Something else pushes me now, urging me to calm her racing heart and organize the mayhem. I think it is my shadow, and despite how wary I am of it, I listen. My breathing slows, and I focus on settling the panic within Amara’s mind. In less than a second, her heart rate steadies, and familiarity ghosts across her eyes.
Did the shadow do that? Or me?
Footsteps. Metal rattling over stone. Something sliding. No time to think.
I turn back to the door. Drop to my knees. Peer through the small opening. Shadows move in the dim light beyond.Are they ignoring me?
My fist impacts the door in another attempt to gain their attention. The metal frame shakes violently, raining stone-dust from the ceiling and creating a sonorous bang. I glance down at my fist in confusion.I barely used any force…
Shaking off the wrongness of how the door reacted, I repeat, “I need to speak with a guard.”
Nothing but the sounds of shuffling.
Do they not understand me?
I repeat the phrase in seven different common languages before I receive a response.
“What do you want?” a slick, musical voice says inTemátu.
Strange. What is aTèmtárhdoing here?What is a human doing here?A knot forms in my throat as my thoughts travel back to Amara—the human who was taken from Earth despite a very stringent treaty.
I rake a hand down my face. “I need to speak with a guard,” I repeat.
“Why?” the Tèmtárh asks.
“I would like a meeting with the Magistrate before my next fight.” While my Temátu is not what it should be, the Tèmtárhseems to understand. “Can you deliver a message to the Magistrate?”
“Yes.”
“Tell him I would like to expedite my fights and complete them all today. Tell him I am willing to renegotiate my contract.”
Two metal meal-trays slide onto the shelf jutting out from the slot in the door, and the Tèmtárh and their cart continue down the hallway. I call after them. “When will the guards return?”
“Later,” they say.
When the hallway is silent, I stand and face Amara. Her eyes are still glassy, but her heart is steady, and the panic is gone.
“Did it work?” she asks.
I close the distance between us and cup her face in my hands. “Are you ok?”
“Yeah,” she says casually, “the sound of the meal-slot just freaked me out.”
Her emotions feel almost too steady, and I am not sure what to make of that. “Are you sure?” I ask. She nods, and I decide to trust her and answer her question. “I am not sure if it worked, but we will know soon. Are you hungry?”
Amara sitscross-legged on the bed, the bloodied sheet draped over her lap while she devours her food with surprising intensity. I pick at my food with far less enthusiasm. My mind is spinning, testing every assumption I have made about our next steps, looking for holes in our plan or errors in my reasoning.
“How many languages did you try?” she asks.
“Seven.”
She takes another bite off her tray. “You really weren’t exaggerating when you said you know a lot of languages, huh?” I hum and she asks, “What was that last language you used?”
“Tematú. It is the language of the Tèmtárhs.”
“Tèmtárhs… Do they have antenna?” She holds up her fingers above her head and wiggles them.
Unable to avoid grinning, I say, “Yes, they have antenna. And yes, I know the word.”
