Chapter 26
Melia
The smoke was thick and acrid, making Melia’s eyes water and her throat burn. She could barely see Aratea running before her.
“We must reach the back exit.” Aratea coughed, catching her breath,
They ran down the narrow stairs and smoke-filled corridors, deep into the dim bowels of the building, retracing Melia’s footsteps several hours before, to the low door leading to the terrace.
The first thing Melia saw in the fading light of the evening was the young guard lying in a pool of blood, his throat slit.
The second was Ferisa.
· · ·
It had been a fever dream, Melia and Ferisa.
She’d never heard of two women living together as lovers and partners, but then—she knew so very little about the world anyway.
It never stopped her from daydreaming, though.
In her austere room, on the thin mattress, between threadbare sheets, in the safe nest of Ferisa’s embrace, she’d dreamed of vast blue seas and grassy plains framed by the snow-peaked mountains on the horizon.
She imagined strange cities, golden domes glittering in the sunlight, lush gardens filled with the chatter of birds, proud stone towers jutting into the sky.
She dreamed of people, their skin dark as ebony or white as snow, in bright silks and soft furs and hard leather, their languages as incomprehensible as birdsong.
She dreamed of Ferisa and her braving the world together, living by their wits, sharing meals by a campfire, exploring chaotic markets filled with wonders.
She was infatuated—with the woman, with the taste of forbidden fruit, with the idea of freedom.
Her brother was dead, her father was sliding into madness, and Syr was a trap, a mausoleum, a monument to death.
“Run away with me,” she said. “Let’s leave this place, never to return. There must be so much world outside, so much happiness to snatch from the boughs of fortune.”
Ferisa let out a deep, throaty laugh that made Melia’s skin prickle. “Where would we go, little raven?”
“Anywhere but here,” Melia replied. “There must be a place you’ve always wanted to see.”
Ferisa turned to her, propping herself on her elbow.
She was smiling, but her eyes were burning with that hard, angry fire Melia had learned to dread.
“With what money, what horses, what guards?” She ran her hand down Melia’s hip.
“You’ve lived your whole life sheltered here, behind these impregnable walls.
You think your lot is hard, but let me tell you—the outside world is harder. ”
The outside world wasn’t filled to the brim with death, Melia wanted to say, but how did you say that to someone who spooled death out of thin air every day and wove it into the shimmering red-and-black fabric of loss? Instead, she said, “I’m not afraid of the outside world, not if I’m with you.”
“Brave words.” Ferisa’s smile was a crescent moon hanging in the starless sky. “But I wouldn’t be so rash. You’ve lived here, behind these walls, your whole life. You’re the heiress, the lord’s only daughter.”
Melia pressed her lips together so hard it hurt. Ferisa should have known that being the Black Lord’s daughter meant nothing in terms of comfort or safety. True, she wasn’t hungry or homeless, but she wouldn’t wish the brutality of her existence on anyone.
“You never had to sleep on the hard, cold ground, with the wind lashing you all night,” Ferisa said.
“You’ve never had to leave everything behind and run for your life because some crooked innkeeper accused you of theft.
You’ve never gotten beaten within an inch of your life because some man didn’t like what you said.
No, little raven, the outside world is not a good place for a woman without protection. ”
“I’d still go,” Melia whispered stubbornly, holding on to her pillow, a makeshift raft on the ocean of heartache. “I’d go with you, because this is no life.”
“You say that now, but you’re about to marry a prince. You’ll change your mind when you become a pampered court lady.”
“Damn you, Ferisa.” Melia’s eyes filled with tears. “Why would you say that?”
Ferisa let out a languid laugh. “I’m teasing you, little raven. No, you’re not a court creature, I guess.”
“I don’t want to marry a prince and go to court,” Melia said.
“I’ll follow you.” Ferisa’s solid, calloused fingers stroked Melia’s face. “You’ll do what you must and I’ll stand by your side. And when it’s over, we’ll run away together. I promise you that.”
· · ·
“Hold the carevna,” Ferisa ordered.
“No, stop!” Melia cried, but nobody paid any attention to her.
The guards grabbed Aratea between them, lifting her like a doll, and pulled her towards Ferisa, standing like a spirit of vengeance in the small garden.
Dressed in black, dark eyes burning on a ruthless face, she looked so much like Roderi of Elmar it was uncanny.
Gone was the compassionate herbalist who’d first come to Syr, gone was the death priestess capable of mercy, of spiritual insight.
All that was left was this avatar of war.
Melia couldn’t recognize her, but still she ran to her side.
“Ferisa! Please, stop.”
She reached for Ferisa’s arm, but Ferisa merely shook her off like a tiresome pest, her eyes fixed on Aratea.
Melia refused to be ignored. She stepped in front of Ferisa, reaching for her face. “Ferisa! Whatever you’re doing, stop it now, please.”
Finally, the burning dark eyes turned to Melia. “Stay out of it. You’ve done your duty, you brought the carevna where I wanted her, but you must leave the rest to me now.”
Disheveled and furious, the carevna pierced Melia with her icy eyes. “Is that why you came to the embassy? To burn it down, to trap me? Was everything just a pretense?”
“No! I didn’t—”
Before Melia could explain, Ferisa gave a sign to the guards to drag the carevna away from her.
“Why are you doing this?” Melia asked. “This is not what we wanted, this is not what you promised me.”
“Pillow talk and childish dreams which evaporated fast in collision with the real world,” Ferisa retorted.
“This is not the real world, this is the chaos my father deliberately created. Is this how you want to live for the rest of your life? Didn’t you have enough pain and death in Syr? How much war is going to satisfy my father? What do you think?”
“What would you have me do?” Ferisa asked. “Say no to him? Say no to my goddess?”
Melia looked around, to the fire rising to the darkening sky, to the bound Seragian princess, to her father’s guards, to Ferisa, who’d once cared for her.
“Help the carevna reach the palace and leave the rest to the royals to sort out. And then just walk away, from my father, from Abia, from the war. I’ll follow you. ”
“After all this time, little raven, you still harbor that fantasy?” Ferisa’s voice was almost gentle. “The carevna is our path to the revenge your father has dreamed of.”
The revenge? The whole kingdom at war? “What has my father ever given you to make you follow him like this? All he does is demand—obedience, sacrifice, pain.”
“He promised to marry me.”
Melia stumbled backwards, horrified. Ferisa and her father? Never a trace of warmth between them, of understanding, of mutual liking—not so much as a speck of interest. If anything, they had always despised each other, avoided each other’s presence. How could it be?
“I thought you hated men,” she whispered, feeling like a stupid child.
Ferisa smirked, deeming her unworthy of an answer, and turned to the guards. “Let’s go!”
“No! Wait.” Melia reached once again for Ferisa, but she pushed her away.
“I’m not going to hurt you, Melia, but stay out of my way.”
“Ferisa!”
There was nothing to do but watch them drag the carevna towards the wall. The garden had no exit: They had to climb.
In a cloud of smoke, stinking like fire demons, a group of the king’s guards burst through the door of the embassy and, without a single word spoken, rushed after Ferisa’s men, the sound of their footsteps muffled by the roar of the fire.
Melia only saw them because she was looking in that direction. The Elmarrans had their backs turned, and by the time they realized what was going on, the guards were already upon them.
“I thought you went to talk to your father.”
A hard grip on Melia’s shoulder, Amron’s angry eyes on a soot-smudged face.
“He didn’t want to talk to me. But I persuaded Aratea to wait and give Amril another chance…”
There was no time to explain. Escaping the bloody melee, Ferisa grabbed the carevna and pulled her to her chest like a shield. She bared her teeth at Amron. “Who did you come to save, your wife or the emperor’s daughter?”
Amron pushed Melia behind him, a sword in his hand. “Surrender,” he said to Ferisa. “You can’t win this one.”
At the wall, the Elmarrans were still fighting Amron’s men, and losing.
Ferisa cut a fine figure in her black suit, tall and wiry, with a blade in her hand, but she was an herbalist, a hedge witch, a poisoner, not a soldier.
Melia couldn’t understand what mad bout of bloodthirst had made her pick up a sword and go out in the streets, looking for conflict.
It was an act—a lethal, senseless act. Did she do it to impress Melia’s father?
To create the illusion that she had command?
“Let her go,” Melia cried as Aratea struggled in Ferisa’s grip, kicking and biting. “She didn’t do anything, she was only trying to help. Take me instead if you want a hostage.”
Ferisa ignored it. She brought her sword to Aratea’s neck. “Stop struggling, it’s poisoned. One scratch and you’re dead.”
“And how do you plan to climb the wall with her?” Amron asked.
“I’m not,” Ferisa answered, “there’s another route. And if you try to follow me, I’ll kill you just like I killed your father.” She pulled Aratea towards the burning building.
The moment she disappeared through the smoky entrance, Amron ran after her, Melia at his heels.