Ziha stood stiff and silent. Iktan could not see the woman’s face from where xe stood, but Xiala did. Her expression was part loathing and part resignation, as if she were held together at that moment through will and duty alone, and they were not enough to keep her whole. She nodded curtly to Xiala before pivoting on her heel and striding out of the tent.
“Did you put her up to that?” Xiala asked.
“The eyeball? No. That was her idea.”
“It’s gruesome.”
“Yes, it is. Sometimes things are most effective when they are a bit gruesome. Words are easy to ignore, especially from a commander as untried as Ziha. The scions do not like to take orders, especially from the matron’s second daughter. She needed to show her mettle.”
“So the woman Kuya is not a soldier?” She had suspected she was not, despite the uniform, but she didn’t understand what Iktan meant by scions.
“Oh, no.” Iktan brought the pitcher to her. “None of them is. These are all volunteers. The children of important families in Golden Eagle, a diplomatic escort for our party in Hokaia. Ziha will represent Golden Eagle in the negotiations, so she is more envoy than general, and this company more entourage than army.”
“And the other two? The local men?”
“You need not worry about those men again.” Iktan said it with enough finality that she could guess their fates, and who had brought them to their end.
It wasn’t that she was ungrateful, but there was so much death around her lately. When had her life become so dark?
“What happened out there, Xiala?” Iktan asked. “My words weren’t all bluster, no matter how you protest. Why didn’t you use your Song?”
“I…” She wished that Ziha had already brought the broth. It seemed to be the only thing that cleared her head, gave her strength. She settled on “I don’t know.”
Iktan’s gaze was uncompromising, but xir tone was sympathetic. “I think you do know.”
She rubbed her palms against her thighs, her eyes searching the room for that half bottle of xtabentún she knew had to be somewhere.
“I know you don’t trust me,” Iktan said, “and you can choose not to tell me. But you must tell someone, sometime. Else whatever happened out there might well keep happening.”
Iktan’s words had the feel of truth to them, and she hated it. “Do you know where the drink is? From before?”
“Drink will not fix this.” Xe stood. “I’ll go see about your dinner.” Iktan gestured to the gory eyeball that still lay on the furs at her feet. “What do you want to do with that?”
She shuddered. “Throw it away.”
Iktan scooped it up and dropped it into the pocket of Xiala’s blue cloak. “You might want it later.”
“I won’t want it.” She was sure of that much.
Iktan’s voice was sad, xir half smile knowing. “We don’t always know what we want, Xiala, until it is taken away.”
* * *
Xiala slept fitfully by the too-warm fire, plagued by the fear that she had lost her Song. She had tried again to call it, but it felt distant, just out of reach, like the clear fish that darted in pools on the shores of her home. Iktan was right. She had to face her fear, face her memories. Not just the guilt of what had happened during the Convergence that plagued her dreams but the deeper shame. The one that the Convergence had roused in her and the land sickness had compounded. She had to face the memories of her last day on Teek.
Desperate, scared, but knowing she had no option, she loosened the chain on the door of her mind.
She could almost feel the cold wind that had swept in from the north that fateful night, bringing rain and the bright flash of lightning with it. Could almost see herself, standing on her mother’s porch, hair and skin soaked through, the rope of bells by the door clanging angrily as their voices rose to match her ire.
She pressed her hands to her mouth to keep from screaming as the wind tore at her hair, ran phantom hands across her skin. She remembered the touch of other hands, the hands of a man. Sibaan. He had come to their island days after her fifteenth birthday, and her mother had claimed him, as was her right. But his dark eyes had lingered on Xiala, and his lazy, arrogant smile he reserved only for her. He had spoken her name, his voice as rich as late-season blueberries, and her heart had roared like the surf under a full moon. They had stolen away from the feast, and he had kissed her, lips like honeysuckle off the stem. He had coaxed her dress from her hips, dipped roughened fingers between her legs, and she had burned like the sun at the height of summer. He had made promises, too. Give me this, and I will take you away, Xiala. We will live in a fine palace in a great city, and we will marry, and you can have anything you want.