Page 18 of The Ninth Element

“You bear some Gajari features, that’s all,” Faelas responds with a thoughtful tilt of his head.

He’s right, of course. My raven hair and large, almond-shaped, black eyes are typical Gajari traits, though the fairer complexion I inherited from my father is usually enough to make most people overlook my desert heritage. Faelas’s observation is surprisingly astute.

I manage a one-shoulder shrug and try to respond with a neutral voice. “I have no idea what I am. All I know is that not everyone from Southern Myra is fair-haired.”

Faelas’s eyes narrow further, suspicion etched across his face. Desperate to change the subject, I blurt out the first question that pops into my mind.

“How long have you known each other?” I gesture toward them with a voice that sounds too high for such casual conversation.

“Twenty-nine blasted years,” Bahador mumbles, his voice muffled by a mouthful of bread. “Stuck together like glue since the day we were born.”

Darian picks at a piece of fruit. “Our parents decided we were going to be friends before we even knew what the word meant. We never really had much say in the matter.”

“Which part of Izadeon are you from?” I ask.

“Izadmond, the capital,” Bahador responds with a subtle pride in his voice. “My father’s side of the family has lived there for generations. My mother, however, hails from Jamshah.”

I want to ask more questions, but I stop myself. Information is valuable in this game, and I don’t want to alienate myself by prying too much. And it’s not like I’m a seasoned artisan, flitting effortlessly through conversations with a pack of men I barely know.

“Firelands rarely send sorceresses outside of its borders for any purpose besides arranged marriage,” Faelas observes, his voice cool and analytical, one pale eyebrow arching in a silent question. His gaze is filled with a blatant display of distrust.

I can’t blame him. From his perspective, I’m the enemy—an Ahira. Even outside the context of this competition, we’re not on the best of terms.

“Those who earn their rings early are granted a single wish by the council. My wish was to come here.”

“So, you’re here to win, not just grace us with your esteemed participation?” Darian asks.

“Yes!” I say, the word bursting from me, fiercer, more passionate than I intended. “I’m here to win.”

Darian chuckles, and the sound is beginning to become familiar to me. It seems like his most common reaction to all my emotional outbursts. “How about the others?”

I hesitate, my hand hovering over my food, and suddenly, a sharp pang of guilt twists in my stomach. Is he trying to extract information about the Ahiras from me? Is that why he invited me to eat with them?

I shouldn’t be here.

Sharing a meal with the Izadeonians suddenly feels wrong, a betrayal of… of what? The Ahiras, who’ve shown me nothing but contempt? And yet, the guilt persists like a nagging voice in the back of my head. “I… I’m not sure.”

“You know,” Darian says, “I thought Ahiras only reserved their special trade of prickly for non-sorcerers. But seems like they can be mean to their own just as well.”

He gestures at something behind me, and I whip my head around, my eyes landing on the Ahiras. I hadn’t even noticed them entering the hall.

There, perched like a pair of brooding gargoyles, are Maleed and Kameel,staring at me with deep frowns. Pippin nervously darts his gaze between his food, me, and Zanyar, who sits chewing his breakfast with a stony silence. But that silence… oh, it’s the kind that speaks magnitudes. All the years I’ve seen him at the Fire Temple, Zanyar had been the picture of stoic calm. Now, he looks like a predator trying very hard to appear like a priest, just like he did after the first trial.

Anxiety claws at my throat. Is he mad I’m fraternizing with the competition? Do they think I am spilling Firelands’s secrets over porridge and prunes? It’s obvious that my breakfast companions do not amuse them. The urge to bolt from the table is strong, but making a scene in front of the Izadeonians isn’t precisely the most dignified plan.

“Uh… " I stammer, the word sticking in my dry throat. “They’re not… mean to me.”

It’s a pathetic lie, even to my own ears.

Bahador snorts. “They treat you like a stray dog at a feast.”

I feel a wave of guilt as I steal another glance at the Ahiras’s table. I can’t sit here and make fun of my own kind with strangers. Clearing my throat, I try to explain, “Different ranks don’t usually associate in Firelands, and they’re all five-ringed. And I’m also a sorceress. There are guidelines about interactions between sorcerers and sorceresses.”

Darian’s brows knit together. “Guidelines?”

“We can’t fraternize much unless it’s necessary.”

“What kind of backward nonsense is that?” Bahador grunts with a mixture of surprise and disbelief on his face. “Even in our corner of the continent, where religious fervor runs high, we don’t have such archaic traditions.”

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