Page 51 of These Divided Shores
Edda remained, standing between Ben, Gunnar, and the people firing glares at him. She actually snarled at someone, who cowered and shot off.
“You don’t have to do that,” Ben said.
Edda’s eyes went to Gunnar and dropped to his chest. Though Lu’s Cleanse Root had healed him, three crisscrossing bandages remained from the prison, but his chest was bare otherwise. His clan mark peeked through the wrappings, the curve of the sun’s center here, a twisted sun ray there.
An odd expression passed over Edda’s face. She said something Ben didn’t understand, but by the way Gunnar’s blue eyes widened, he did. He responded, seemingly awed. She shrugged off whatever it was.
“Fatemah always puts the needs of this sanctuary over anything else,” Edda said to Ben in Grace Lorayan. “Don’t take it personally. She fancies herself the queen of Port Mesi-Teab, though she’d never say it out loud. Anyone gives you trouble, find me.”
She left, and Gunnar gaped at her retreating back.
“What did she say to you?” Ben asked.
A dimple sliced through the stubble on Gunnar’s cheek.“She speaks Pratua.”
“What?”
“Pratua. My clan’s language.”
Shame hit Ben. He had never asked what language Gunnar spoke. He had thought of it only asone of the many spoken in the Mechtlandsas Gunnar had whispered reassurances across the prison hallway.
“Four Mecht clans speak Pratua,” Gunnar continued. “We were once one clan, before the wars. Edda—I heard of her. She—” His lips lifted in a shocked smile. “She murdered an Eye of the Sun commander. It was... like unusual, like strange—”
“Unprecedented?” Ben offered. “Impossible?”
“Impossible. Eye of the Sun commanders hold the clan’s secrets to Eye of the Sun preparation. No one kills them. But she did. People rejoiced in my clan when it happened. We attacked her clan and won a great victory.” Gunnar shook his head. “She is terrifying.”
Ben panted. No argument there. “What is your clan?”
Such a simple question, but that simplicity felt vital. Ben wanted to ask more, to know Gunnar’s people and history and where he had gotten that scar at the base of his right ear—
Gunnar’s face was sardonic. He said a word that had Ben stammering.
“Anoch—enoch? Enochjof—jia? Enochjofjia?” Ben repeated.
Gunnar barked a laugh. “You should not speak Pratua.”
“I did, in the prison. Thaid fuilor mauth.”
Gunnar’s eyes sparked. “Now that we are out, I can tell you. Your accent is terrible.”
Ben scoffed. “I speak four other languages—”
“Argridian tongues are too delicate for Pratua.”
“And what should I use my delicate tongue for instead?” Ben’s eyes went wide.Pious God in heaven.Did he really just ask that?
Gunnar squinted. He was likely translating it to Pratua and back to make sure Ben had asked such a presumptuous question.
Gunnar grinned, halfway to laughing. “I am sure I can come up with something.”
Ben blushed so hard his chest burned.
“Ben!”
The call brought relief—something else to focus on. But he heard it again, the voice coming as it had all the other times. An echo from a dream Ben never thought he’d have again.
He turned to see Paxben—Vex, now—standing on the dirt road of the sanctuary.
