Anoor’s eyes suddenly filled with tears.
“We lost three teammates.”
More Ember blood spilled—it wasn’t enough.
“Good, less competition next round.”
Anoor recoiled. “You can’t mean that.” Her hand hovered near her mouth.
Sylah thought for a second, and the truth was, she really did. More Embers who died now meant fewer for Jond to remove later. The Final Strife was here, Anoor’s feelings be damned.
Anoor smiled, grief forgotten. “Can I see what you were writing?”
“No.”
She made to grab it. “I want to see your progress.”
Sylah slapped her palm on the paper before she could turn it over. “It. Is. Private.”
Anoor backed away as if Sylah were rabid. She probably looked it.
“Fine, I’m going to wash up.”
It took a while for Sylah’s heartbeat to slow. She turned over the paper, but the ink had smudged. The word “warden” had transferred onto the wood of the desk. Sylah licked her fingers and scrubbed at it until the black ink lifted onto her skin. She kept casting a glance over her shoulder, but Anoor let her be.
She looked at the mess on the paper. The words blurred as if she were seeing them through tears. Still, she couldn’t help but think that Papa would have been proud: one of the Sandstorm was going to get all the way. She blew out the candle and folded the paper, putting it in her basket.
Anoor came in from the privy. “I got you a new dress for the winners’ banquet. I know it will suit you for sure.”
“You were so sure you’d win, you got me a new dress?”
“I had the tailor make it.” Anoor met her gaze steadily. “I told you, I’m going to win this.”
Could she?Sylah hadn’t truly considered it before. A Duster at the top.
She looked at her ink-stained fingers and pushed away the thought.
“I’m not coming to the winners’ banquet.”
Anoor put a gauntleted hand on her hip. “It doesn’t matter that you’re my servant. Do we have to go through this again?”
“No, Anoor. I just, I have some stuff I need to do. Take care of, before I report to Gorn later.” Even though Sylah had been up all night, there was no doubt Gorn would expect her to be ready to work in the morning.
“Really? You can’t come?”
Sylah could tell she was hurt but was trying to hide it. So Sylah reached for her face and cupped her cheek in her hand.
“I wish I could, but I can’t. Enjoy your party. You deserve it.” She let her hand drop to her side and slung her basket on her arm, not really knowing why she’d just done that.
She needed to tell Jond that she’d made a plan to get into the warden library.
—
Jond answered the door after one knock.
“I’ve figured it out.” Sylah pushed her way into his flat.
“Hello, Sylah, won’t you come in? ‘Congratulations, Jond, on making it through the trial of tactics.’ ”