Page 38 of The Seeker
“I don’t know about that.”
“I have watched him,” Vasu said. “You have not.”
Meera sighed. “Fine. I can accept that you know him better than I do.”
“Rhys of Glast has a willing and flexible mind. He will understand you like few others could. If you want to bring balance, you must have leverage your opponent understands. For the Irin, that means magic. Rhys knows that. If you truly want to bring change, he is the ally you want.”
Three days had passed,but Meera hadn’t heard from Rhys. She escaped New Orleans and went to the haven to think. If there was any place she felt restful, it was in her mother’s home. Patiala might not have been the most maternal of Irina mothers, but with her, Meera always felt safe.
She sat on the porch, staring out at the swaying fields of sugarcane, and Patiala came to sit beside her.
“The fog comes on little fox feet,” her mother said.
“I don’t think that’s how the poem goes.” Meera smiled. “And I don’t see any fog. Or any foxes.”
Patiala shook her head, a frown marring the smooth skin on her forehead. “That’s what Sabine was singing this morning. Over and over again. Roch was trying to calm her, but she refused his touch.”
Meera didn’t take her eyes from the cane fields. “Sabine is exactly as she has always been.”
“No, she’s not. She’s growing worse, which means something might be coming. She may be an earth singer, but she has seer’s blood too. It is my job to look for signs of trouble, and I believe this behavior is a sign. She keeps rambling about the man on the river.”
“The old man?”
Patiala sighed. “We’ve investigated him too many times to count. There’s nothing unusual about him. He has no criminal record. No secret life. There is no sense of magic about the place. It’s her mania. It’s getting worse. Last month she claimed wolves were in the sugarcane, so she couldn’t do her chores.”
Meera’s heart sank. Was it too much to ask that this vibrant and colorful place remain an island of peace in their world? “I can’t help her, Mother. I’ve given every healing song I know to Alosia, but none of them make a difference. What would you have me do?”
“You know what you need to do. Roch will not ask you, but I will. Find the Wolf. Search Sabine’s memories and find her.”
Meera turned to look at her mother. “Do you think I haven’t tried? The woman’s mind is broken; her memories are a maze. I’m convinced Sabine has seen the Wolf, but that means nothing. Not even Roch can make sense of Sabine’s rambling, and he’s the one who knows the bayous best. None of what she has told us makes sense.”
“So talk to the scribe. The one from Istanbul.”
First Vasu, now her mother. “What does he know about the Wolf that you or I don’t? What does he know about the bayous that Roch doesn’t?”
“Did I raise an arrogant woman?” Patiala pursed her lips. “Maybe he knows nothing, but he has eyes. He has a mind. And allies I trust say he has experience finding those who are hidden. Are you so impressed with your own understanding that you would refuse the help of another?”
Meera felt her mother’s disapproval like a blow to her chest. “I’m not arrogant.”
“You are so certain of your own knowledge that you will not ask for help, convinced that anyone outside your tiny circle of trust cannot be relied upon.” Patiala rose to her full height and looked down at Meera. “It’s not just Sabine, you know. Something is coming. I’ve seen too many heartbreaks to ignore this knot in my belly, so I called to my friend and asked her for a favor. I asked her to send an ally, and you refuse to work with him. This disappoints me.”
Patiala walked into the house without another word, leaving Meera alone and bruised by her mother’s displeasure.
The next morningMeera drove back to New Orleans. She gritted her teeth and called the number Rhys had given her.
He picked up in three rings. “Hello?”
“Bring your brain and your research to my place tonight,” she said. “Seven o’clock. What do the Americans say? I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
“Done.”
“And bring dinner too. You owe me étouffée. And an apology.”
Chapter Seven
At seven o’clock that evening, Rhys knocked on Meera’s door, a messenger bag slung over his shoulder and a bag from Fete au Fete in his hand. Meera opened the door wearing an outfit similar to the one she’d worn the last time he’d seen her. Her shoulders were tan, and she was wearing a bright coral tank top. Her hair was piled on top of her head in a disordered tumble of thick waves.
She scattered his senses without saying a word.
