She threw the thing, striking Iktan in the shoulder. This time, xe noticed, as did the man in the headdress beside xir. They both turned.
The man next to Iktan, with a pinched, petulant face, was already annoyed, but when he spotted her, his jaw dropped.
“You!” The man’s shout echoed around the high-ceilinged chamber.
Other faces turned.
Xiala could feel her world tilt. No, no, no! What were the chances? One in a million? A hundred million?
Lord Pech pushed up from his seat. He pointed a finger at her and declared in a voice that carried through the hall, “Sovran Naasut, this woman is a criminal! I demand that you arrest her and hold her in chains until she can be returned to Cuecola to stand trial for her capital crimes!”
Silence fell across the hall, all eyes on Xiala. She stood dumbfounded, unsure what to do. Her gaze scraped across the crowd. There was Iktan, looking more curious than concerned. And there, across from Lord Pech, was the familiar face of Lord Balam next to a dark-skinned woman with almost white eyebrows, and next to her—
Xiala’s breath caught in her throat, and she swayed. Blood at her feet. Bodies. The north wind blowing down across the island.
The woman stood, the white shells in her long, thick hair ringing gently, but to Xiala they were as loud and damning as a funeral drum. Her storm-gray eyes narrowed, as dangerous as a shipkiller on the open sea, and familiar lips curled in dark acrimony. And in a voice Xiala had thought to never hear again, she said, “Hello, Xiala.”
Xiala felt herself falling, but Iktan was there, keeping her on her feet. She could hear xir calling her name, but it felt like xir voice was coming from a great distance. And Lord Pech was there looming over her, waving his hands and screaming that she was dangerous and needed to be restrained immediately.
“You’re supposed to be dead,” she whispered, her words meant for the white-shell woman. Shock made her brain slow, her mouth thick and clumsy.
“What is happening here?” The spearmaiden in her antler crown and painted face added her voice to the chaos. “Who is this?”
Pech wrenched her arm, pulling her from Iktan. “A criminal!”
“You are mistaken,” Iktan said. “She is a member of Golden Eagle’s diplomatic envoy.”
“How could she be Golden Eagle when she’s clearly Teek?” That was the woman with the white eyebrows on the far side of the table next to Lord Balam. Balam leaned over and whispered in her ear.
Pech wrenched Xiala’s arm again, and she felt her shoulder pop. Pain lanced through her side, clearing some of her confusion. “Let me go!” she growled, but the man dug his fingers deeper into her flesh.
She heard a laugh, cold and unsympathetic. Stupid girl. Once again, you have made a mess of things. What will you do about it?
And the dam inside her burst. She forgot about the bridge in Tova and the woman in blue and the green-eyed man. She waded willingly into the bloody sea. And she reached for her Song, recognizing it as an inheritance from her true Mother, a blade to wield as she must. No shame, no guilt. A gift for her use. And she used it now.
A single note, obsidian-sharp, burst from her lips.
Time stopped…
… and the room around her shattered.
Clay water pitchers cracked and flooded the feast table.
Men dropped to their knees, clutching their heads.
She saw the Cuecolan with the white eyebrows shout something, her lips moving, and the air around her and Balam shimmered. The spearmaiden in the antler crown yelled for her guards, terrified, but the woman in the shells only laughed.
As the note faded and time came rushing back, Xiala realized Pech no longer held her. She looked down at her feet. He lay dead, blood streaming from his nose and mouth, eyes open and staring. Horrified, she turned to Iktan. Xe had been on her other side.
Xe was bent over, blood trickling from xir nose. Xe straightened, wiping at the mess with xir hand, and a smile spread across xir mouth.
“Neither man nor woman,” xe murmured, eyes shining in amusement. “But that was still unpleasant.”
She sobbed in relief.
And then she was surrounded by spearmaidens. Rough hands forced a gag into her mouth, and the antlered queen stood before her, knife at her throat.
“Assassin!” she shouted. “Who sent you?”
“She’s no assassin,” the white-shell woman said. She stepped forward now, pressing a hand to Naasut’s arm until she lowered her blade.
“Then who is she, Mahina?”
The Teek queen’s laugh was thin. “My daughter.”