“The matron is ill and needs her rest,” says Naresh. He does not include details of his mother’s ailment, but his protectiveness suggests he worries about her recovery. “Tinley will take you to her tomorrow.” He swivels toward his daughter at the end of the hall. She has my fur. We join her and I return the chief’s vest. “Please show Kalinda to her chamber,” he says.
Tinley shoves my cloak at me, and I scurry after her.
“Your mother and sister are . . . conversational.”
“They’re exhausting.”
I scrounge up an optimistic reply. “Bedros is pleased you’re home.”
“Yes,” Tinley says, “he is.”
She enters a chamber on the main floor. A cozy fire blazes in the hearth, a bear rug laid out before it. More furs are piled on the bed. The furniture is constructed of ice, and the window and bedposts are etched with snowflakes, each unique and delicate.
I set down my satchel. “Thank you for bringing me here. I know how hard it is to survive loved ones. Our memories are strongest in the places we were happiest.”
“Stop,” Tinley says, low and direct. Her surliness is a poor, false front for her pain. I should have seen her grief before, recognized it and given it a name.
Before I can apologize or offer sympathy, she swivels and stalks out.
I drop onto the bed, too tired to dwell on her prickliness. The mountain of fur protects me from the hard, cold ice. I loosen the strap around my wrist and release my prosthesis. Turning toward the hearth, I watch serpents dance in the flames.
Hello, my friend.
I extend my hand, and several flames disentangle from the nature-fire. The burning tendrils zip across the room and twirl above me. The fiery offshoots combine into a dragon no bigger than a lynx kitten.
Siva, as I named her, lands on top of me. I stroke her head, and she curls up on my stomach, crackling contentedly. On occasion, I summon Siva to keep me company while I wait for Deven. Her warmth soaks inside me, tinder for my soul-fire. I pet her long, thin back and pray I am on the eve of my own contentment.
9
ASHWIN
I am seven minutes late to supper. Captain Yatin and Pons sit in the lamplight beneath the pagoda, already into the wine. My effort to educate Natesa about my independence is squandered. She and the other women are not present.
“Where’s everyone else?” I ask.
“Natesa likes to make an entrance,” Yatin replies. He drinks from his chalice, his jacket unbuttoned. I cannot recall when I last saw him relaxing. Typically he is at the main gate directing the guards. “Two of my men are following Commander Lokesh as discussed. They’ll report back when they uncover his employer.”
Spying on Lokesh was my recommendation. Mercenaries are merely front men for another person’s agenda. “How is our guard head count?”