The Paljor territory converges with Tarachand on the north side of Wolf’s Peak. The tribe is closer than the Southern Isles, but reaching out to them is only a fallback. “Thank you. We’ll wait and see—”
A thwack thwack of bamboo striking bamboo sounds below. I join Indah at the casement and look out. Pons moved the wing flyer from the courtyard, outside the gate near the road. Melting snow leaves puddles that dry in the afternoon sun. In the distance, a sheet of ice still shimmers on the lake, slower to melt, but the warmer autumn day has cleared away the frost from the temple courtyard. Wards wearing sky-blue saris train with staffs in the sparring ring. Their instructor, Sister Hetal, shouts commands.
“Their staffs are twice as tall as they are,” Indah says.
“They’re probably eight or nine.” The age when the sisters start training the wards for battle. They believe Ki wishes for them to mold the wards into warriors, an honor and rite of passage.
Indah turns into the sun. She exudes the beauty of her homeland—pearly teeth, gilded eyes like the island sunset, and brown skin with undertones of sandy beaches. “Thank Enki the snow is melting.”
“Isn’t snow just frozen water?”
“Yes, but manipulating ice and snow aren’t techniques practiced in the Southern Isles, for apparent reasons.” Indah’s attention slides to the stationary wing flyer. “I’ll be glad to go home where it’s warm.”
Her eagerness to return to Lestari conflicts with her dislike of heights. “How did someone who doesn’t like to fly fall in love with a Galer?”
Indah’s gaze follows the girls sparring below while she answers. “Pons and I met during our Virtue Guard training. His father was a trader of rare treasures and often bartered with Datu Bulan. While he was traveling, he would leave Pons at the palace. His father died during one of his trips, and Bulan took him in.”
“Why does your father disapprove of you and Pons?”
Frustration packs Indah’s every word. “Pons is a Janardanian. My family lines trace back to the first families in the Southern Isles. My father wants me to wed a Lestarian and preserve our bloodline.” She speaks the last in a gravelly voice, mimicking the admiral.
Parents. The one explanation I cannot relate to. However, I understand the obligation to uphold tradition. Never was I given a choice of which benefactor would claim me or for what purpose. I assumed women outside the temple had more freedom. Marriage proposals are often sorted out between families. But now I see that custom is also flawed.
Still, Indah was permitted to meet a man and fall in love. I was never given that option.
We lapse into a contemplative silence. As the wards take turns in the sparring ring, I grow fidgety.
“Indah, will you please fetch Ashwin and Pons? I have something for us to do.”
She pushes away from the casement, keen to join me. She must be bored of waiting for Hastin too. “Ashwin may not come,” she says. “He borrowed every book he could find on the Void from the library and was up all night reading. Last I checked, he hadn’t found anything of use.”
After what I learned from Tarek—if I did not in fact imagine his visit—I doubt the location to the gate will be cited in a text. “Tell him it’s important. I’ll meet you in the courtyard.” I hurry off, leaving her to satisfy my request.
Outside, a pair of girls duels in the sparring circle. The rest of them wait their turn by the weapons rack. An eighteen-year-old ward I knew from my time here, Sarita, gives them instructions while Sister Hetal observes.
“Strike her knee and then—” Sarita cuts off. “Kindred Kalinda.”
All the young wards whirl around and bow.