Datu Bulan strolls down the corridor, sporting a knee-length night tunic and oversized sandals. He carries a water cup, sipping from it every so often. “Blessed be Enki’s sea, ladies.” He does not let on if he finds it peculiar that we are seated in his corridor. Staring down into his cup, he says, “I once traded ten coconuts for an icicle frozen by a northern Aquifier. It melted by the time I brought it home, but that water was the freshest drink I ever had.”
I cast an inquisitive glance at Indah. Northern Aquifiers dwell in the arctic tundra and are rumored to manipulate ice and snow. How the datu came upon one or why he thought an icicle would last in the Southern Isles is beyond me.
He strides away, his sandals slapping against the floor, and then halts. “Indah, I do believe Pons is looking for you.”
She shifts to a kneeling position. “He’s returned?”
“He and the others.”
“What others?” I ask.
“Come on.” Indah stands and hoists me up. I hurry down the corridor with her.
“He’s in the prince’s chamber,” Datu Bulan calls after us.
Indah pulls ahead of me and reaches Ashwin’s open door first. Pons stands outside the threshold. They saw each other just yesterday, yet Indah clutches him close. Pons’s arms come around her slowly; he is taken aback by her open affection.
“You didn’t tell me you were leaving,” she says.
Rarely have I seen Indah fret over Pons. They are usually together, but they were not always. Pons was born in the sultanate, while Indah is a native Lestarian.
“I didn’t want to worry you,” Pons says, then sees me from over Indah’s shoulder, and they shuffle out of the doorway.
Within the chamber, Ashwin is seated at a desk with piles of books before him. His hair and tunic are rumpled from a sleepless night. I am within his sight, but he pays me no heed. I lock my knees to stop myself from rushing to him and alleviating my inner cold at his side. He must be hurt that I ran after Deven last night instead of staying. Offending those I care about has become a terrible habit of mine. How will I make this right?
I am so preoccupied with Ashwin, I overlook the other people in the room.
A middle-aged woman drags me into her arms. “You’re even skinnier than I recall.”
“Mathura!” I hug her back, inhaling her jasmine scent. Her dark-brown hair is tied back in a braid, the customary style for an imperial courtesan. Her sari is travel worn, but she still appears stately.
Rohan sits off to the side on the terrace. Dishes of food are set before the young Galer, who is known for his big appetite, but Rohan slumps in his chair and touches none of it. His older sister, Opal, is not here. I do not see Brac either . . .
Deven races into the room, halts abruptly while surveying the chamber, and then flies at his mother. They embrace as tight as they can.
“You’re thinner too.” Mathura pats her son’s cheek. “And you need a shave.”