“Her aspect will show up. If it’s always happened before, it’ll happen now,” I say, wondering how I got to a place where I’m telling someonemagic will happen. And am I defending Nimh, despite the secrets she kept?
Matias sighs. “So we must hope. Because while Nimhara is powerful, she will be even more so when she manifests. Our people need the change her aspect will bring. They need the hope. And they need the gifts she will master. They need what she will become.”
“So she could be … what? What was the last god like?”
“The deity before Nimh was Jezara,” the old man says. “She manifested as the goddess of healing. Her light could ease any illness or wound.”
I wish I knew what that really meant. Did she study medicine? Did she use her skills to prevent disease? Or do they believe she could heal with just her presence?
“And when she died, the priests found Nimh.” I falter at the sight of his expression. “No?”
Matias’s lips are tight. “Jezara was the only goddess whose divinity passed from her before death.”
Silence. “I don’t know what that means,” I confess.
“It is not for me to discuss. I did not write the sacred texts,” he says, in a tone that reminds me of my bloodmother saying,Idon’t make the rules, North. I’ve always wanted to point out to her that she could if she wanted, but now, as always in this moment, I hold my tongue.
“That’s enough for now,” he says abruptly. “Go; I’ll see what I can find.”
It’s an abrupt dismissal, but his gaze is fixed over my shoulder, and when I twist in my chair there’s a man speaking with Elkisa, who stands in the open doorway, arms folded, with an expression that says,This should be good.
I thought she had left—how much did she overhear of my conversation with the Master of Archives?
Nimh trusts her guards. Does that mean I should too?
The newcomer is a bronze-skinned man with a beaky nose, a shaved head, and a mouth made for smirking. I mistrust him the second I see him, and not just because Matias shut up the moment he arrived. Whatever he says to Elkisa makes her stiffen, glance my way, and then vanish from the doorway, her steps hurried.
“Forgive me, forgive me,” the new arrival says as he turns to approach. He shows me his teeth—which isn’t the same as smiling. “I do hope I’m not interrupting. I am Techeki, the Master of Spectacle.” I can hear the capital letters in that title—he practically pronounces them.
“How could you be interrupting?” Matias asks, his tone a lot less polite than his words. “You’re always exactly where you mean to be, Techeki.”
“And you must be our visitor,” the Master of Spectacle says, ignoring his reply and turning to me. “I apologize for failing to meet you earlier; I was told you would be taken straight to guest quarters. Matias, you really should have let him clean himself up before you started talking his ear off.”
“Is he dirty?” Matias asks blandly, looking me over as if he hadn’t noticed until now.
I know all the words to this song—I’ve spent my life surrounded by the political games of the palace, and every instinct I have is informing me that I’m in the middle of one of those games right now. I don’t want to become a pawn in what’s obviously an old argument—if that happens, one of them might squish me just to annoy the other—so I come politely to my feet.
“A bath sounds great, actually,” I say. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”
Techeki considers the request, looking across at Matias as if he’s deciding whether to really get into it with him, and then turns away, stalking toward the door. “Come!” he says, without looking back. I glance at Matias, who winks and gestures for me to follow him.
Swallowing the rest of my questions, I follow the oily-mannered man from the library. Despite being a head taller than Techeki, I somehow have to hurry to keep up with him as he glides along the hallway.
The room he takes me to is small but neat—it’s got no windows but plenty of lamps and rich tapestries on the walls, a pile of clothes in different fabrics and colors on a bed.
“There will only be time for you to wash your hands and face,” he informs me. “The feast will begin soon, and I have much to do. We must dress you appropriately. I have provided what you will need, as well as a meal. I hope these quarters will serve.”
He clearly knows the room isn’t humble at all, and is awaiting something—a thank-you, or for me to stare at it all in amazement or brush it off like it’s nothing. He’s trying to figure me out, so I stick to a polite smile.
Venturing into the washroom, I pull my shirt off over my head, then ease the knot of my makeshift bandage down until I can slip the whole thing off my arm. I hadn’t even realized I was afraid to look at it. But surprised relief washes over me—the gash I sustained in the glider crash is now just a thin burn line. I test the edges of the skin and find only a dull ache, so I toss the ruined scarf into the corner.
Whatever Nimh used to cauterize it must have also contained something that speeds the healing process—I would’ve maybe preferred the royal surgeon’s neat stitches, but I can’t complain about Nimh’s results.
A lever turns out to release a steady stream of water from a spout built into the wall above the sink, and I soak the cloth beside it, using it to scrub at my exposed skin as quickly as I can. There’s a vivid line of bruising across my ribs, an angry, purplish-gray stripe underlining the tattoo my mothers disapproved of. It’s my family crest, and for a moment, I wish the wings to either side of the sky-island were real, were mine. I wish they could carry me away from here.
But the water is bitingly cold and doesn’t leave room for daydreams. I wouldn’t want to linger over the “bath” anyway—it’s approaching sunset now, and I haven’t slept since yesterday morning.
I try to order my thoughts as the cold water hits my skin, and by the time I walk out to where Techeki waits, I’ve got my game face on.
