“You staying for dinner?” Lio asked.
“I thought I might. I told Anoor I’d be late.”
“Okay, come in, I’m making fufu.”
Sylah could see the yams ready to be mashed in the corner, the pestle and mortar ready to go.
Jond sat at the table.
“Jond, what are you doing here?”
“Missed home cooking.” His grin was wolfish.
It should have disturbed her, him sitting there like it was his own home. But it didn’t.
They had been a family once, all twelve of the Stolen and their dedicated foster parents. Jond’s parent was Vona, though really they all took care of one another. Weapons needed to be cared for, the hilts kept clean, the blades protected. Sylah had let herself get a little rusty over the years, but she remembered the drumbeat of their song: a dancer’s grace, a killer’s instinct, an Ember’s blood, a Duster’s heart.
At least Jond would now take up the fight, and level the Keep to dust.
Sylah sank into the wicker chair.
Lio began to pound the fufu behind her.
“How’s training going?”
Sylah shrugged and pulled her tunic around her. She missed the warmth of the long sleeves of her uniform.
“She’s still too slow and unfit, and I’m not sure I will get her past the next trial, but we’ll see. Her aerofield skills are good.”
“Good, good, we need to make sure she gets better. There is so much about bloodwerk we just don’t know.”
Sylah agreed. Every lesson with Anoor seemed to breed more questions.
“How is practice going?” Sylah asked Jond.
“Not bad, I still can’t work the Ba rune very well. It’s the left—”
“—Flick right? Yeah, that’s really hard to get right with a stylus.”
“Yesterday I passed out from trying.”
“Jond, you need to be careful, she warned me about this. Some people have bled out completely in the past.”
He waved her away and reached for his firerum.
“Can I get one of those?” Sylah called to her mother behind her.
“Help yourself.”
She tried to, but Jond had gotten there before her. He pulled out the glass from the cupboard by the stove and poured her a healthy shot.
“May Anyme absolve me of my sins.” Jond’s voice was rough, but his smile warm.
“May Anyme absolve me of my many sins.” Sylah matched his grin.
They clinked glasses.
The firerum burned her throat, she’d never realized how much.