Page 74 of Daughter of No Worlds

The smile disappeared.

“Not in death,” I added, quickly. “Tell me of her in life.”

“That was Kira, the youngest.”Clip. Instead of burning the dead blossom, he held it loosely in his hands as he folded them in his lap. “She was the strangest person. She liked — how else do I say this — gross things. Like spiders and things. Smart as sin. And she was just getting started. She was twelve when she died. No one got the chance to see what she’d become, or what she’d…”

He groped for words, then gave up and lapsed into silence.

As always, Max’s thoughts were closed behind a curtain I couldn’t part. But I could still feel his grief tainting the air between us, echoes of what I had felt when I was inside of his mind — echoes of what I felt in my own heart. I knew that loss.

“When the slavers came to my village,” I said, “I left behind everyone I knew. My friends, my family. My mother. They were sent to mines. Only I was sold to the lords.”

I could still remember the way they looked, their backs rod straight as they were led off into the night, dignified in those silver-dipped straight lines. And I watched them from that rickety cart, steeling myself in preparation for a new life.

“I’m sorry,” Max murmured, and he sounded like he really meant it — like he felt it with me.

“I’m certain they must be all dead now. The mines kill quickly. Or perhaps they all killed themselves first.” There was always talk of it among the adults, what they would do if they found themselves standing at the entrance of those tunneling coffins. It was not unheard of for entire villages to swallow poison hidden beneath their tongues rather than face a demeaning and inevitable death. I imagined those silhouetted lines collapsing, row after row. Blinked back the thought. Swallowed.

“The worst thing, though,” I continued, slowly, “is to think that they are all buried somewhere in a hole, with so many other slaves. And I hate their deaths. But what I hate more is that there is no one left who remembers their lives.”

No one but me.

My mother was powerful and wise. She was the center of the world to me and to the people of our community. And she had faded away to nothing but a clutched handful of my memories.

A warm breeze rustled my hair, sending a shudder through the leaves. I could feel the heat of Max’s shoulder next to mine, even as we were both completely still.

“And who the hell are we,” he finally said, voice low and thick, “to carry something so precious?”

One of the many uncertainties I did not dignify aloud, but that plagued my thoughts every day. I had no answer.

I heard the dull sound of the clippers dropping to the damp earth, Max’s hands still. We sat there for a long time in silence, grief and memories twining into ghosts around us.

I wasn’t sure how long it was before he spoke again. “How did you make it to Ara?”

“I do not remember most of it. I was very injured.”

“You dragged yourself across the ocean with those wounds?”

“Yes.” I let myself fall backwards into the grass. “My friend helped me go.”

“The blond.”

Shame ripped through my chest. The remnants of Serel’s goodbye burned my cheek. “I left him,” I whispered. “He helped me and I left him.”

“You’re going to get him back,” Max murmured.

“I will. I must.”

“He’s fortunate to have you fighting this fight.”

Maybe. Maybe not. There was only one me. And there were so many Serels.

The stars blurred. Gods, I was tired. “Thank you for coming with me to Tairn,” I murmured. “And thank you for trusting me.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Max slump backwards too, lying beside me. The warmth of him was oddly comforting, radiating even though we didn’t touch at all.

That same warmth infused his words as he said, “We made an alright team.”

And we did not speak again as we lay there, grounded by the grass and earth and whispering night air, eyelids finally fluttering into a tentative sleep as the sun crept toward the horizon.

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