Chapter 41 Sirsha
Sirsha
In the chaos of the infirmary, Sirsha should have blended in, one more war-ravaged face amid the hundreds of others. And yet the moment she entered, a pretty, dark-haired woman in a stained smock turned from where she was finishing the dressing on a soldier’s leg and looked Sirsha dead in the eye.
Sirsha knew who she was immediately, though she’d never met her. Laia of Serra was a legendary figure among the Jaduna, the woman who had lost nearly her entire family, who had watched the Nightbringer kill her brother and ravage her people. The woman who had vowed to defeat him—and had.
And, according to the tale Arelia had told Sirsha as they walked to the encampment, Laia was also the reason Div had broken free from her imprisonment. Laia of Serra was Div’s first Durani.
Sirsha saw where Sufiyan got his fine features, his dark gold eyes. And yet there was a heaviness to Laia’s spirit that Sufiyan didn’t have. Sirsha recognized it. She carried it too.
Before approaching Laia, Sirsha felt for Div.
The creature was far away, on the other side of camp.
Div had been quiet for the past few hours since she’d told Sirsha her last tale.
And as much as Sirsha had wanted to muzzle her when she was chatty, now her stillness was worse.
For it was the silence of a storm building on the horizon.
But Sirsha could not worry over it now. Div’s absence was an opportunity. Sirsha trailed Laia to a supply closet, where she was tucking away a roll of gauze and speaking to a young woman with short curls and sober gold eyes. The girl retreated almost as soon as Sirsha appeared.
“Sirsha Westering,” Laia greeted her, and her voice was low and musical—a voice made for telling stories. “I was wondering when you would find me.”
“I have questions, Kehanni.” Sirsha glanced around at the busy infirmary. “I know now is not a good time, but they cannot wait.”
“The Jaduna are marvels,” Laia said. “They have the infirmary well in hand. My daughter Zuriya will take over for me.” She nodded to the curly-haired girl. “Forgive her shyness. She is long away from her studies, and not comfortable with most people.”
Laia removed her smock and led Sirsha deeper into the infirmary, into a lamplit rock alcove with a cot, a table, and a chair.
“I sleep in here, some nights.” She offered Sirsha a seat before sitting down herself. She nodded at Sirsha’s hand, still red from the punch she laid on Elias. “I can give you something for that,” she said. “The same salve I gave my husband when he arrived back with a bruise on his jaw.”
She raised her eyebrows at Sirsha, who looked defiantly back. Laia smiled slightly. Her voice was tired but gentle.
“I daresay he deserved it, Sirsha. He told me what you said. What you and Quil gave up. Elias played his part, certainly, but so did I, by releasing Div in the first place. I am so very sorry that my family caused you such pain.” She tilted her head. “Is that why you came? For an apology?”
“You know what I carry,” Sirsha said. “She cannot be bound by normal means. I must take her to the jinn to bind her. But before I can, I need to know her story.”
“I do not share that story,” Laia said. “I am not a Kehanni anymore, Sirsha. I would not speak her words again, for she has woven a dark magic into them, used to manipulate minds. Mine foremost.”
“Please, Laia,” Sirsha said. “I need—I need something. You might not tell stories anymore, but you are a Kehanni, whether you practice your art or not. How—how does one go about finding a story like this? She has told me tales—many tales. But none of them feel true.”
Laia stood, agitated, and began to pace. “Tell me,” she said. “Tell me what the creature has told you and I will tell you if I can see any truth in it.”
So Sirsha relayed Div’s stories, including the one Dolbra told her. “The Demon at the Wedding.” “The Storm and the Storyteller.” “The Old Man and the Village.” “The Dragon of Wit and Wile.”
“Her stories are lies,” Laia murmured after pondering them.
“As was the story she told me, which was not so different from those she told you. Some part of what she says is rooted in truth, for a story has no life if there is no truth to it. But there is one common lie throughout her stories. I believe that is where the truth lives.”
“Help me understand,” Sirsha said. “How can the truth live in a lie?”
Laia’s face was troubled now as she met Sirsha’s eyes.
“All the stories you have shared were about people who were wronged, yes? But in each of them, Div is grown. Able to defend herself. But the Div I met never struck me as fully grown, Sirsha. Whatever her story, whatever horror she originated from, it did not happen to her as an adult. It happened when she was a child.”