Sneaking into the Moon Festival is child’s play.
I pocket my Mask — my face serves as my best disguise — and
burgle riding clothes and a pack from a Tribal caravan. After that, I break
into an apothecary for willadonna, a physician’s staple that, when pressed
into an oil, dilates the pupils wide enough for a Martial to pass as a Scholar
or Tribesman for an hour or two.
Easy. Moments after putting the willadonna in, I’m sw ept into the heart
of the festival with a tide of Scholars. I count twelve exits and identi fy
twenty potential weapons before I realize what I’m doing and force myself
to relax.
I pass food stalls and dance stages, jugglers and fire - eaters, acrobats,
Kehannis, singers, and players. Musicians strum ouds and lyres, guided by
the jubilant beat of drums.
I pull out of the crowds, suddenly disoriented. It’s been so long since
I’ve heard drums as music that I instinctively try to translate the beats into
orders and find myself bewildered when I cannot.
When I finally am able to push the thudding to the back of my head, I’m
bowled over by the colors and smells and unadulterated joy around me.
Even as a Fiver, I never saw anything like this. Not in Marinn or the Tribal
deserts, not even beyond the Empire, where woad - coated Barbarians danced
beneath starlight for days, as if possessed.
A pleasant peacefulness steals over me. No one looks at me with
loathing or fear. I don’t have to watch my back or ke ep up the granite
exterior.
I feel free.
For a few minutes I meander through the crowd, eventually making my
way to the dance stages, where I’ve spotted Laia and Izzi. The two were
surprisingly difficult to follow. While tracking them through the docks, I
lost sight of Laia a few times altogether. But once in the Quarter, under the
bright lights of the sky lanterns, I find the girls easily.
At first, I think to approach them, tell them who I am, and get them back
to Blackcliff. But they look like I feel. Free. Happy. I can’t bring myself to
ruin it for them, not when their lives are ordinarily so dismal. So instead, I
watch.
They both wear plain black silk dresses, which, while excellent for
sneaking around and ke eping slaves’ cuffs hidden, don’t blend so well into
the rainbow p lumage of the throng.
Izzi has let her blonde hair fall into her face, masking her ey epatch
surprisingly well. She makes herself small, barely noticeable as she peeks
out from the curtain of her hair.
Laia, on the other hand, would be noticeable pretty much anywhere. The
high - necked dress she’s wearing clings to her body in ways I find painfully
unfair. Beneath the light of the sky lanterns, her skin glows the color of
warm honey. She holds her head high, the elegance of her neck heightened
by the inky fall of her hair.
I want to touch that hair, smell it, run my hands through it, wrap it
around my wrist and — damn it, Veturius, get a hold of yourself. Stop
staring.
After I pull my eyes from her, I realize that I’m not the only one
dumbstruck. Many of the young men around me sneak glances at her. She
doesn’t seem to notice, which, of course, makes her all the more intriguing.
And here you are, Elias, staring at her again. You twit. This time, my
attention hasn’t gone unobserved.
Izzi is watching me.
The girl mi ght have only one eye, but I’m fairly certain she sees more
than most. Get out of here, Elias, I tell myself. Before she figures out why
you look so damn familiar.
Izzi leans over and whispers something into Laia’s ear. I’m about to
walk away when Laia looks up at me.
Her eyes are a dark jolt. I should look away. I should leave. She’ll figure
out who I am if she stares long enough. But I can’t bring myself to move.
For a heavy, heated moment, we are immobile, content to watch each other.
Skies, she’s beauti ful. I smile at her, and the blush that rises on her face
makes me feel oddly triumphant.
I want to ask her to dance. I want to touch her skin and talk to her and
pretend that I’m just a normal Tribal boy and she’s just a normal Scholar
girl. Stupid idea, my mind warns. She’ll recognize you.
So what? What would she do? Turn me in? She can’t tell the
Commandant she saw me here without incriminating herself too.
But while I’m still considering, a muscular, red - haired boy comes up
behind her. He touches her shoulder with a possessiveness in his eyes that I
don’t like. Laia, in return, stares at him as if no one else exists. Maybe she
knew him before she became a slave. Maybe he’s the reason she snuck out.
I scowl and look away. He’s not bad - looking, I suppose, but he seems too
grim to be any fun.
Also, he’s shorter than me. Considerably shorter. Half a foot, at least.
Laia leaves with the redhead. Izzi gets up after a moment and follows.
“Looks like she’s taken, lad.” A Tribal girl wearing a bright green dress
covered in tiny circular mirrors sashays up to me, her dark hair done up in
hundreds of bra ids. She speaks Sadhese, the Tribal tongue I grew up with.
Against her dusky skin, her smile is a blinding flash of white, and I find
myself returning it. “I guess I’ll have to do,” she says.
Without waiting for a r eply, she pulls me to the dance floor, a
remarkably bold thing for a Tribal girl to do. I look at her closely and
realize that she’s not a girl but a grown woman, perhaps a few years older
than me. I eye her warily. Most Tribeswomen have a few children by their
midtwenties.
“Don’t you have a husb and who’ll take off my head if he sees me
dancing with you?” I respond in Sadhese.
“I don’t. Why, are you interested in the position?” She runs a warm,
slow finger down the skin of my chest and stomach, all the way to my belt.
For the first time in a decade or so, I blush. Her wrist, I notice, is free of the
Tribal braid tattoo that would mark her as married.
“What’s your name and Tribe, lad?” she asks. She’s a good dancer, and
when I match her st ep for st ep, I can tell she’s pleased.
“Ilyaas.” I haven’t sp oken my Tribal name in years. Grandfather
Martialized it within about five minutes of meeting me. “Ilyaas An - Saif.”
As soon as I say it, I wonder if it’s a mistake. The story of Mamie Rila’s
adopted son being taken to Blackcliff isn’t well known — the Empire
ordered Tribe Saif to ke ep it quiet. Still, Tribesmen love to talk.
But if the woman recognizes the name, she doesn’t acknowledge it.
“I’m Afya Ara - Nur,” she says.
“Shadows and light,” I translate her first name and her Tribal name.
“Fascinating combinati on.”
“Mostly shadows, to be honest.” She leans toward me, and the smolder
in her brown eyes makes my heart beat a little faster. “But ke ep that
between us.”
I tilt my head as I look at her. I don’t think I’ve ever met a Tribal woman
with such sultry self - possession. Not even a Kehanni. Afya smiles a secret
smile and asks me a few polite questions about Tribe Saif. How many
weddings have we had in the past month? How many births? Will we
journey to Nur for the Fall Gathering? Though the questions are suitable for
a Tribal woman, I’m not fooled. Her simple words don’t match the sharp
intelligence of her eyes. Where is her family? Who is she, really?
As if sensing my suspicion, Afya tells me of her brothers: rug - traders
based in Nur, here to sell their wares before bad weather closes off the
mountain passes. As she speaks, I look around surr eptitiously for these
brothers of hers — Tribal men are notoriously protective of their unwed
women, and I’m not looking for a fight. But though there are plenty of
Tribesmen in the crowd, none of them so much as look at Afya.
We stay together for three dances. When the last is over, Afya curtsies
and offers me a wooden coin with a sun on one side and clouds on the other.
“A gift,” she says. “For honoring me with such fine dances, Ilyaas An Saif.”
“The honor is mine.” I’m surprised. Tribal tokens mark a favor owed —
they’re not offered lightly and are rarely given out by women.
As if she knows what I’m thinking, Afya stands on her tiptoes. She’s so
tiny, I have to stoop to hear her. “If the heir of Gens Veturia should ever
need a favor, Ilyaas, Tribe Nur will be honored to be of service.”
Immediately my body tenses, but she puts two fingers to her lips — the most
binding of Tribal vows. “Your secret is safe with Afya Ara - Nur.”
I raise an eyebrow. Whether she recognized the name Ilyaas or has seen
me around Serra masked, I don’t know. Whoever Afya Ara - Nur is, she’s no
simple Tribal woman. I nod in acknowledgment, and her white teeth flash.
“Ilyaas . . . ” She drops down, no longer whispering. “Your lady is free
now — see.” I look over my shoulder. Laia has returned to the dance stage
and is watching the redhead walk away from her. “You must claim her for a
dance,” Afya says. “Go on!”
She gives me a small shove and disappears, the bells on her ankle
tinkling. I stare after her for a moment, looking at the coin thoughtfully
before pocketing it. Then I turn and make my way to Laia.
“M