“It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter,” Anoor was repeating under her breath. “I won’t pass the mind trial.”
“What? Why?”
A ragged breath in. “She told me she designed this challenge for me.” Tears spilled out of Anoor’s eyes onto her cheek.
Sylah absently wiped one away with her thumb and turned Anoor’s face to hers. “Tell me.”
A small mewl escaped her lips, but Anoor didn’t divert her eyes. She leaned her head into Sylah’s hand and spoke. “I told you about the cupboard and how she always locked me up.”
“Yes, I’ve half a mind to slap her tits through her back for it.”
“She always kept me in the dark. And didn’t give me any food or water.”
“What? How many times did she do this to you?”
“Whenever I displeased her, which was often.”
“Fuck.” Sylah’s anger was roaring in her ears. She got up and clasped Anoor’s shoulder. “Why did she stop?”
“Because I threatened to tell everyone.”
“Tell them what?”
Anoor reached for the letter opener. Sylah flinched as the knife flashed. But it didn’t go in her direction. Anoor slashed her own forearm. Blue blood swelled and dribbled onto the carpet.
—
Anoor watched Sylah’s expression change from threatened to wary. Her arm stung as the blood dripped to the floor. Her blue blood.
Sylah’s shoulders drooped, exhaustion sinking into every line on her face. She walked into the privy not saying a word, leaving Anoor to her thoughts.
Was this the stupidest thing I’ve ever done? Will she hate me now, knowing that I’m beneath her?
No. The word rung out in her mind with conviction, there was no way Sylah would leave her, not if she felt the same way as she did. They needed each other.
Sylah came back into the room with some gauze in her hand.
“So you’re a Duster?” She wound the gauze around Anoor’s cut. Once, twice, thrice. No evidence of the color beneath it.
“Yes, I am a Duster.” She’d never said the words out loud, never let herself. They didn’t catch in her throat as she thought they would. “I was one of the children who were left behind to give the Sandstorm time to escape. You might not have heard of the Night of the Stolen where you’re from. My mother tried her hardest to keep the story contained…but you know…the city whispers.”
Sylah nodded, and Anoor was emboldened to go on.
“The Sandstorm swapped twelve Ember children with twelve of their own. My mother tracked them down and killed them all years ago. Can you imagine…killing your own child out of fear…of what? That one day there would be a reckoning? There will be.” Anoor clenched her fists and reveled in the beating of her heart. It thrummed with the promise of violence. Sylah must have seen something in her eyes, something fierce, because she stepped back.
“What were the Sandstorm planning?” Sylah’s voice sounded frail. Anoor wondered if the truth of her blue blood would tear them apart.
“Mother always said that they had tortured the children just to spite the Embers.”
“What do you think?”
“I think they had a bigger plan. I think they were planning to overthrow the empire.”
Sylah nodded slowly. “Why didn’t your mother kill you? You after all were the biggest threat to her.”
“It was her first term as warden; she couldn’t, wouldn’t let them know she had been compromised in her very chambers. Then after some time I think I became an emblem of her strength. Many imirs were targeted in the Keep, but the warden, she protected her own. Did you know the Sandstorm came during Ardae? They made sure the Keep was full of children.”
“Yes, it’s why she launched her assault on the Sandstorm during Ardae. I mean, that’s what I heard.”