AFTER BREAKFAST THE NEXT MORNING, ALTAN CAME into the infirmary, a set of cuffs hanging from his belt.
The iron clattered with every step, striking two, three, four times as he assumed a position halfway between my bed and the door. He was still too close. “It’s time to go back to your cell, Fancy.”
With great effort, I swung my shaking legs off the edge of the bed and tested my weight. The stone floor was warm, even through my slippers; we were so close to Khulan that his heat seeped through the rock. It was a strange sensation, being this near another god, and I missed Darina and Damyan even more.
“Come on.” Altan grabbed my elbow and jerked me from the room. “We don’t have time for this.”
Maybe he should have thought of that before he’d left me to starve.
Numbers skittered in the back of my head as Altan returned me to the first-level cellblock. We came to the anteroom (five paces across, three paces wide), the stairs (thirty), and the empty cells on the way to mine (twenty-four). The numbers had not changed. That was one of the things I liked about the counting. It was reliable.
My cell waited for me. Empty, save the bed, pillow, blanket, and sewage hole (still covered). I stood at the entrance, staring into the dimness. I couldn’t bear the thought of stepping inside, trapping myself between those walls where the light of the nearest noorestone barely reached.
Maybe Altan would move the stone if I asked. Since I’d told him what he wanted to know.
But before I could find my voice, he shoved me into the cell and slid the door shut. Iron sang against iron, and through the grille of metal, I saw his eyes even more narrowed, his mouth pulled into a smirk, and the ring of keys on his belt. His fingers brushed across the handle of his baton, not menacingly, but more like a habit.
I’d seen men and women like him before—during my visits to the Luminary Council chamber, or at events with foreign dignitaries, though no weapons were permitted at such secure functions. They’d touch their belts, hips, or even their sleeves, where they sometimes concealed knives in special wrist sheaths (or so I’d heard). Mostly those men and women were Khulani, accustomed to having weapons on their person, though it always seemed like their bodies counted as weapons, too. Even away from the Isle of Warriors, the Khulani people were strong; they were trained for combat in ways the rest of us could only imagine.
Unconscious movement or not, every time Altan touched his baton, I received a clear message: I would pay if I were lying.
“I hope you took advantage of the infirmary and got lots of rest, Fancy.” He glared at me and dropped his voice low. “I was the only one who believed you’d live. I know you’re stronger than you appear.”
I didn’t want compliments from him.
He smirked a little. “I also know you’re smarter than you appear.”
Clearly he hadn’t had a good conversation with my mother in which she detailed every one of my failings.
“And I know,” he went on, “you’re too smart to tell me everything at once. You want to keep something to bargain with. You need that advantage. I understand. But you should know that I will be back for more. It would be better for you if you just told me what it is.”
He knew. He knew.
And worse punishment was coming.
I reached for an expression of calm, but that was impossible with my heart racing and sweat gathering on my hands. Numbers flooded my head: seven bars across the door, two chevrons on his jacket, eleven scars on his face.
He just shook his head. “I thought there was only one useful thing you could possibly tell me. What luck that your skinny face gives away everything. Until tomorrow, Fancy.” He turned on his heels and left me standing there, reeling.
Gerel watched from her door, unmoving while we listened to Altan’s footfalls down the hall. Her eyes were thinned with suspicion as she studied me. When the door slammed, she muttered, “What makes you so special?”
Nothing. Not anymore. “He hates me.”
“I told you he wanted something.” She leaned her weight on one hip.
“I’m not strong like you, Gerel.” I lowered my eyes, humiliated. “I don’t mean just physical strength, but emotional. Resolve. Endurance. You’ve been here for a year, right?”
She shrugged, like time meant nothing to her. “Where did you hear that?”
Oh. Gossip was probably frowned upon here. I kept talking, like I hadn’t heard the question. “But you haven’t broken. You haven’t given up. You’re resilient and that’s so”—I fumbled for the right word—“admirable.”
And that was the truth. I ached to be strong like Gerel. She’d tried to destroy the Pit, knowing what her punishment would be if she failed. She’d made her attempt anyway, not cowed by fear of the first level, or of knowing the guards would treat her even worse than if she’d been a regular prisoner, because she had been a Khulani Warrior and she’d put a black mark on her honor.
Gerel was strong in unnameable ways, and I would give anything to be like her.
Of course, she scowled at me. “I’m glad you’re not dead.”
She didn’t sound glad.
“But.” Of course there was a but. “You’re dangerous. I’ve stayed alive so long because I don’t get involved with people who attract the guards’ attention. You should have died. Altan tried to kill you.”
He hadn’t. He needed me alive.
Gerel’s expression hardened, like suddenly she was carved from iron. “You’ve gotten a second chance here. No one else has. Ever.” With that, she turned away and began a series of push-ups. I couldn’t tell if she was truly happy I was alive or just sort of stunned.
Apparently dismissed, I retreated to my bed and sat on the edge, elbows on my knees, head in my hands.
The mystery woman from the infirmary had been clear: the Luminary Council still needed me. That was why I’d been given a job early, so I’d be fed and moving around. I’d thought a job was just another way for Altan to hurt me. But truly, it was preferential treatment.
Another artifact of my status before.
Tap, tap. Two long beats sounded on the wall behind me. The first letter in my name. ::Mira?::
My heart lurched as memory came flooding back to me: Aaru, pouring his small supply of water into my mouth; Aaru, reaching through the hole to lift up my head so I wouldn’t drown; Aaru, reading my vague quiet code when I couldn’t speak.
He’d saved me, I was sure of it.
::Thank you. For before.:: I beat the pattern onto my knees, loud enough for him to hear in the quiet cellblock. When I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes, I imagined I could feel the long hallway, the forty cells, the fourteen noorestones.
::Of course. I’m glad you’re all right. Gerel is, too, even though she doesn’t show it.::
I glanced across the hall. Gerel was still exercising; her faint grunts every time she lifted herself caught in the back of my head, adding up one by one. (Fifty-three push-ups so far. Fifty-four, fifty-five . . .) She didn’t like me, that was obvious. Even Aaru’s interest in me was because of my fascination with the quiet code, and our alliance.
He wasn’t Daminan; he didn’t need friendship like he needed air. At least, to my knowledge, The Book of Silence didn’t have dozens of long passages about the joys of loving neighbors.
Complaining wouldn’t win him. But I didn’t understand how one went about making friends in the first place. Hristo befriended me because I liked the way he’d planted the lala flowers. Ilina and I were forced together, but our shared love of dragons bound us for life.
We’d been young then, but maybe the same ideas applied.
::What do you like?:: I asked.
::What do you mean?::
Was that a hard question? I tried again. ::What do you enjoy?::
::Eating,:: he said. ::Telling stories to my sisters and brother. Silence.::
Before coming to the Pit, I’d never realized how much I enjoyed eating, too, but maybe food wasn’t a safe topic. Not when Altan and the guards kept us all on the edge of starvation. As for silence, well, after four days in the dark, silence was terrifying.
That left stories. ::What stories do you tell on Idris?::
::We tell about the Great Fall,:: he said. ::And the journey of our people from the mainland to Idris. Often we tell about Hadil, the first prophet of Idris, and the commandments Idris put in his heart after a decan spent in silent prayer. And, of course, we tell the story of Ramla, who committed the sin of sound. She was Hadil’s wife, and when she would not repent, he was forced to silence her.::
Ominous. ::How did he do that?::
::He took her life.::
A chill swept through me. I wanted to ask about the sin of sound—what exactly that meant and why it was punishable by death—but my hands were rooted to my knees and my throat closed against my voice, like it had heard about Ramla’s sentence and didn’t want to take the risk.
::Sometimes, we tell how the god of silence pulled away from the others even before the Great Fall, or the eternal struggle against Damyan and Darina, or the trouble of Harta.::
My tutors liked to remind me that all the holy books were written two thousand years ago, when our ancestors came here from the mainland. They were from the perspective of each god, written by the men and women of those times, but sometimes it seemed like nothing had changed.
It was true that Idris and Damina sometimes clashed. Still, that was two thousand years ago. Or centuries and centuries before that, even, if you took into account that many stories took place before the Great Fall.
::I’m from Damina,:: I said. ::Are you and I at odds?::
That was a bold question, out before I realized. Which meant my quiet code was improving, but also that I could run away with that as quickly as I could with my mouth. I’d have to be careful.
::You and I are not at odds.:: There was a faint shuffling around on his side of the wall. ::Because of the treaty, we’re not supposed to tell those stories as much, but of course they’re passed down. They’re part of the texts.::
I wanted to ask if he believed Damina and Idris were in constant struggle. The Book of Love said very little on the subject. Mostly, Darina and Damyan seemed baffled by the continued snubbing they received from Idris, no matter how they tried to befriend him.
But of course the god of silence didn’t want to be friends with the charismatic and earnest god and goddess of love.
And what about their trouble with Harta? I couldn’t imagine anyone disliking the Daughter’s people. Gifted Hartans brought life to the land. That was the (entirely cruel) reason other islands had occupied Harta for so long: they wanted ownership of the bounty Harta and her people provided.
I didn’t ask. We were treading too close to uncomfortable territory.
::The Mira Treaty,:: he said. ::Were you named after it?::
::Mira is a common name on Damina.:: It was the truth, just not an answer to his question. ::What about plays? Music? Do you have those on Idris?::
::No.:: He was quiet a moment. ::Not like you do, I think.::
“Will you show me sometime? I miss music.” The off-key singing that came from the end of the cellblock notwithstanding.
“Will try.” His voice came soft. Rough. It was a nice voice. A kind voice.
He started to tap something else, but Gerel groaned and rolled onto her back. “Stop the percussion. You’re making me lose track of my repetitions.”
On the other side of the wall, Aaru fell silent. I imagined him slumped, head hanging down, hands motionless on his knees. But that image was probably wrong. That was what I’d do, and I didn’t know Aaru well enough to guess how he’d move in the face of such admonishment.
“You’re on three hundred and five.” I wanted to scold her for being mean to him, but I couldn’t make the words come. That would have been confrontational and I was nothing if not a coward, as Altan’s threats earlier had proven.
“How do you know?” she asked. “Were you counting?”
“Yes.” Had she guessed about my numbers? Or had the question been sarcastic? I didn’t know how to tell the difference when it came to her, so I took my cowardly ways and scrambled under the bed. I’d talk with Aaru through the hole.
“Fine.” Her body thumped on the floor as she rolled over again.
I turned toward the hole and pulled my pillow under my head, eager to muffle the noise of Gerel exercising, but still glad to have her back.
Aaru was waiting for me. He was pressed close to the hole, his long fingers stretched through to my side. His hand blocked his face and muffled his whisper: “You count.”
“What?”
He switched to quiet code. ::All the time. You count everything.::
My heart stumbled. He knew, and he wasn’t being sarcastic about it. He knew. “How could you tell?”
He made a deep, pleased noise in the back of his throat. ::You learned the quiet code fast. That is unusual.::
My chest and throat and cheeks flamed. That was it? The quiet code? I wasn’t even good at it, but it had given me away. My traitorous need to have a secret language with someone had revealed my deepest shame.
Mother would never have let me get to this point, if she’d been here. She’d have warned me about trying to make friends with a boy from Idris. She’d have warned me about trying too hard to use the Daminan gifts when I clearly had no talent for them. Some people had strong gifts while others had weak ones, but Darina and Damyan had skipped over me completely.
::You count in your sleep,:: Aaru went on. ::I hear you most nights.::
And I kept my silent neighbor awake, on top of everything else. I was rude. Inconsiderate. Noisy. Lacking in all charm and manners.
A sob choked out of me. “Sorry.” The word sounded thick and forced. “I didn’t mean to.” What could I do to muffle not the noise of everyone else, but my own blasted mind?
Humiliation burned in me, a fire that roared through my ears and thoughts. No one was supposed to know about the counting. It was embarrassing, not just for me, but for my entire family. How could anyone possibly respect us if they knew Mira Minkoba—the Hopebearer—couldn’t control her own thoughts? That she counted because of the anxiety attacks?
Oh, Darina and Damyan, how I wished for Doctor Chilikoba and her amber bottle of pills. Without it, I was at the mercy of my own tempestuous mind.
::You don’t like it.:: He peered at me through the hole.
“Of course not.” My voice cracked. On top of everything, my voice cracked.
Speaking of cracks, maybe one would open in the floor and I’d fall in.
::Then I will not ask about it again.::
Gratitude warred with the humiliation. Of course, he was just being nice because we were trapped here together, but I wouldn’t turn down that courtesy. ::Thank you,:: I tapped.
He was so kind. Thoughtful. For a moment, I closed my eyes and recalled how he’d given me water, and the gentle way he’d held his hand above mine. Close enough to touch, but light enough not to crush. Maybe it had been nothing for him—he seemed like the kind of person who’d have saved anyone—but I wanted to replay those memories over and over, polishing them like a pretty stone, until they became a safe place to go when the panic loomed around me.
::What do you like?:: he asked.
That was a question you asked someone you wanted to be friends with, not what you asked the girl you were stuck with. So why had he asked me?
Mother would warn me it wasn’t because he wanted my friendship as badly as I wanted his. He was from Idris—therefore not from Damina and not to be trusted. (Hristo wasn’t technically from Damina, either, but she trusted him because he’d lived most of his life on Damina and had already nearly died for me.)
Hristo would tell me to be cautious, but Ilina would suggest Aaru’s interest could be genuine.
Krasimir was always telling me to be bold—to be myself, counting and all. I wasn’t bold, though, and I didn’t want to count. Or, rather, I wanted to be able to make it stop.
I searched my mind for another absent person’s advice, but I couldn’t guess what Father would say. He was never around to say much. And Zara? She’d stopped voluntarily speaking to me three years ago.
That was it. For one of the most famous people in Damina—maybe in the Fallen Isles—I was really, pathetically, alone. At least when it came to people I took advice from.
I came back to myself. Back to the gloomy space beneath the bed. Back to the boy waiting on the other side of the hole.
Aaru hadn’t moved. He didn’t ask again, or make impatient motions, or fall asleep. He just . . . waited, giving me time and space to consider my answer. What did I like?
::Why do you ask?:: My throat would have closed against that question and made my voice sound pitiful. But with the quiet code . . . He couldn’t tell how much I dreaded the inevitable answer: that he’d asked simply to be polite, because we were allies and if I ever escaped, so would he.
Our hands were close together. I hadn’t realized it before, but now, he reached out and, with a breath-light touch, stroked down my smallest finger. It was a tiny thing, but it sent warm thrills through me. And then he whispered, “I want to know you.”
Five words. They destroyed me. They destroyed everything I thought I’d understood about why he was nice to me. He wanted to know me.
In the same way I wanted to know him?
But why? He couldn’t see my face. All he’d witnessed of me were my fumbling attempts to befriend him, and crying, and near death.
He was so unlike all the boys on Damina. The outgoing boys who could charm a rock. The polished boys with perfect manners and practiced smiles. The boys who always knew exactly the right thing to say.
No, Aaru wasn’t like them. He was quiet. Mysterious. Patient. Achingly generous. Without ulterior motive. I liked the way he spoke—with careful deliberation, as though every word mattered as much as the last. I liked the way he touched my hand, and the flutter of yearning it ignited deep inside me.
Why would he want to know me? I was nothing.
No, his wanting had to be different. His wanting was yet another effort of his Idrisi upbringing. He was kind. He was considerate. He’d have saved anyone’s life. We were allies.
There. That was better. Safer.
That left two choices: give him the truth, or give him one of the manufactured answers Mother and Father had designed for me, because the truth was not appropriate for parties and important social functions. The truth drew curiosity, making people ask me questions when it was my duty to encourage them to talk. After all, they were much smarter and more interesting.
But we weren’t at a party now. Or an important social function. Here, I wasn’t the Hopebearer who needed to dazzle. No. We were in a deep-underground nightmare, and Aaru already knew my most secret shame. He promised not to speak of it again, and I believed him; he was filled with such ardent silence and mystery. Maybe, with him, I didn’t have to hide the parts of me that had always been deemed unacceptable.
Here I was just an anonymous girl who liked the same thing a thousand other girls liked.
::Dragons,:: I said at last. ::I like dragons.::