RYIN
The echoes of the Nimali woman’s screams still resound across the plaza. My hands curl into fists. The struggle to play the part of the obedient servant is difficult on a good day. When I have to face the barbarian king, it’s nearly impossible.
In my head, I repeat to myself what’s at stake if I lose my temper. If I burst forward on my daimon’s power and try to rip his vile throat out. The personal cost is one I would bear if it didn’t also mean a cost for my people, both those locked here in the Citadel and back home in the Greenlands.
So I bite my tongue until it’s bloody and make an unholy effort to keep the rage from my face. I think the princess sees it, though. Her eyes round and her gaze darts away. This timid, strange creature who returned from across the wall is mysterious.
What happened to her out there? When she first disappeared, the Fai were blamed, of course. All the drudges in the entire building were lined up and questioned. Two were trammeled for nothing, just as a way for our captors to flex their power over us. To remind us what happens if we go astray. Then a scrap of her clothing was found near one of the mines—a place no Fai in their right mind would dare tread—and the investigation was refocused.
But lost princesses aren’t my concern. And the outrage that flared when I realized she must have been tortured has no place here. It was likely an echo of my daimon’s pity. Its sympathy radiates down the bond we share, twisting my emotions. No Nimali would care if a Fai were brutalized. I must harden my heart against her.
King Lyall clutches his daughter close to him in a one-armed embrace. She looks awkward and uncomfortable there. Of course to her, this man is a stranger. A cadre of royal retainers in their crimson uniforms have joined him on the plaza, bowing and scraping when they arrive.
“Now that that unpleasantness is over,” the king says, as if he wasn’t the cause of the unpleasantness, “we will celebrate. Let it be known to all, tonight, at the tenth hour, every man, woman, and child in the territory will gather on the plaza to welcome my daughter back home. My greatest treasure is back where she belongs and we will all rejoice.”
Cheering commences, and my teeth gnash. When it ends, some signal for dismissal has been given. The soldiers and retinue retreat back toward the Citadel. I’m not sure if I’m dismissed as well, but Prince Shad catches my eye and motions me to stay.
Soon it is just the four of us—the king, princess, prince, and me—alone on the grassy lawn, though a dozen soldiers stand just out of earshot. Unease tightens my skin, but I stand tall at attention, clearing any emotion from my mind or expression.
“Healer,” the king says, his gruff voice turning up the temperature of my blood. “You will be assigned to Celena for the foreseeable future. I do not want her taking a step without you there behind her. We do not know what was done to her or by whom, and her health and well-being are of the utmost import, so you will be her shadow.” A cruel smile plays upon his lips at that last word, and my heart clenches.
Celena turns to her father. “Is this really necessary? I feel perfectly well. I’m sure others will have need of a healer.”
The king sends a kind smile her way. “Dear girl, there are slow-acting poisons and other insidious inventions that can be injected and released into the bloodstream, timed to attack at a later date.” The blood drains from her brown skin, leaving her looking ashen.
“I would not leave you at the mercy of these unknown villains, so until we know exactly who took you and what their agenda was, your health and safety is my highest priority.” She nods, appearing shaken.
The king’s dark eyes pierce me. I meet his gaze, holding back the fire licking through me that wants to incinerate him. “If she so much as suffers from the prick of a thumbtack, I will have you trammeled so quickly, your mind will be mush inside your skull and you will spend the rest of your life mining bliss with the other puppets. Do you understand me, Fai?”
I unclench my jaw. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
Next to him, Celena’s complexion turns even more wan, a grayish tinge reminiscent of when she was unconscious. She appears rigid in her father’s hold, her shoulders nearly reaching her ears.
“You must be tired, dear one,” the king says to her. “Why don’t you go to your rooms and rest?” It’s amazing how quickly his normally icy demeanor defrosts when he speaks to her.
He’s a glacier again when he looks up. “Have food brought to her. And Shadrach, you stay. I want a detailed debrief.”
The prince bows. King Lyall embraces his daughter once more then walks away without another glance, toward the Citadel, with Shad on his heels.
The princess blinks several times, then visibly pulls herself together, color returning to her skin. She meets my eye and gives a brief, watery smile. I motion with my arm to the building; protocol dictates that I follow at least three steps behind. Celena squares her shoulders, appearing to gather her strength before moving forward.
The back of her odd clothing is blood stained and ripped from the Revoker’s claws, but she still manages to look regal, although still somehow different than before. She was always a quiet, cold beauty living in the shadow of her father’s vicious cruelty. But she had never reacted to it. I can’t recall seeing her flinch or recoil at his harsh statements or the quick changes in his demeanor. Perhaps that was a skill built up over many years and without her memory it will take more practice to renew.
It doesn’t matter anyway; the princess is not my concern. But having to follow her around every waking moment for the foreseeable future definitely puts a wrench into my plans. My duties for the GenFi will have to shift. I have no idea how the princess spends her days, but I’ll no longer be able to monitor the soldiers now.
We pass the support columns of the building and the guards stationed at the front doors open them and usher the princess through. She marches, head high, across the narrow lobby and toward the elevator bank. More soldiers line the space, another reason that this building is so defensible. It not only houses the royals and most Nimali aristocrats, but it is also the military center of their territory as well.
At the elevators, Celena hesitates. She clasps her hands in front of her so tightly her fingernails change from pink to white. Her anxiety is bleeding through, but I don’t understand the cause. She clears her throat. “I, ah…I don’t know where we’re going.” Her voice shakes.
“Only these two go all the way up, Your Grace.” One of the two soldiers before her motions to the last two cars at the end of the short hallway. He presses the call button and the doors immediately slide open.
“Could we take the stairs? I’m sure I could use some exercise.” The soldiers share a startled glance, their surprise almost comical. “There are stairs in the building, right?” Celena asks, hope lifting her tone.
The taller man recovers quickly. “Yes, Your Grace. But they are generally used by the drudges. Besides, your apartment takes up the entirety of the forty-sixth floor.”
Her shoulders collapse. Warily, she walks into the elevator car. The pair of soldiers enter behind her and I follow. I’m nearest to the panel and press the button labeled forty-six.
The car rattles as it climbs and Celena gasps slightly, then clutches the bar behind her in an iron grip. The soldiers eye her curiously but do not comment. She is afraid. The realization comes over me suddenly. But why would she fear an elevator?
Moments later, the doors open revealing a short, brightly lit hallway ending in a door guarded by two more soldiers. They come to attention as Celena leads the way out of the elevator, which soon takes the other two guards away. The princess’s steps are slow and uncertain, but there are no other visible doors on this level.
She stops before the soldiers and nods at them, then stares at the door for a long, awkward moment. Does she not even remember how to operate a door? Her memory can’t be that incomplete—she can still walk and talk and seems to have retained her intelligence. None of the memory drudges has shown this level of loss.
“Your Grace?” the steely-haired woman on the left says, brows politely raised.
“There’s no doorknob.” Celena waves a hand at the smooth panel, inset into the wall much the same way the elevator doors are.
The guard motions to the circular indentation to the right of the door, about waist high. “It’s a sensor. Place your palm there and it will open. You control access to your suite.” Her voice is patient, but the other guard, a rangy man, narrows his eyes at the princess.
Celena smiles. “Thank you so much.” Both blink at her, and even I jerk at the display of gratitude.
She tentatively touches her hand to the sensor, then startles when it turns blue and the door slides open. She chuckles, then turns to me with a brilliant smile on her face. It’s the unfettered glee of a child who’s discovered a hidden trove of candy, and it does strange things to my chest. Her expression falls quickly when I don’t respond. Something catches within me as she turns away.
I follow her into her suite, nearly bumping into her before the door slides shut behind me. She’s stopped just at the threshold, staring at the sitting room.
The princess’s suite of rooms is opulent in true Nimali style. A patchwork quilt of rugs of varying sizes, colors, and patterns cover the floor. Furniture of all kinds fills the space: There are half a dozen couches, even more love seats, armchairs, recliners, and other seating of different sizes and materials, along with console tables, coffee tables, end tables, and a long twelve-person dining table along the far wall.
The walls themselves are covered with artwork: paintings, photographs, posters, mirrors, sculptures trapped in glass. The Nimali love excess, and the aristocracy loves it more than the rest.
Celena turns in a full circle. “It looks like a furniture store vomited its warehouse in here.”
I can’t help but smile at the sentiment, because her voice drips with disgust. She turns to face me, her expression horrified. I try to smooth my face, but she’s so comical I can’t help the curve of my lips. Then she shakes her head and begins to laugh.
“This is the most hideous, cluttered thing I’ve ever seen. Is my taste that bad?”
The truth would probably get me trammeled, so I stay quiet, but inside I’m laughing as well.
“I mean, that’s an orange mid-century modern sofa next to a pair of Louis XIV red upholstered armchairs. My eyes!” She covers her eyes with her hands dramatically and shakes her head.
When she drops her hands, she’s still smiling. I get myself under control and flatten my lips. I think she looks disappointed, but I can’t be sure.
“Do you know where all of this came from?” she asks.
“Most of it was salvaged from different parts of the city.”
“I guess that makes sense.”
“Pre-Sorrows furniture is a status symbol for the aristocracy.” I didn’t need to add that…maybe it’s my daimon’s sympathy bleeding through again.
“What exactly are the Sorrows? People keep talking about them, but I don’t understand what they were.”
“They were the end of the world. Are you hungry?” I’m not here to answer all of her questions and the king ordered that she be fed, so even if she has no desire for it, I’m duty bound to at least request food. I ignore her startled expression at the abrupt change in topic and cross the room, moving to where the servant’s door is hidden. I press my hand on the sensor, then tap the pattern to call Noomi.
“Um, I guess I could eat. But I can get it myself if you just show me where.”
I turn at that, but her focus is on the walls, staring at the vintage movie posters and formerly priceless artwork liberated from museums around the city after the Sorrows.
The servant’s door slides open and my cousin Noomi is there, arms clasped before her. Celena spins around then comes over, picking her way carefully through the maze of furniture.
“Hello,” she says, a bit uncertain. Noomi is stunned. Her eyes slide to me, brows raised. She tilts her head as if to say, It’s true? I nod.
“This is Noomi, she’s the drudge assigned to your suite.”
“Hi Noomi, it’s so nice to meet you. I mean, I’m sure we’ve met before, but I don’t remember, so it’s like meeting you for the first time.”
Noomi’s eyes just grow wider and wider. Celena blinks and then looks chagrined. “Sorry for the word vomit, I just want you to know I’m grateful to you for all your help—in the past and the future, I guess.”
I’m worried Noomi might faint on the spot and so I step in. “You must have lost your whistle, Your Grace.” At this, Noomi shakes off the stunned expression and digs into her apron pocket to retrieve a whistle. “This is how you call her.”
Celena looks horrified. “A whistle? Like for a dog? Absolutely not.” She actually takes a step back from Noomi’s outstretched hand.
I look back and forth between the two women. “It’s how the Nimali call the drudges.”
“I don’t like that word, either. I know cooking and cleaning and all that definitely feels like drudgery, but you’re a person.” She shakes her head.
Noomi’s confusion has turned to fear. She pleads at me with her eyes.
“All Nimali use the whistles,” I say simply, not sure how else to explain it. “If you don’t…We will be punished.” Noomi shoots me a fear-filled glance.
Celena catches it and takes a deep breath. She holds it for several seconds before letting it out in a gush. “Is that what you really want? For me to use that thing to call you?”
Noomi nods her assent, and Celena’s brows lower. “Do you not speak?”
“She doesn’t. She can’t.”
“Oh.” Celena looks again at the whistle on the delicate silver chain in Noomi’s palm and finally takes it. Noomi’s shoulders sag with relief.
Thank you, my cousin signs to me. At that, Celena perks up. “You use sign language?”
I nod briefly and she lights up, her smile knocking me back a step again. “Oh good, you can teach me. How do I say, Hello, it’s nice to meet you?”
I’m sure Noomi and I wear identical looks of confusion. “She can hear you just fine, Your Grace.”
“Oh, yes, of course. I know. But then how will I understand what she says to me?”
“What she says to you?” I blink, not connecting the dots.
“How can we only have one-sided conversations?”
“She’s your drudge. You tell her what to do and she does it. The Nimali do not converse with their drudges.”
Celena swallows, a stricken expression coming across her face. She turns to Noomi, her gaze sorrowful and pitying. “Is that how I treated you before?”
Noomi is frozen, likely unsure what response is best and how to deal with the woman the princess has become. For her part, Celena seems at a loss for words, shaking her head and staring down at her hands.
Finally, she finds her voice. “I’m so sorry for that. I suppose my recent experiences—whatever they were—have changed me. But you’re a human being, not a drudge.” She makes a face like the word tastes bad. “I’m sure you work hard and you don’t deserve to be treated like a dog or a silent beast of burden. It isn’t right.”
Noomi tilts her head, peering at Celena through soft eyes for a long while. Hello, it’s nice to meet you, she signs.
Celena blinks, then looks at me. I repeat the signs, speaking them aloud at the same time. The princess radiates happiness as she repeats the movements, working to commit them to memory.
“Now, how do I say, ‘I’m hungry and would love something to eat’?”
I haven’t seen hope in Noomi’s eyes for years, not since her voice was taken away and she was conscribed into service in the Citadel. But as Princess Celena stretches and curls her fingers, taking the time to learn a few phrases in the language of the Fai voice drudges, a light begins to glow in my cousin’s eyes. And though I don’t want it to, though I lost the ability to truly hope a long time ago, a spark of it comes to life within my own chest.