“Because he knew it would fuel you, the pride of a mother’s blood, of the Warden of Strength’s blood. It would make you sign up for the Aktibar by yourself and come back to the cause. Not that it went according to plan, mind you.”
Lio went back to pounding the fufu.
Thump. Fold. Thump. Fold. Thump. Fold.
“Who is my family?” If the question hurt Lio, she didn’t show it.
“Your family is all but wiped out. They were lower-ranking Embers who lived the last decade in disgrace. Your father died in a cell ten years ago for the murder and rape of your mother. Seems like losing their daughter caused them a few problems.” The words were cruel, but not spoken cruelly.
“Anoor?”
“Yes, she’s my daughter. That much is true. But Fareen, she was the child we swapped her with.”
“Why?”
“He—”
“Why?”
Sylah stopped stirring the soup and turned to face her mother. She saw something she understood staring back at her. Addiction, not to the euphoric thrill of a joba seed, but to the three words that had crafted her life. Three words that had given her meaning and the blissful belief of being important.
Sylah was glad when Lio didn’t respond. She didn’t want to hear those words again. She turned back to the soup, and with each stir her anger faded to a simmering acceptance. She took a sip.
“It’s good. A bit more peppashito and it would be perfect.”
Lio nodded, the motion dropping tears into the mortar below.
That was the last thing Sylah ever said to the mother who raised her.