Amma La drew in a lungful of smoke before she replied. “Maybe I just wanted to take something from you for a change.”
He sighed in defeat, the weight settling in his chest. “So that’s it. It wasn’t enough that Laik Var blamed me for your falling out…”
“We quarreled over you, there’s no way around that. And now we can’t even do that, because you ignored the danger and got him killed.”
Her tone was flat, and yet her words felt like nails driven to his heart.
“Amma—” Myar Mal sucked in air before continuing, “I made mistakes. Big ones. And you are right, Laik Var’s death is on me—”
“Oh, don’t feign remorse,” she spun around to face him, “everyone knows he was in your way.”
“I never wanted him dead. By Vhalfr, Amma! I urged you to reconcile with him! I said I would step back—”
“And you really thought you could just do that? Step back?” She laughed, a shrill, manic laugh. “You beautiful, innocent thing! How could I ever live without you?”
“You tried to kill me!”
For a moment there was no answer as the woman hid behind another whiff of smoke. Only now Myar Mal noticed dozens of tsalka butts littering the floor and his heart clenched.
“I just thought…” she started, but trailed off. Myar Mal kept silent, giving her a chance to collect herself. Wishing, against everything, there was a logical explanation. “If you died, I would be free.”
She looked away, but Myar Mal caught the light reflected in the tear rolling down her cheek.
He grit his teeth. “I hope it was worth it.”
Chapter 26
What happened later was a blur. Someone dragged me to the medical tent; someone took care of my wounds. I knew we had to secure the area and wrap things up in Maurir, but I didn’t remember any of it. Then we were discharged—I guess? Because at some point, I found myself in my quarters in Sfal.
Then I crashed. Vaka could only keep me going for so long, and my body wasn’t used to it. Even when I finally woke up, it took me a while to realize where I was.
Automatically I reached toward the mail-drawer: there was only a brief note from kar-vessár, wishing me good health and saying that Ellare had already been sent to Tarviss, and Arda Nahs would take care of the Seventh Cohort until I recovered. The memories of the previous days flooded my mind in a tangled mess, and it took me a while to organize them and push them away.
My stomach rumbled. What was the point in contemplating? We were all going to die—it was in the job description. Or rather, a part of being mortal. Sooner or later, what the fuck did it matter?
My chest felt heavy. I had to get out.
I kept some Tarvissian clothes here—loose dark trousers, a purple shirt, and a gray jyat with carnelian beading. But as soon as my eyes fell on the familiar pattern, stitched with black and white thread, I froze, my hands clutching the edge of the drawer to the verge of pain.
It was ridiculous. I wore such garb for most of my life. As did my parents, my peers, everyone around me. And yet, looking down, all I could think of were people wearing the same type of garb running at me with raised swords. Karlan Peridion nearing a knife to my eye. Saral Tal with his face cut in half…
I slammed the drawer shut. My Dahlsian uniform would have to do for now. I would buy more dignified clothes when I went out. Later, I thought, as my stomach rumbled again.
Marka-na-Sfal consisted of two parts, and the difference between them couldn’t be more striking. When I finally left the maze of narrow, artificially-lit corridors, suffocating despite the constant flow of cool, filtered air, I felt like I stepped into another world. The area opened around me, the tiled floor gave way to an unpaved road. The walls receded and transformed into a tall house of yellow brick on the left and sprawling concrete barrack on the right. The air became thick, redolent with the smells of bodies, food, waste, and bushland. Two suns flooded the world with sweltering heat, and the pervasive mist quickly settled on my clothing in fat droplets.
But in one regard, the cities were very much alike. The emptiness. I could expect that from the Inner City because Dahlsi were recluses who did their best to avoid each other. But seeing the Outer City, usually bustling with activity, now traversed only by singular individuals, hunched and casting around nervous glances, felt like a punch.
On wobbly legs, I headed towards what was called The Tarvissian Street. It started near the dome and led almost to the Great Ribbon, the commercial center of the Outer City. On both of its sides sat squat buildings with whitewashed walls and roofs of red tiles.
There was no soul in sight.
I caught a dash of green and spun around, my hand on the wand.
A green ribbon flapped in the window. Leftover from the Edira festival. It should have been replaced by red by now.
With heart in my throat I resumed the walk. But when I reached my destination, I froze. My favorite restaurant was closed, its windows and doors boarded up, stupid green ribbons still flapping in some of the upper windows.
I should have known. It was too late, I realized, choking on a sudden surge of despair. We fought in vain; Meon had already changed, and nothing we did could stop it.
The owner was such a great guy. Nice, but not intrusive. He always let me enjoy my meals in solitude.
So why did thinking about him made me reach for the wand?
I closed my eyes, squeezing out tears, and rested my forehead on a window. I took a deep breath. One, two. My heartbeat slowed.
What was wrong with
