Xao Par sat in one of the myriad narrow valleys that fanned away from the mountain, a collection of simple wood-and-thatch buildings beside a rain-swollen stream. Children were already out tending plots of yams and lentils. The pigs had finished dying by the time they reached the outskirts. Dogs barked as they approached, rusty brindled beasts the same color as the mud. Soon some of the villagers leaned out their doors.
“We’ve come from Cay Xian,” Selei called. “I need to speak with your elders.”
A few moments later an old man emerged, leaning on a young woman’s arm as he descended the steps of his house.
“Xians.” He glanced at Riuh’s kris-knife, at Xinai’s daggers. “You’re the ones calling yourselves the Hand of Freedom, aren’t you?”
“We are. The Khas’s soldiers have driven us from Cay Xian.”
The old man cocked his head, eyes glittering beneath sagging lids. “And you’ve come here for help.”
“That’s right. We need food, shelter. If any of your warriors wish to join us, we would welcome them.”
“There are no warriors here. Only farmers and woodsmen. And certainly not murderers.” He lifted a curt hand when Selei tried to speak. “I know what it is your people do.”
Selei lifted her chin. “We fight for Sivahra. A free Sivahra.”
“A Sivahra watered in blood. We want no part of your cause, and we won’t harbor murderers. The Khas leaves us in peace here, and we intend to keep it that way.”
“How long do you think that will last? How long before they decide they need your land, or need your children in the mines?”
“They’ll decide that much sooner if they find you here. Go on-take yourselves back to Xian lands. We want none of you.”
Selei’s eyes narrowed. “As you wish.” She turned, shoulders stiff, and waved Xinai and Riuh toward the jungle. When Riuh would have protested, she cut him off.
“No. It’s their decision.”
As they walked, she glanced over her shoulder and whispered something Xinai couldn’t hear.
“Go on,” Selei said. “The sooner you find that mine, the better. I wish I could go with you, but I’d only slow you. I’ll wait for you in Cay Lin.”
Riuh stooped to kiss her cheek. “We won’t let you down, Grandmother.”
The air chilled, prickling the back of Xinai’s neck. She looked for Shaiyung, but saw nothing except a light mist curling across the ground.
“Selei, what’s happening?” Tendrils of fog writhed toward the village.
“They made their choice, child. You should go. Don’t turn back, whatever you hear.”
“But what-”
“Go. There’s nothing left here you need to see.”
Xinai hesitated, but Riuh caught her elbow and steered her gently toward the path. Gooseflesh roughened her arms and legs as the cold intensified. They were deep into the jungle when she heard the first scream. Riuh stiffened but kept moving. She tried to pretend it was only another pig.
Chapter 12
Zhirin paced. Her head was still achy and muddled from crying, and movement didn’t help, but she couldn’t sit still. Every time she did, the images caught up with her: blood in the water, drowning screams, Vasilios’s black and swollen face. She scrubbed a hand across her eyes as fresh tears welled.
But she couldn’t hide in her room forever either. Her mother had knocked three times already and eventually she’d demand Zhirin answer.
She paused beside her window, leaned her forehead against the cool glass. Raindrops trickled down the pane, fat beads of rain darkening the stone and trickling through the gutters before eventually joining the river. Zhirin wished she could lose herself in the water so easily. Already the current rolled on, washing away the blood and corpses, easing the shock of shattered stone; the river took all the pain.
She straightened, wiping the oily smudge of her skin off the expensive glass. Nearly noon-she had to go downstairs sooner or later. She rubbed her eyes again and opened her wardrobe, wafting the fragrance of imported cedar into the air. It had been a long time since she’d worn her mourning clothes, but they were still tucked inside, gray trousers and long blouse. Her mother would never let her leave the house with ashes in her hair.
After dressing and twisting her tangled hair up in sticks, Zhirin eased open her bedroom door. The third floor was quiet, no lamps burning against the rainy gloom. Rain-streaked windows cast rippling shadows over the tiles at the end of the hall.
On the second floor she heard soft voices from her mother’s study. She shook her head at the familiarity of it-had it been only seven days since she’d last come home? This time, she paused outside the door and listened.
“When will your next shipment be ready?” Fei Minh asked.
“At this rate, who knows?” Porcelain clinked and Faraj sighed; Zhirin was becoming far too familiar with the sound of his muffled voice.
“I can’t just order my ships to sit in harbor all season. People will talk. Not to mention the money I’d lose.”
“We’ll lose more than money if this fails. And we only need one ship.”
Zhirin swallowed; the pit of her stomach chilled, but she was too tired for true shock.
“The
The fierce protectiveness in her mother’s voice made Zhirin’s eyes sting again. She pressed a hand over her trembling mouth to stifle a sob. Swallowing tears, she knocked on the door and pushed it open.
Her mother rose, and Faraj set aside his cup.
“Darling-” Fei Minh raised a hand, let it fall again.
“Do you know yet?” she asked Faraj. “Who murdered Vasilios?”
“No. Asheris is investigating. Do you know anything that might help him?”
“They asked me that last night. No. He was…a good mage. A good master. An old man.” Her voice sounded hollow; she was hollow. No blushing now, no stammering. Was this how Isyllt did it? Scrape out everything that mattered, leave nothing but the cold?
“I’m sorry,” Faraj said, not meeting her eyes. He rose, straightening his coat. “Will you come to the ball tonight?” he asked Fei Minh.
Zhirin’s brow creased. “You’re still having a ball?” The festival usually lasted for days, but after last night she couldn’t imagine anyone celebrating.
He spread his hands and shrugged. “It’s a victory for them if we don’t. We can’t let them grind us down so easily.”
She swallowed half a dozen answers, pressed her lips tight.
“I don’t know yet,” Fei Minh said, carefully not glancing at her daughter.
“I understand. Again, Miss Laii, I’m sorry for your loss.” He waved Fei Minh back as she stepped toward the door. “I can see myself out.”
Zhirin waited till she heard the front door close to pour herself a cup of tea from the cooling pot. Fei Minh watched her carefully-afraid she’d start crying again, perhaps. Tea washed away the taste of tears, bitter replacing salt; leaves clung to the sides of the cup, swirled lazily in the dregs.
“Your business with Faraj,” she said at last, “your personal investment. It’s stones, isn’t it? It’s diamonds.” A tea leaf stuck in her throat and she fought a cough.
Fei Minh blinked, dark lashes brushing her delicately powdered cheeks. Pale as any pure-blooded mountain clan, and she had always taken care to show it, instead of counterfeiting bronzen Assari skin as some tried.
“How-” She smiled fleetingly. “My daughter.”
