the top of Meera’s pubis as his hands massaged her breasts. “Please continue.”

“The scroll describes their mating ritual in… ah, some detail.”

“Details?” His tongue dipped down, then drew up with aching languor. “I’m going to need more than that.”

Yes, so am I. “Um… Jargrav was a warrior as well as a poet, and he ahhhhh—”

Rhys picked his head up again, his lips red and wet, his cheeks flushed with pleasure. “He what?”

Meera blinked and tried to focus. “I just remember a lot of sword metaphors. Are you going to ask me to summarize all the scrolls?”

“How many are there?”

“Forty-seven.”

He bent his head. “Research like this can’t be rushed. Please continue.”

* * *

Hours later, he was kissing her slowly as he ran his fingers lightly over every inch of her skin. Meera had lost count of how many times he’d brought her to climax—with his mouth, his fingers—but she wanted more. She wanted him.

“Rhys.”

“Yes.” His eyes were closed. He had to be exhausted, but he wouldn’t stop kissing her.

“Make love to me.”

His tongue licked up the side of her neck. “I am.”

She reached her hand down and grasped his erection as it pressed against her hip. He arched into her touch and groaned but made no other move.

“You know what I mean.” She squeezed him lightly, and he released a hard breath against her neck. “I want you.”

“I want to wait.”

“Empirical evidence suggests otherwise.”

He laughed against her skin. “There’s the bold woman I met in Jackson Square. I was wondering where she’d run off to.” He nipped her skin with his teeth. “I want to wait.”

“Why?”

He took her mouth in another breath-stealing kiss. Brushing her hand away, he rolled on top of her, giving her the full weight of his frame. The pressure was delicious. Meera felt like she’d been enveloped in a full-body hug. Her skin was ultrasensitive; goose bumps rose over her legs and arms.

“Anticipation is a beautiful thing,” he whispered. “Watching your pleasure was like seeing the sun rise.”

“And rise. And rise.” She smiled. “If you’re determined to play the martyr, then we should sleep.”

“No martyring for me.” He rolled to her side and drew her to his chest, pulling her leg over his thigh. It left his erection nestled between her thighs, making Meera groan. “I’m going to make myself very comfortable.”

“You’re not playing fair.”

“You’ve found me out.” His voice dropped. “When it comes to you, I do not aim to be fair. I want you to be mine and mine alone.”

His words cooled some of the heat in her blood. “Whoever becomes my mate will have to share me, Rhys. The heir of Anamitra belongs not only to herself but to the Irin world. I will never be able to ignore my duties. Have you thought about that?”

“I understand duty better than most. But I’m not talking about the heir, I’m talking about my reshon.”

“We are one and the same.”

“Tell me this, if the heir of Anamitra belongs to the world, does the world belong to her?”

No. No one belongs to me.

Rhys tilted her chin up. “Listen to me. The human poet Solomon spoke with the wisdom of heaven: ‘I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine.’ Part of you may always belong to the world, but the whole of me would belong to you, Meera. Who better to care for the woman in the role than a scribe who was created by heaven to love her?”

Meera blinked. “That’s very logical.”

“Your gift of memory was given by heaven, and the Creator must know it would be a burden. So wouldn’t it make sense he would create for you a reshon capable of sharing that burden?”

Meera frowned. “Yes.”

He smiled. “So we are agreed. Logically, I am the best mate for you.”

“I’m not sure—”

“I do love reason.” He closed his eyes and tucked Meera’s head under his chin. “Makes decisions like this very simple.”

Tricky, tricky scribe. She knew he was taking advantage of the oxytocin flooding her system, but she couldn’t find it in her to protest. She was tired and all she wanted to do was cuddle.

“This is an ingenious debate strategy,” she said before she yawned. “Bring a woman to multiple orgasms, tire her out, flood her brain with positive hormones, then make your argument. Have you used this strategy in the past?”

“No, but I plan on using it often in the future.”

“Use it on anyone other than me, and I’ll hurt you.”

“Sha ne’ev reshon,” he murmured, “I would not even be tempted.”

* * *

She dreamed that night of walking through a forest flooded with silver water reflecting the sky above her. She waded through stars as the distant sound of night birds called. But the wind didn’t carry the scent of salt and cypress to her nose. It carried the rustling sound of sugarcane and the wet, sweet scent of the fields beyond the haven.

Why are you walking in the forest when you know where your love resides?

The fox perched on the cypress stump, staring at her with bright green eyes.

“I don’t know love.” She knelt in front of it. “Show me your magic.”

I have no magic; I am merely a messenger.

“For whom?”

For you.

“Whose message do you carry?”

Your own.

“You are talking in circles.”

Only because you are walking in them. The fox leapt off the stump and splashed into the starry water. You know of what I speak. Matsah mashul. Find the path and the answers will come to you.

“Vasu?” She yelled after the fox. “Stop invading my dreams.”

“I’m not.” The dark angel stood beside her, looking down. “You invite me in. Look at the stars.”

She looked. “They fill the sky.”

“And the earth.”

“No, it’s only a reflection of heaven.”

“Only to those who haven’t yet seen the heavens.” His voice came from all around her, filling the wind that cut through the flooded forest. “The balance you seek is an illusion.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Do you know more than I?”

“Maybe I do.”

The bright smile cut across his beautiful face, illuminating it in the darkness. “Arrogance becomes you.”

“You are the only one who says that.”

“No.” The rustle of the cane fields filled the wind. “I am not.”

The forest sank into the stars, and rising before her, the green cane fields swept out toward the horizon. A tall figure stood in the distance, arms held out, long fingers brushing the top of the drifting grass.

“Who is it?”

You know. You have always known. He was created for you when the stars were born. The keeper of memory and the seeker of truth.

She walked toward him, but he was always in the distance, just past her reach.

You know how to reach him.

“I know.”

She had always known.

* * *

Meera woke to see the blue light of predawn shining around the woven curtain. A shadowed figure stood in the distance.

She rose and left Rhys’s side, wrapped a light scarf around her shoulders, and stepped out into the cool morning as the stars faded above her.

Ata spoke in a low voice. “The magic of our first mothers was only passed from mother to daughter,” she said. “That was how everyone was taught. That was how every person was valued. We were all pieces of one whole. Only the somasikara held the whole of our memories.”

“I understand what you’re saying.”

The pain on Ata’s face was brutal. “I never had a daughter. I never bore a child. All my sisters are gone. Unless you take my memories, the songs of our first mothers will die with me.”

“I can hold your memories, Ata, but I cannot be your voice.” The loneliness of the mound nearly ripped Meera in two. “Please don’t choose this path. Walk a little farther if you can.”

Ata said nothing for a long time. “Come with me.” She turned and walked toward the edge of the mound. “I will sing you a song of rising.”

Meera followed her and sat cross-legged on the edge of the mound facing east as Ata started to sing. Her voice was low and guttural, rough at first before her throat warmed to the chant. Meera knew she might be hearing words that hadn’t crossed Ata’s lips in years. Decades maybe. Longer?

She didn’t want to pause for recording equipment, so Meera opened her senses and whispered her own spells of memory, tapping into the well of magic she’d spent a lifetime perfecting.

As Ata sang, Meera channeled the song and the memory directly, wrapping up the words Ata sang, the feel of the earth under her, the cool, humid air that surrounded her, and the song of morning birds. She took all of it into herself, capturing the memory in a crystal faceted by sound, scent, taste, and touch.

This is why we need you, her heart cried. This is why you must not fade.

In Meera, the memory of Ata’s rising song entered the communal memory of the Irina, forever preserved in magic. The memory sank into her, a silken thread captured, unspooling into eternity before her eyes.