The secrecy galled her. She was one of them. She was a Stolen. She had fought and bled and burned for the Sandstorm. Maybe not in the last six years, but she was making up for it, she was trying.
Her anger dissipated, replaced by guilt. These were her people; it wasn’t her place to question. They were trying to make a difference.
“Fine.”
Reluctantly Jond’s lips parted, and Sylah watched them. “They want the journals before your contract with Anoor ends.”
Sylah nodded. Disobedience wasn’t an option. Without the Sandstorm she would drift back to her old life, and though it called to her every day, fighting for the Sandstorm was more important than that. It gave her hope that there was a way out of the empire’s current existence.
She looked in the direction of the plantation fields. Though she couldn’t see them, she felt the pain that emanated from there like a second pulse. She’d been attuned to it from a young age.
The Sandstorm needed to fight the empire. If not, everything she was doing, every second she spent with Anoor, was wasted. The thought unsettled her more than anything Jond had said.
Love may give you strength, but retribution gives you purpose.
—
“Have you seen Hassa?” she asked the first Ghosting servant she saw. They shook their head in response. She asked another.
“Hassa, she’s short, kind of pointy-faced, not ugly, though. Actually, yeah, I think she’s pretty— No?”
And another.
“Hassa, she’s small, seventeen years old?”
Nothing. No one would help her or point her in the right direction. Hassa was the one person who would know exactly how to get into the warden library—Ghostings could get anywhere.
Sylah missed her friend more than the joba seeds she’d carried. Maybe.
At the Sanctuary, Sylah had had lots of foster siblings. It wasn’t the same as a normal family, though she had little to compare it to. Each faction was close due to the grueling regime the Sandstorm put them through, and there was a healthy (she did wonder if that was the right word) competition between knowledge, strength, duty, and truth. Each thought their guild the better. Just like the wardens themselves.
But there was one Stolen whom Sylah felt true sister feelings for: Fareen. She chewed her lip, bit her tongue, bared her teeth, anything to stop the memory that threatened to—
Sylah had hated Fareen. Fareen followed her around, copied what she did, tried to sneak away with Jond and Sylah all the time.
She was sweet, sickly sweet, always bringing Sylah little gifts she thought she’d like: a stick in the shape of a knife, a piece of whitestone, an extra portion of fried plantain she’d been given in the kitchens—because no one said no to Fareen.
She didn’t have the face you’d imagine, she didn’t have the soft eyes of Papa or the easy laugh like Jond. Her eyes were small, like two round pebbles in a face a little too long. Her cheeks were hollow, making her gangly stature seem more skeleton-like. A raised scar ran down the side of her cheek, a remnant from her before-life, where no one could attest the cause. But her smile was where her personality lived. It was kind, thoughtful, a little tentative.
It was her smile that had finally brought Sylah around. She loved Fareen fiercely.
“I brought you a kori feather.” Fareen was nine when she presented Sylah with her gift. “It’s a tailfeather,” she rushed on. “I found it while I was tapping rubber.”
Sylah was braiding her hair into little chains around her head. Lio had handed over the task to her gladly, and Sylah didn’t miss the yanking of her scalp as Lio braided. Sylah’s plaits weren’t as neat, but at least her skull didn’t feel bruised for days afterward.
“That’s pretty.” And it was; the blue color shone in the morning light.
“The iridescence is caused by light waves combining with one another, it’s a phenomenon known as interference.” Fareen’s knowledge was never condescending; it was as if she was in awe herself of the things she found in her head. Sylah had often thought that she should have been training for knowledge instead of strength like she and Jond were.
“Interesting,” Sylah said. “Shall we put it in your hair?”
“Oh, no, Sylah, it’s a gift for you, shall we put it inyour hair?”
Sylah smiled. “Okay.”
That was the first piece that she braided into her hair.
Sylah now wanted a joba seed more than she wanted her friend. She gave up looking and headed back to the launderers, stopping at the kitchen for a mug of verd leaf tea.