forty-three #2
Her nudity was only more noticeable when she swung her legs over the side of the bed and felt the cold air from the machine put the sweat on her skin to work.
Behind her, Sulim rustled beneath the blanket, her flesh less tender against the humid heat that permeated every inch of the fortress if left untreated long enough.
Mira almost forgot about what she had wanted to write down as she gazed at the woman turned toward her, soft hair haloing on the pillow as her mouth formed a tight o that gently blew air in and out.
Did she dream? Did she meet her own ancient creature that she told not a soul about?
Mira got up, grabbing the pad and pen. With her own hand, she wrote down the location of the two Relics, but she was almost too distracted by the beautiful soul sharing her bed.
Always a human, huh? While Mira would never know what it was like to perceive time and the rest of the sensory world as a human, she was glad to be with someone who did.
Her breath hitched in her throat as she realized how little time she had left to share with Sulim.
Even if their world did not end at the hands of her father—not that Mira would let that happen on any planet Sulim was on—Sulim would grow old and die before Mira had the chance to completely plot out their next move.
The perception of time for me is different, isn’t it?
While she and Sulim had these philosophical conversations all the time, they always ended the same way…
Sulim would die long before Mira was ready to say goodbye.
Such was the nature of a julah and a human being soulmates, like the cruelest prank the Void had to offer.
Yet if her mother had any power over this? There must be a reason Sulim is my soulmate.
It was difficult to parse what that meant when Mira was so distracted by that sleeping face and naked body. Such admiration wasn’t always sexual—often, she was just as wooed by the promise of a hug or a clever joke that was sure to cheer her up when anxiety was high.
Neither was offered now, though. Mira’s best chance at getting back to sleep was to transpose her visit from Rahara onto paper and figure out how to keep the air conditioner running with as little interference from her as possible.
In the morning, she would get that hug—and a joke she never saw coming.
“Out of everything going on right now,” Mira complained in the afternoon, when the one seamstress in Shield Town came knocking down the door, “this is the least of my concerns. I’ve got tens of thousands of people on this planet to try to save, never mind the planet itself.”
She said that to no one in particular, for Sulim sat at the table with her holographic clipboard and a glass of cold fruit juice.
Mira was trapped on a dais in the middle of her new chiefly apartment, the seamstress taking her measurements and writing down anything important.
I can’t believe this. After that morning’s brief with Sulim and Ramaron, both of whom remained reticently concerned about Mira’s claims of being visited by an ancient Dreamwalker, Olma announced that the seamstress was insistent on seeing the new chief.
Since Mira recognized the name—never mind the business card—she didn’t think twice about allowing Takir in, even though Sulim insisted on hanging around to act as bodyguard. Like I need it with a human…
“If you want to save the planet, ma’am,” Takir said with deadpan brevity, “then you must look the part.”
Mira scoffed in Sulim’s direction, who glanced up from her clipboard but merely offered a shrug. “She’s kinda right. I’ve never known any chief who dressed like a humble priestess.”
“Humble, huh?”
“That’s the style you’re assigned, isn’t it?” Sulim espoused genuine curiosity when she said that, yet continued in confidence, “You wear white so everyone knows you’re with the Temple, but it’s all baggy pants and tunic tops. That’s all I’ve known you to wear since we met.”
“Hey, some of the women wear shirt dresses, I’ll have you know.”
“Yeah, sounds like you.”
Mira puffed out her cheeks as Takir lifted the cloth measuring tape toward the chief’s buttocks.
The last time Mira was measured like this, a dowdy julah woman who had been working at the High Temple for two thousand years had the honor of dressing the newly-minted priestess, just like she did for every single other priest to come through her Temple salon.
She dressed my mom. She dressed my dad. She even dressed Ramaron for two seconds before he had to leave the priesthood to assume the mantle of Master Marlow.
Takir was a different entity, however. She was the rare case of a civilian born in the fortress to a mercenary mother, raised to become a mercenary herself, but managed to avoid enlistment by developing useful skills that earned her enough of a starting income to set up shop in town.
Which means she must have been fourteen or so.
The woman now bunching the measuring tape beneath Mira’s breasts couldn’t be older than thirty, but she had the mien of a mean bitch. She’s seen more shit than me.
This was the day Mira learned that the reason Olma was so sharply fitted in her basic mercenary blacks was because Takir created them.
Hm, they have a point. Nobody doubted that Olma fitted the mold of chief, despite her short stature and lack of personality.
Even the chiefs before her wore more ostentatious clothing to set themselves apart from the mercenary masses.
Mira had already discovered a hidden vault in the back of the bedroom closet that contained some of Ayna Aiya’s old jewel-encrusted leather armor.
I should have that picked apart and sold for scraps.
Maybe put the money back into the tribe to help cover operating costs while she suspended new contracts.
“I’m not wearing black,” Mira told Takir, who didn’t look up at her. “I’ve never been a mercenary. It would be unbecoming for me to dress up like one.”
Finally, Takir stopped fidgeting with her tools and shared a look with Sulim.
“What?” Mira demanded.
“You are a mercenary now,” Sulim said. “You have to wrap your mind around that. Just because you’re not carrying out contracts doesn’t mean you’re not one of us now.”
Mira ruminated on that before getting too annoyed with Takir to tolerate another second of fussing.
“Fine. But it still doesn’t feel right to wear black. Dress me however you want, otherwise. Just don’t spend too much of the tribe’s money on it. Austerity is important.”
At least for now. I’ll cross the future’s bridge when I get to it. The thought made Mira hold her breath.
“You need some kind of armor,” Takir said after standing up.
“Don’t start with the whole sorceress thing. It’s about projecting the right image. Even Olma wore armor around the fortress when on official business. Both the leatherworkers in town and the smithy down in the warrens provided her with pieces.
It’s just common sense to protect themselves from attack. You never know when someone might regicide you.”
Mira continued to stare at Sulim, who scratched her head and stretched her arms over her head. “You’re not wearing armor.”
“Eh, I only wear it when I’m on a potentially dangerous mission. I hate how restrictive it makes me. I do my best work when I’m allowed as much agility as possible. That said…”
She looked the chief up and down. “Sonall still knows the guy in charge of the forge. He used to work under that guy when he was a recruit.”
“He did?”
“Yup. We met because we also worked the stables together. But Ayna Aiya and Olma made a point of putting him in the forge to keep him browbeaten and miserable. The typical course for nobility taken into custody.”“That’s…”
Sulim neither chuckled nor smirked, but her invisible aura spoke of something to be shrugged off as if it were nothing. “Welcome to Cerilyn, hon. We kidnap kids and beat them down until they’re built back up again.”
“That’s what happened to you, huh?”
The clipboard’s stylus tapped against Sulim’s mouth. “I worked in the stables and served the chief during her parties when I was brought here. I also put up less of a fight.”
“Now look at her,” Takir mused, revealing that she missed two teeth. “One of the highest paid mercs in generations. And she doesn’t wear armor!”
“But I have to wear armor.”