“Are there more Scavs out there?”
“More than before,” Aran replies, leading us into what looks like a huge warehouse. “Though they’ve never ventured this close to Nyriell in the past. Their migration and settlement patterns are changing.”
“Is that bad?”
“It’s not ideal. They seem... more organized.”
And with that ominous prospect, Roshan and I are whisked off to separate bathing areas to clean the clay and grit off our bodies.
Once I’ve finished in the tepid bath that has been drawn for me—with water that smells of soothing, earthy minerals—I dress in the soft garments that have been left in the cubicle. The feeling of being fully clean in fresh clothing is nearly overwhelming. My eyes prick with senseless tears as a knot forms in my throat. I miss my small room over the tavern, I miss my family... I misshome.
You’ll get back there,I think fiercely.
I meet Roshan in a receiving room at the other end of the chamber. He’s scrubbed clean, too, his dark hair damp and brushed off his handsome face, and dressed in a linen tunic and trousers. My heart skips a beat. I don’t know if it’s the nostalgia and the ache that has taken up residence in my chest, but the sight of him makes everything calm. All the complicated feelings inside of me settle with a sigh. At least in all this chaos, I can count on him.
“Everything all right?” he asks softly, offering me his hand.
Gladly, I take it, wrapping my palm in his. “It is now.”
Once we are ready, Aran guides us through another door that leads outside into the hot air, and again, I gawk. It’s a riot of bustling chaos, not dissimilar to the town square in Coban, with traders of all colors, shapes, and sizes hawking their wares, their tables laden with food, clothing, jewelry, and weapons. Peddlers shout and haggle, laugh and curse. It looks and sounds sonormal. I could close my eyes and imagine I’m back home during market day.
But many people hailing from the wider kingdom—tattooed skores from the plains of Eskorit, recognizable from the tribal etchings on their faces; mountain people from Xersten with their distinctive flaxen hair and pale coloring; and a handful of the slender, dark-skinned Jaxxians in their traditional jewelry and flowing sarongs—are also walking around the square in a communal harmony that is rare. I even see some wearing the richly embroidered, colorful, handwoven robes of Eloni, one of the richest cities in Oryndhr. Most of them pay us no mind as we follow Aran.
Nyriell is nothing like what I’d expected. I don’t know why I’d naively assumed that the rebel base would be a settlement of hardened, vicious armed soldiers and no one else. Perhaps that is what I’d been led to believe by the newssheets; propaganda is a tool, one well used by the monarchy.
But none of the people around me look like brutish mercenaries. Unsettled, I wrap my arms around my middle. A group of shrieking, doe-eyed children bump into me as they chase a ball through the middle of the square, and my heart squeezes. “Are there many children here?”
Aran inclines his bald pate with a slight smile. “Of course. Nyriell is a refuge to many who have been left homeless as a result of the monarchy’s expansion.”
“Expansion?”
“The crown controls the jadu mines throughout Oryndhr, and whole villages have been razed to make room for larger excavations to fill the coffers of the Imperial House. The citizens of all cities in the realm are expected to pay substantial tithes to their houses, and when they can’t pay, the tithes are taken in flesh. These people have been forced to flee for their lives to protect their families.”
“In flesh?” I ask.
“Conscripted to the crown’s army by force or to work in the mines.”
I frown—I hadn’t heard of that. I thought all military service had to be voluntary. Clearly, I’d been wrong about that, too. “Citizens here are from all the houses?”
He shakes his head. “Most of us have renounced house affiliation. Everyone in Nyriell is equal and on level footing—thinkers, farmers, musicians, warriors—we all just want to live together in peace.”
“You’re nameless?” My stomach tightens. Long ago, my father had made the decision to renounce his own house ties. He’d seen through the greed and manipulation of Regulus and taken a punishable stance. Though most of the nameless were Scavs, outliers, and criminals, not all were. Some were nameless by choice.
Aran’s expression is patient, though I feel Roshan tense at my side. “We arehouseless. There is a difference. Our names, even a single one, will always have power. We are more than the sum of a single political faction.”
His words hold a strange force to them—a resonance that I feel in my bones.
That the power of one could topple a kingdom.
“Here we are,” Aran says, waving an arm to a narrow structure that ascends one of the rocky spires. He offers us each a square-shaped medallion on a cord. “You are on the third floor. Keep these with you at all times. It’s a runic identification.”
I stare at him, feeling an odd pulse under my skin, a surge of my magic in response to the brush of his fingers when he hands me mine. “Are you a runecaster?”
“I prefer magi.”
I stiffen. To admit such a blasphemous thing was grounds for immediate execution. Then again, there’s no one from the Imperial Househerewaiting to cast judgment. Well, besides the prince, who seems to have had no reaction to Aran’s words... but then I realize that Roshan has stopped to speak to a man selling carved bows.
“You’re part of... the order?” I ask uncertainly.
