The room was roiling with Ember nobles, dressed in their finery with their inkwells on proud display. Radish leaf smoke clung to the rafters of the great veranda, and wine was poured freely by servants around the dance floor.
Anoor saw Tanu dancing with a tall woman, their fingers intertwined as they twirled. Anoor was glad she was in the final of the knowledge Aktibar. If Anoor did win, it would be nice to have someone she knew, even if their friendship had faded.
Anoor watched them as they moved in the runelight, laughter fizzing in the air around them. It was infectious, and she found herself being drawn into the swirl of chaos in the center of the room.
Cheers of “Anoor Elsari” carried through the crowd as her unknown fans realized she had arrived. She let herself be swept away by a tall noble whose inkwell was slate gray and covered most of his biceps. Then came an older gentleman whose words of encouragement and support didn’t forgive his wandering hands. She moved to the churning crowds at the edge, trying desperately to escape into the world beyond the dance floor, when she saw them.
She was wearing a silver dress woven out of the most delicate lace Anoor had ever seen. It was like a waterfall cascading so close to her skin that Anoor strained her eyes to see the dark skin beneath. A band of silver wrapped around her short curls, with a single emerald drop in the center of her forehead. No makeup except the slight sheen of red paint swept across her lips. Anoor longed to kiss them.
“Sylah.” She choked on the words as she saw the man she arrived with. Jond. Of course that was where she was. Tears threatened to blur the beautiful wraith before her.
—
She was wearing the most hideous dress Sylah had ever seen. Sylah recognized it as the dress she had saved from the Ardae donations, but if she’d known it was that ugly, she would have burned it on sight.
It was all tassels and gold glitter. And it was green. Not a subtle green. Oh, no. A nauseous, throbbing green that infested her eyesight even after she blinked away. But Sylah couldn’t look away, because her heart was breaking. Breaking for what she had to do. The tears that welled in her eyes were reflected in Anoor’s.
“Good luck. You have five strikes,” Jond murmured beside her. She couldn’t bear to look at him. If she did, she might have clawed his eyes out.
“Anoor, wait.” Her call was meek and drowned out by the revelry. Damn the dress. It clung to her like a second skin, and with every stride Anoor got farther and farther away.
Anoor had stopped in the eye of the storm. Her shoulders tightened, ready to spring. Sylah grasped for her arm, but Anoor shrugged her off, her feet moving quicker than they could four mooncycles ago. Sylah followed her out of the great veranda and through to the gardens beyond.
“Skies above. When did you get so damn fast?” Sylah slipped off her jeweled shoes and discarded them in a bush. With little care for the craftsmanship of the dress, she ripped a slit up to her thigh and charged ahead, the cool air weaving through her legs as she ran. Anoor was already halfway up the tower. Sylah looked at the trail of tear droplets on the stairs leading up to their training room and paused.
When she reached the top of the steps, she withdrew her stylus and drew a series of runes on the other side of the door before entering and closing it.
This is where it ends.
Anoor was waiting for her in the center of the room. Sylah realized it wasn’t sadness fueling her but rage. She knew what needed to happen. She moved into starting position.
“I see it in your eyes.” Sylah inclined her head. Gave her permission.
Then Anoor exploded. She exploded with the brightness of the runebombs Sylah had been working on. Sylah blocked the first kick but let the rest find their mark. Sylah felt she deserved it and more.
“You don’t get to have me and then push me aside. You don’t get to do this to me. I refuse.” She was screaming into the cadence of her punches, each word hurtling toward Sylah like shrapnel. “She didn’t break me, and…neither will you. I love you, but I reject it. I. Will. Not. Be. Broken.”
Each word was punctuated by a kick in the side.
But Sylah couldn’t hear it. All she heard were those three words. She loved her. Anoor loved her. Something gnarled and ugly that had grown taut over the years snapped. And Sylah began to cry.
She’d had people who had loved her once, and their names clawed out of her memory as tremors racked her body.
“Mia, Hala, Bola, Khadid, Jond, Yota, Hussain, Ali, Isa, Abrar…” the words tore from Sylah in gasps. “Otto, Fareen…Papa.”
Warm arms enveloped her as her body stilled. Anoor was there with her.
—
Anoor was dumbstruck. Sylah was crying the tears of a child lost, the wails of a daughter grieving, the screams of the wounded dying. She cried out names Anoor had never heard before with an anguish that pierced her heart. Anoor was the sole boat in her ocean, and when she knelt beside her, Sylah grasped onto her with all the strength left in her body. The tidewind had begun to rage outside the tower. Anoor held Sylah, the tidewind rattling both their bones as she sang the one lullaby she knew.
O-o the tidewind came from sky afar
The penance for the blood power.
Anyme sings, Anyme brings
The winds wept for the sky they knew