Power that could be twisted. Burned. Bound.
And so, each day, Lu’ma checked.
She circled the bathing pool, gliding a hand over its edge. Nothing. She brushed Her Radiance’s hair comb lightly over her palm. Clean. The silks at the foot of the bed were folded. Untouched. Her Radiance still slept—barely visible through the veil curtains streaming from the canopy—her body curled close to the Resh’Agar’s.
He did not sleep. He rarely did. And any time Lu’ma’s footsteps neared, his blue eyes, glowing like sapphires in the dark, followed her movements with wariness, suspicion. He was kind to her, but he was far from blind. At times, Lu'ma wondered if he knew of her true origins.
That she was part of the Unspoken Choir.
That the Solutus sent her messages each Cycle.
Threats.
Demands.
And she wondered, too, if he knew that their patience wore thin. That when it did, both Lu’ma and Her Radiance would be in even greater danger.
Concern: If His Quintessence leaves for battle, who will protect Her Radiance if not her Hands? If This Nameless is killed for disobedience, who will tend to Her Radiance while His Quintessence is away at war? Who will search for her hair without the will to use it against her? Who will hear her scream from nightmares and not spread vile gossip? Who will press cooling cloths to her temple during a Flare and not fill her tea with poison?
Conclusion: Speaking to His Quintessence is inevitable.
She had to tellhim, at least, the truth. But now was not the time. Not when Her Radiance had just begun her true fight to be seen as his equal. For now, there was no talk of war. There was no mention of Campaigns. Until that time, she would hold her secrets close and bear the burden of his dark suspicion.
Safe to report: His Quintessence is suspicious of This Nameless, but for now secrecy is maintained.
Not safe to report: This Nameless is Fraying. Mind cycles on the fear of being sent away.
Finishing her sweep of the Resh’Agar’s quarters, she stepped out into the halls, slipping her cloth back into its lacquered case. Now, to sweep the area around the wing. To ensure there were no prying eyes. For the past three weeks since His Quintessence’s decree, none had dared to approach this area of the Lattice. None had the gall to whisper dissonance.
But time had a way of introducing complacency, and after the impression Her Radiance had made at the Pouring of Grace—after those present had seen the Resh’Agar gift her his crest—the winds among the Attendants had begun to shift once more.
Whatever peace His Quintessence had bought them with the transfer of their quarters was about to be shattered, and Lu’ma was determined to be on the forefront of it so she could control the damage of the break.
She crept through the hallways and corridors, still barefoot, eyes taking in the smallest of details, ears attuned to the tiniest of sounds. At first, she was relieved. Another dead night. Another silent vigil.
Until something echoed in the air.
The sound of sleeves in motion.
Of signs delivered in excitement, impatience, fear.
Slowing her gate, she turned the corner.
Two Attendants were crouched near the base of a glass sculpture of the Sovereign Flame, their backs turned to her, hands moving in fast, furtive flickers.
Lu’ma stepped silently into shadow, eyes narrowing.
Her sharp gaze read their signs and facial expressions from a distance.
'At last, a strand has fallen,'one of them signed, holding up a tiny glass vial. It glimmered in the faint Polis-light.
'If you are mistaken, you will be Branded,'the other Attendant answered. 'The Host loves this punishment the most.'
'The Host of this Nameless is pristine in Her will,'came the angry retort from the first Attendant.
The second Attendant shook his head. 'You are becoming Frayed. Watch your back, or you will be reassigned.'
'This is her strand!'the first Attendant insisted, his hand motions heating. 'This Nameless will prove his worth to his Host. And the Sokâr will weep as the Host reveals her filth to the Council at last.'
