________

This is early into sprout season, the wind wasn't supposed to so coolly across the street. The cold gust swept across dark cobbles, whispering where it struck angled edges of windows and walls.

Though the sky was still a gradient of dark blues thinning just above the ceilings of the edifices of the borough, the bell of the main chapel had already announced sunrise.

The streets adjacent to the tavern stank of fresh smoke, burned wood, and alcohol. The combination caused another smell to linger in the air, that of desolation.

Amyra remained static above the saddle of her horse, her neck achy from the blow she had received from Davir. Her hands had been gripping tightly the reins since the sky above was fully black. She was now acutely aware of the strangeness of the square edges of the buildings running the length of the road, acutely aware of the feeling of being lost.

It hadn't crossed her mind that she was in a foreign land for a long time. Returning to Goan wasn't an option anymore. She had made her choice. And now the royal domain couldn't shelter her from the tumultuous capital city.

When she thought of the heir of the monarchy, Heron's image, the lonely orphan, materialized in her mind instead. She sent her horse into a trot, pushing the regret back before it sank in. Behind her, the carriage lurched audibly on an irregular cobbled way. She could not afford to pity a monarch granted with wealth since birth. She had struggled for bread and clean water all her life in Goan and even that had been stolen from her. Una was everything she had left and for her safety, she would face a legion of superior guards bare-handed.

It had been two years since the Mistress had forced them out of their home in Goan. Two years since the Mistresses hadn't allowed her to touch Una, two years of hoping. She was tired and aching. Yet, her choice was irrevocable. If she did not return to the gathering of the Owners of the Land past midday, she risked Una's safety.

She galloped faster, her stomach churning and her heart heavy.

She had failed her mission. Instead of carrying the heir in the carriage as the price of exchange for Una's liberty, she carried the dead bodies of the three men with whom she had been missioned. Those spared by Davir, were by the smoke of the fire that had resulted from the tumult in the tavern.

She observed the protocol strictly to reach the gathering place, taking all the alleys wide enough to allow passage to the chariot, turning aimlessly within the boroughs to dissimulate potential observers. Each turn conducted her nearer the first borough.

Once out of the city, Amyra trailed along a path that faded into the forest. The strategic encounters of the revolution took place in one of the several rooms of the rubbles of the old palace of river trades, desolated after the floods in the plains bordering the banks of the Eyrees. In the distance where the mixture of rubbles and the wilderness thickened, stood armed men. Both held their swords as soon as they saw her approach.

"Get down," one of the men ordered, his lips moving lazily beneath a thick black beard.

"I come for the cause that unites the real owners of the land," Amyra said mechanically. Her only real interest had always been Una. Now the words sounded as she felt them: devoid of any meaning. She wouldn't stay in the capital to see the royal domain burn. As soon as she got her sister back, she would get the first chariot back to Goan.

The tip of one of the men's swords already rested on her neck. "I have been missioned by the Mistress herself." Her neck brushed blade as she spoke. "I carry three corpses. Unfortunately, the men who've been missioned with me perished. They fought for the revolution bravely. I imagine their families would want the bodies for burning and to make proper funerary relics for them."

It was as if none of the words she'd uttered reached their ears. The man keeping her at sword point looked at her with unreadable blue eyes, static as though he'd been petrified. The other man walked to the rear of the carriage. The sound of wood creaking under boots echoed from behind her, then that of the bodies being dragged and shuffled.

She turned her eyes away from the men. At the entry of the old palace of river trades stood the Mistress, dressed like a noblewoman. A matte leather coat stuck to her body from neck to knees, where the sand-colored fabric of her dress took over.

Amyra's stomach tightened immediately, her breathing speeding up. The Mistress was approaching.

"She's one of us," Mistress Anya said and the man sheathed his sword immediately. "Welcome back, Amyra. Come with me, please."

Amyra followed her, body protesting every step she took. Mistress Anya traversed the door-less entrance of what remained of the old palace. Along the corridor, a mixture of roots and vines both eroded and braced the walls.

"You were supposed to be here a long time ago," The Mistress said. "The guards have changed since the last time you have been here, you might have noticed. I apologize for the inconvenience."

"The mission didn't go as planned, Mistress."

Anya turned to her, regarding her with a pensive look. "I supposed that was so," Anya said. "I waited for the four of you to bring me the heir as we had planned. Have you kept things secret or that was a task too hard for three men and a woman to fulfill as well?"

"Haven't mentioned it with a soul, Mistress," Amyra said. "But I believe I cannot return to the royal domain again."

"Oh, you do?" The Mistress enquired with a sigh. "Amyra dear," she shook her head, long strands of blond hair swaying lightly, "I cannot blame anyone but myself for overestimating you." She halted in front of a door frame, turned to Amyra with eyes promising her pain, and gestured for her to enter.

Amyra stepped in, gripping her cloak to keep her hands from shaking. She wondered if Anya would kill her. She walked to the end of the room, up to the wall painted green with mold.

Absently, her hand had already traveled to the pommel of her dagger, sheathed beneath her cloak at the height of her waist. But she released it immediately. She was at her weakest now. Although outside there were two armed men, she suspected Anya could cause her enough damage alone. Amyra couldn't win if Anya attacked. But if Amyra was the first to draw her dagger, Una would suffer the consequences.

"I suppose you remember the terms of our contract. I need the new Monarch. From the start, I was aware it wasn't an easy task to accomplish. That is why I am ready to provide you with your due recompense. My father values his children a lot. Specially ones like Una. If he ever discovers that I plan on stealing one of them, I would be in serious trouble," Anya explained.

"But the revolution needs the heir urgently. That is why I am willing to sacrifice my relationship with my father. That is why I got you out of your forsaken village in Goan, and why paid for a tutor to help you access the royal nursing school, so you could provide for your family once you and Una return home. And you had to bring me the boy. I fulfilled my part, Amyra. Rest assured that Una is well. She talks about you every day. The reason why I still keep her is because I need to be certain you will fulfill your part of this contract as well."

"I can still be useful to the revolution," Amyra said.

"How?" Anya sauntered near Amyra. "By recruiting, burning chariots, swearing the Monarch's name? Many are already succeeding at those things. I have trusted you with something more ambitious than that. A yearlong project that could have shortened the fight of our people and spared many lives. I am furious with you." The serenity with which she said the words was unsettling. "Why should I trust you again?"

"We did everything we could. We had the heir trapped. But there is one like Una in the royal guard," Amyra said, "that's the only reason why we failed."

"One like Una," Anya echoed calmly, her eyes narrowing with a sense of inquiry. Anya was a tall woman and had to tilt her head slightly to lock Amyra's eyes when she stood next to her.

"A man, not older than twenty. He arrived sick in the royal domain a week ago. The nurses took care of him in the sickhouses. His origin is not known for now. The heir claimed him as his personal guard. It was too late when I realized who he was. If I had known, I swear I-," Her suspicions of Davir had only arisen once they were on the road to the tavern. And only after they had failed, did she realized that the familiarity she had seen in him, the depth of his gaze, his agility, it all reminded her of Una. Amyra was uncertain. Sharing this information with the Mistress was desperate and dangerous.

After failing to bring her the heir of the monarchy, there was nothing Amyra could do to redeem herself in the eyes of the Mistress. She did what she could. She hoped to entice Anya enough to be kept alive. At the risk of Anya potentially killing her in the future when the truth was revealed.

"Davir yma i," Amyra said, "had he not been there, we would have brought the heir to you as you asked, Mistress. The Ancients know. I deserve to have Una back, please."

"Gather yourself, keep your voice down." The Mistress turned to inspect the door, pensive. "How could you not have realized the man was different?"

"How could have I?" Amyra asked. "He was brought to us as a suffering man. I could not have seen in him what I was not allowed to see." She punctuated her last words, "How could I have, Mistress?" It was a striking realization to herself too. She had been so focused on saving Una through the Mistress' way, that she had allowed herself ignorance. She knew they had taken Una because she was different from other children.

She had had a year to access knowledge in the library of the royal domain. The realization of the wasted opportunity might have as well been as stab to her heart.

"I wish I wouldn't have to resort to this Amyra," Anya said. "I can forgive mistakes, but it's natural that one faces the consequences that arise from them."

Suddenly, there was wind inside the room, ruffling leaves and stick bits on the ground, brushing Amyra's face. Amyra turned around, looking for the source of the gust, holding her breath when she located it. Anya. It was audible against the surface of her coat, lifting strands of her hair.

Anya wielded the supernatural arts. Amyra could feel her heart thumping in her ears. The anticipation of what was to come was unbearable. The air could already be poisoned.

The Mistress walked up to the doorframe of the room. As if for a moment she wanted Amyra to believe she had been pardoned. The Mistress balled her hand into a fist.

It felt as if a thousand threads curled around each member in Amyra's body, tightening around her and getting a hold of her. She felt suspended and had to check that her feet were still touching the ground. Then her body stirred and she could feel her bones separately. They shook, wanting to pierce through flesh and skin, jump out of her body.

Amyra was already crying before the bones in her forearm snapped with a sharp pain that began underneath the flesh, spreading outside where sharp bone tore skin. She screamed from the pain. Blood streamed down an arm hanging askew, pooling the ground.

"For the Ancients, Mistress," Amyra pleaded. She tried to reach for her dagger, but her arm did not obey. Anya owned every bone in her body. She felt light-headed and prayed. For the Purification of her soul, for Una's health. Then, the sensation of being held faded and she slumped to the ground.

"The Ancients forgive me for resorting to this," Anya was also praying, "and forgive you for not fulfilling your promises. Should this be a reminder for us both, of our obligations towards one another," she said. "I selected you because I believe in you, Amyra. I can see your potential. I will put my father's orders aside, and will send a healer. I cannot kill you in good conscience. I hope Una she will never have to use her talents to heal you from something like this. Be here tomorrow at midday, will you? I'd want to know more about that man you mentioned. Someone else will take care of the little monarch. I'll send the bodies you brought to us to the burning. The Ancients pay you infinitely for thinking about their families."

The Mistresses' footfalls sounded against the floor until they faded. The pain stabbed fiercely.

If Amyra continued losing so much blood, she wouldn't last the day. Amyra summoned all the will she had left and used her good arm to drag herself across the dirt on the ground to the nearest wall, grunting with the pain caused by the bumps against her swelling arm. When she looked at it, the unnatural shape made her cry.

She pressed her back against the wall, reached for the dagger at her lower back, ripped through her dress and tied a rope around her wound, using her teeth to tighten it with a knot. Then she let agony consume her. She could feel her arm swelling, throbbing with pain, blood still soaking the rope around it. Beads of sweat dampened her forehead, her breathing was erratic. She had no medicine, no salted water, no meat.

It was no use to try looking for help. And if she left and ended up passing out outside the old building, wild dogs would devour her body. When she would wake up the pain would be sharper, just the idea frightened her. She would be feverish and her body fighting against the wound would deplete her of her energy. She couldn't conceive agony that was stronger than this.

Soon, she started losing grasp on her thoughts. Her vision grew blurrier, then started darkening. She fainted.

___________

Amyra woke up in the dark. Beneath her lay a quilt, partially smoothing the protuberances sticking from the ground. From the outside echoed sharp sound of insects. A light flickered in the room.

Amyra's hand was already at her lower back, grasping air where her dagger had been. She fumbled aimlessly across the poorly lit ground in front of her to find the blade, catching dirt only.

The candlelight revealed the shape of a boy, crouching with his hands around the flame until the flickering light stabilized. "I have your dagger," he said, squinting against the feeble light with discomfort. The boy stood. His eyes were so clear they appeared orange. His hair was oiled and both his coat and trousers were black and made of expensive fabric, the whole well ironed and spotless. From his pocket, he extracted the dagger and threw it to Amyra's feet. "How is your arm?"

Amyra grabbed her wounded arm. Her previously wounded arm. "Great Ancients," She muttered, patting the spot where bone had snapped in search of pain. Where her makeshift rope had been was a white medicinal cloth. She undid the wrap, revealing a scar long as a hand finger, with deformed skin slightly sunk. He was one of them. He was the healer Anya had sent, another wielder of supernatural arts.

"The wounds are healed but the scars will remain." He spoke as if he recited the words out of memory, unblinking, almost not moving his lips. "The Mistress ordered to remind you she will expect you here tomorrow at midday."

Amyra glanced at her arm again, still marveled. And she remembered Anya's words. Una was a talented healer. Like the boy.

Amyra needed to see the house crumble to realize the foundation had been poorly set. She had executed all of the Mistress' orders: identified the heir of the crown, infiltrated the royal nursing school, and brought him to the Owners of the Land in the tavern. She had failed to bring him to Anya. But she realized bitterly that had she succeeded, the Mistress wouldn't have given up Una. No one would give up power like this. Amyra had spent a year aiming for the wrong target.

She wondered if the boy had been abducted from his family as well. If someone was looking for him. What was the Mistress' bribery against them. How many like Una did they have? Where were they? Amyra realized she had never been so close to her sister's trail. This boy could be her way to her. "The Ancients pay you," Amyra said. "Amyra yma da," she said.

The boy said nothing, he studied her. He was no older than fourteen but carried himself like an adult. She prayed for the Ancients Una would still be the same when she found her. It was urgent to get to her.

"My sister Una is also being trained by the Mistress. You must know her." She hoped for a confirmation. The boy kept his silence. "We used to live in Goan, region of Anuteh in the south. You have a family?" The time it took to pronounce the question, the boy turned on his heels and walked past the doorframe.

Amyra followed, watched him traverse the corridor, his form mingling with the night.

She wasn't sure when exactly the boy exited the old palace. His form was there one moment, his footfalls audible, then she was looking into the static night outside.

She rushed to the door, her body weak, and located the sounds of boots of the departing boy trampling forest ground. She followed. She sped up, without seeing, only oriented by the sounds, using the trees as camouflage. Then her arm was seized, a strong hand wrapped around the spot where bones had broken.

"Where are you going?" A deep voice asked. Amyra's mouth went dry. The hold around her arm tightened, tugging her back the path she had trailed, shoving her to the ground. The men lit a lantern and once the light allowed, she recognized his face from that morning. One of the men keeping the area.

"I have something to communicate to the boy," she said.

The man scanned her as if looking at rubbish. "Course, you have," he said with scorn. "If you care for your health, don't go where you don't belong."

"I understand."

He studied her for a moment. Then he left.

Around Amyra, no trace of the boy.