“Sice’s parents left to become Hidden, but he stayed here because his gryphon called to a female who refused to leave. Her family put a stop to the match because of his parents’ choice, and she killed herself a couple months later. There’s so much pain and anger wrapped around everyone now. There’s no hope of reconciliation. There’s no clear right or wrong anymore.”
Dri and I both jump as three more steins slam down on the table, and Sice sits back down next to us. We jump apart, our gossip session now interrupted and over. I try to hide my irritated huff, but there’s so much I want to ask about Zeph and Ryn, about this war. About Treno and the role he and his brother played. From what Dri is saying, it’s as though the sons are being judged by the actions of their parents. All of them were best friends at one point—do they not have any affection or respect left for one another at all?
“Your turn to toast, milady,” Sice exclaims, and I choke on the meade I just pulled into my mouth. I cough and slap my chest.
“What do I toast to?” I ask, wracking my brain for the toasts I’ve heard in my life. So far they’ve usually been to family or to the bride and groom at a wedding. Pretty sure I’ve heard one about sex, but none of that is appropriate right now.
“Well, do your people have a battle cry or something you say to get a warrior’s blood moving?” he asks casually, like that’s something everyone should have. I try to think through things people say in the military, but I can’t think of anything as Sice just stares at me expectantly. And then it hits me.
I stand up and slam my stein against his and shout, “Wakanda Forever!”
Sice and Dri both grunt, slam their own mugs against mine, and shout out the same thing. The next thing I know, the whole tavern is doing it. I chuckle, not able to help myself, and sit back down. Black Panther is the shit...no matter what world you live in.
10
I groan and stretch, the cool sheets on the bed a balm to my sweaty and fevered skin. Fuck, I’m hungover.
I breathe through a wave of nausea that rolls through me, internally chanting the mantra
you will not fucking puke, Falon. Pigeon flashes me an image of Sice doing the “Single Ladies” dance, and I snort-laugh.
“Shit, I did teach them that, didn’t I?” I ask, trying to recall the fuzzy details. “Damn, Sice owned it though! That dude has rhythm.”
Pigeon chuff-purrs her amusement, sending me other flashes of the dumb shit the three of us did last night. She finds particular enjoyment in the time I almost peed myself from laughing, all because Dri fell out of her chair. One minute she was sitting there, and the next, she’s on the floor. At the time, it was the funniest fucking thing ever.
I groan again as I try to sit up, and my head revolts.
“Nope. That’s going to be a hard pass,” I announce. “Today is going to be a lay around kind of day.”
I move to flop back down when a new basket on the tree trunk table draws my attention. I didn’t hear anyone knock, let alone come in, this morning. I’m not sure what to think about the fact that someone was in here when I was dead to the world and unaware. My need to find out what’s in the basket trumps my headache, and I roll myself off the bed like the lazy slug that I currently am. I caterpillar crawl my way over there, dismissing the flickers of judgment Pigeon sends my way as I do.
I pull the lid off the basket and then stare for a minute as I process the folded pile of leather in front of me. I reach in and pull out the buttery soft item at the top, and it unfolds to reveal a pair of pants. I study the front and then the back, and then pull them to my chest for a hug. Treno gifted me with a huge stack of...pants. I squeal and then put my palm to my head, because that was a really bad idea in my current state.
I pull all of the pants out of the basket so I can inspect them, and I’m surprised to see something similar to the bras that I had Tysa make for me. I’m confused for a moment about how Treno knew to have these made, but I’m distracted by what’s on the bottom of the basket. A fawn leather bound book sits like a dirty little secret under the best gifts I’ve ever been given, and I snatch it out and immediately open it.
Noor Solei is written as clear as day, and I run my fingers over the name reverently. I doubted that there was a connection between me and this familiar named stranger before, but as I stare down at the writing in the book, I know I’m connected to it. It’s too familiar not to be my mother’s. I try to talk myself down and not get my hopes up just in case I’m wrong. But excitement and wonder surges through me anyway.
I look around my room, aware that I’m not supposed to have this, and hug it protectively as I make my way back to the bed. I can just picture the outraged face Purt would have if he were to see me right now with one of the precious archive books. It makes this all the better. I wrap the soft cool sheets around me and stare at what I hope are answers now sitting in my palms.
I hesitate to open it, suddenly feeling the weight of expectation sitting firmly in my grasp. These writings could say anything, and I’m not quite sure if I’m ready to find out that my parents were mass murderers or any of the other number of possibilities that could be floating inside these pages. Or worse, what if my hopes and nerves are all for nothing because Noor Solei was a lovely woman with no relation to me whatsoever?
I wonder briefly how this book is even here at all, especially since Purt was just telling me that it had gone missing. Was he fucking with me? Or was it just returned, and the powers that be approved my seeing it? That may be the easiest answer, but for whatever reason, I don’t think it’s the correct one.
If I have permission to see this book, why was it wrapped in makeshift bras and hidden under the pile of pants? No, I’d bet that my first instincts are right on, and I’m not supposed to have this. If that’s the case, then it means Treno must have either had this book or had it found. Both possibilities open up a floodgate of questions that unfortunately he’s not here to answer. It will have to wait until he’s back and I can grill him.
I stroke the light brown cover again and take a deep breath. How it got here needs to be worried about later; the fact that it’s here needs to be dealt with now. Pigeon gets all cozy inside of me, like she’s ready for story time. I reach out to her for comfort, and she beak bumps me in my mind. I open the book, read the name Noor Solei one more time, and dive in.
It’s odd to see my parents after all this time. They arrive, expecting the same wide-eyed and compliant little girl that they dropped off all those years ago, but I am not her anymore. This place has achieved what my parents hoped it would. I am not only worthy in blood, but now worthy in my manner and effect. I have been molded to be the best of this year’s Offerings, to take my place in society, a society where we are bound and have nothing. Not even our actions are our own.
This was the way for my mother, my mother’s mother, and so on as far as can be remembered. But I find no comfort in knowing that. Today, I will write my truths in the book my parents gifted me. Tomorrow, I will be paraded in front of the Winged and Marked alike.
I’ll be expected to ignore the desires of my other half and instead make an alliance. One that will keep the blood of my line strong, and more often than not, keep a mate under their boot. It is not our voices or our minds that matter, but what else can be expected when there is no call and no answer? Without those two, there is no truth, and everything that I am and everything that’s expected of me is a lie.