“Is there any way her office door will be closed?” Sylah asked.
Anoor shook her head left and right.
“Not unless she’s in a meeting.”
They neared the Warden of Strength’s office. Anoor could see the door was open. Her legs felt leaden, unmoving. She wondered if this was what Sylah’s withdrawals felt like. Sylah dragged her forward.
“The office is empty. We continue with the plan,” she said out of the corner of her mouth.
—
The guard standing in the doorway looked at Sylah as she approached.
“There’s been some mix-up in the barracks. I’ve been sent to take up your position.”
“Huh?” the guard responded. She was a little smaller than Sylah, though her eyes held the same dangerous tinge.
“Who are you?” the guard asked.
There were only three hundred officers regularly at the Keep; the rest patrolled the empire, enforcing the law in the other cities and putting down any rebellions or coups. They had known it was likely the officer would ask Sylah’s name. Hassa had spent a strike listening in the barracks just for the purpose.
“I’m Ejo Donara. My regiment just came in from patrol in Jin-Dinil.” Sylah’s legs threatened to seize; she could feel a tingle starting at the base of her heel. The withdrawals were always exacerbated by adrenalin. All she had to do was not move a muscle.
“Jin-Dinil? Where those Ghostings were caught trying to smuggle out babies who hadn’t been severed? Heard one of the babies was an Ember, a result of a maiden house coupling. Is that true?” The questions were bloodthirsty and took Sylah unaware.
She tried not to look back at where she knew Anoor was hovering. She didn’t know the answer. In the end she settled on a nod.
“I’m glad they didn’t leave any of them alive. Ghostings got to do their penance, the reminder stops others rebelling, you know? There’ll be no Ghostings left with half of them dying from the sleeping sickness and the other half trying to leave. Where were they going to go anyway?”
Sylah was thinking precisely that. Did Hassa know anything about this? Could Hassa have helped them? Was that where she disappeared to all the time? Sylah tucked the questions in a corner of her mind for later.
“You’re to head down to the mess hall for lunch. Fried tilapia is particularly good today.”
Sylah hoped the lure of food was enough.
“Tilapia, you say? Well, if the general says you’re to sub in, then I think I’ll head down to the mess hall like you suggest.” She smiled and moved out of the open doorway.
Sylah looked at Anoor once the officer was out of earshot.
“Just like the scene in The MissingGeneral,” Sylah said.
“I knew you were reading my zines. Isn’t Inquisitor Abena the best?”
The Ghostings cleaning the library paused as Sylah and Anoor entered. Hassa had warned the Ghostings, but neither of the two men greeted them as they stood in the center of the room. They returned to their cleaning, the straps of their cleaning implements tight on their forearms.
Books lined the walls like wallpaper, floor to ceiling. Most of them were bound in red leather. Some were larger than was physically possible to hold in two hands. The room smelled of coffee and ink. All of it, the taste of the dust on her tongue, the walls, the feel of the books, echoed in Sylah’s mind, reminding her of a place she had been before.
“All the red volumes are the diaries of wardens past.” Anoor walked to the farthest bookcase. “Each warden writes about five to ten books in their time. These are my mother’s.” Anoor indicated the fresher-looking books nearest to the front.
There, in front of her, was the truth about Sylah’s heritage. She ran a finger along the spines of the books full of her mother’s words.
“We should take as many of the oldest ones as we can find,” Anoor continued. “But we need to be careful, not take too many, and cover any obvious gaps.”
Anoor got straight to work, mounting a nearby ladder and pulling out a journal from the back.
Sylah lingered in front of her mother’s memories. The Sandstorm task that had taken over her mind for so long would finally be fulfilled. She just needed to steal one of each of the most recent journals from the current wardens. She pulled out the first and began to read.
Today, I begin my term as the Disciple of Strength. Uka’s writing was contained and precise, the pen nib pressed down too forcefully, leaving scours as well as ink.