I smooth my hand across the quilt, feeling the intricate patterns of the stitches. He knows me so well that he doesn’t protest when I change the subject.
“I didn’t want you to ruin your fancy dress on the grass.” He rearranges his scabbards, which lie next to him on the ground. “It’s very pretty.”
“Thank you,” I say, staring at the boats ambling down the river. It’s so wide that the water seems to stretch on forever.
After a long and awkward pause, we both try to speak at the same time. We laugh and some of the tension eases. “You go first,” I say.
“About this morning,” he says, his voice catching in his throat. “My brothers would never do something so vile. Jemi and Uran haven’t been themselves since the Rite of Passage, but my father . . . my father keeps them in check. He has a gendar who sends regular reports on Jemi’s squadron, and Uran is never without his attendants. When I say never, I mean never.”
I reach out for the family crest affixed to his collar, but I stop myself. “May I?”
Rudjek scratches his head, looking sheepish. “Of course.”
I run my fingers across the smooth craven bone carved into the shape of a lion’s head. It’s cold even in the heart of a much-too-warm day. Had I any magic, it would repel me. But nothing happens. Its yielding touch is a reminder that I should listen to my mother. Maybe it’s time to give up my dream.
“What does it feel like when someone with magic is near you?” I’ve never asked before, avoiding anything that could lead back to my lack of magic. What would it be like if I had magic and we were close . . . closer than we are now? That’s the true question burning on my lips.
Rudjek shrugs. “I don’t know. . . . It vibrates a little if the magic is directed at me; otherwise, I don’t feel anything.”
I move from the crest on his elara to the pendant that hangs around his neck. My fingers brush his throat and we both tense. He leans a little closer to me, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I missed you.”
Majka clears his throat and we jump apart. “Am I interrupting anything?”
“No!” we both yell in unison.
“Nothing at all,” I add, piqued.
“Of course not.” Rudjek frowns at him. “What do you want?”
Majka glances over his shoulder at Kira, who is still on watch. “I am to remind you that your father expects you at the council meeting at fourth afternoon bells.”
Rudjek grimaces at his pant legs, dusty from the market. “Give us a moment, will you.”
Majka nods with a crooked grin and pads off to where Kira is waiting.
“I’m sorry, I do have to go.” Rudjek sighs. “Father will be in a mood after this morning.”
“It’s true, then,” I say, my throat dry again. “He’s going to name you his heir?”
Rudjek winces and looks away. “It is. I . . . don’t know how I feel about it yet. I’m the youngest. I never thought the responsibility would fall to me. My father’s expectations—well, everyone’s expectations—of me have changed.”
I don’t want to think about what this will mean for our friendship. If he—no, when he becomes Vizier one day, he won’t be able to shun his duties to sneak off to meet me by the river.
“What about the gendars? All you’ve ever talked about is joining their ranks.” I regret my question when he glances longingly at his shotels. “How will you survive if you can’t fool around in the arena all day?” I add to cheer him up.
“I’ll make do.” Then under his breath, he says, “I can be quite crafty.”
I pick at the beads on my sheath. “You can’t turn it down, can you?”
“No.” He scoops up a rock and flings it into the river. “My mother sent a message to her childhood matron in Delene asking her to come teach me proper etiquette.” He forces a humorless laugh, somber like both our moods. “What do the Aatiri say? ‘A man’s character lies not in his fine clothes, but in the purity of his soul.’”
“The purity of his ka,” I correct him.
“I’m sorry,” Rudjek says with a shy smile. “Here I am rambling on and on, and I haven’t asked you about the tribal lands. How did things go?”
I groan. “Not well.”
Rudjek arches an eyebrow. “You want to talk about it?”
“Another time.” I’m not ready to tell him about the Blood Moon Festival and Grandmother’s vision. It’s something I’m still trying to wrap my mind around, and he’ll only worry. I’ve done enough of that on my own.
“One more thing before I go.” Rudjek rubs the back of his neck. “Mother sent an invitation to my Coming of Age Ceremony to your father’s shop. I thought if your mother got her hands on it, that would be the end of it. But . . . you’re coming, right?”
I wrinkle my nose, reminding him what I think about his Coming of Age Ceremony—hence the donkey on my letter to him. Before I can answer, he adds, rushing his words, “True, it’s a bit archaic, but . . .”
“You mean with the half-naked dancers?” I cross my arms. “It’s a silly tradition.”
“Pretty please.” He bats his lashes at me and I can’t help but laugh.
It isn’t that our parents don’t know we’re friends. There’s only so many of the scholar district’s ceremonies one can go to and not know everyone your age. I’ve seen Rudjek compete in the arena countless times. This should be no different, yet I hesitate to say yes.
“I’ll think about it,” I say, but I know what Arti’s answer will be if I ask her.
I utter a goodbye as Majka and Kira drag him off. Staring at the river again, I can’t stop thinking about the Familiars swarming the East Market. Enough people can see them that the scribes have come up with an official explanation. They call them harmless, wayward shadows, but I’ve never believed that. Even without real magic, I can’t deny the signs.
Wherever the Familiars go, death soon follows.
Seven
After another restless night I crawl out of bed before dawn. So many dreams spin in my head. One about a real green-eyed serpent slithering through the East Market. No bigger than a river snake, it moved through the throng of shuffling feet with ease. In another, the child snatcher stalked the tribal lands with a string of children bound by rope. Then I saw Rudjek standing on the edge of a forest as dark as night, with the eye of Re’Mec at his back. Some connection between the three had been clear in the dreams, but now sleep fog clouds my mind.
If I hurry I won’t miss my father before he leaves for his shop. I slip into the sea-blue tunic and trousers I wanted to wear yesterday and carry my sandals to not wake the others. Terra will be put out when she finds me gone at eighth morning bells.
The sun peeks over the horizon as I pad down the long hallway. Our villa curves around a courtyard where my father grows herbs for his blood medicines. My parents’ twin rooms are at the opposite end of the villa. Ty and Nezi have their own rooms, and Terra’s is next to mine.
Mosaic figurines dance along the wall, twisting, twirling, and leaping to keep pace with me. The magic is Mulani, one among many traditions of my mother’s tribe. From the dancers to the white curtains to the silk pillows in the salon, Mulani staples decorate our home. Even if Arti never visits the tribal lands, she must miss something about her life there, to keep these small mementos. I pause to stare at one of the dancers, and he stops too. When I was little, I used to press my hand against the wall to feel the hum of magic. Arti tried to teach me how to make the dancers move, but I couldn’t. She knew what it meant even then. Years later, the unreadable look on my mother’s face in that moment still haunts me.