And if there was no such thing as the Balance anyway—what did it matter if her supplication was willing or not, sincere or not?
She stared into the crackling flames, turning the idea around in her mind, letting it settle in, feeling with each bell clang the impending pressure to make a decision. What did it matter? How could she make a choice when no choice of hers would make anything better in the end? Disgusting. Her resistance didn’t matter anymore.
She bent to kneel on her own. But before she’d moved more than an inch, she stopped, frozen by a sudden memory against her will—the look on his face when she’d attacked him on that balcony back in Estun. Soon, other images flooded her thoughts—gray-green eyes, his eyes frowning at the first discovery of his shackles. Young girls dancing in the snow. Rosebushes. A healed little boy running in the forest. Sunlight on the river and glistening drops of water on skin.
For a moment, she could see him standing at the edge of the nomad encampment, looking at her with that look in his eyes, dim firelight playing across his features.
She clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms. She straightened.
No. It mattered. Now more than ever.
She was still a woman with an opinion, who had been born free, even if she hadn’t lived free for very long. And if this was the only way she could show that that woman was still alive under her curse, then so be it. It would be worth a small amount of discomfort on her father’s part.
The deep, heavy bells ceased. There was the brief tense silence, the calm before the storm, as she waited for the lighter, higher bells of the prayer service to begin.
Then they came, one after another, deceptively gentle, crystalline with beauty. They built into a delicate and wandering chord, full of glory and the joy of worship.
Miara realized suddenly that her eyes were squeezed shut. The only pain she felt came from her own nails digging into her palms. She opened one eye, then the other.
Luha and her father were both kneeling before the fire, craning their necks as much as possible to stare. She stood beside them, no pain, no pressure, no fear.
No compulsion.
She staggered a step back, then another, and fell partway sitting onto her bed. She clutched at her shoulder, nothing there but a strange lump. No pain. She yanked the neck of her tunic wide to expose her shoulder, and she lurched toward the mirror.
Indeed, it was even smaller than at the baths. Menaha had been right.
It was going away.
“How— What…” she whispered. Her father and Luha could not answer; they only stared. But there was a brilliant glitter in her father’s eyes—of hope, of joy, of something even more.
Could it be that something had changed? That something had… broken? How could it be? Was this just part of the days of rest they’d given her?
It had never been part of the days of rest before. They had never forgotten to tell her that she had them, or how many. For the first time in years, she hadn’t woken up in the morning.
Was it possible? Could she really be— She couldn’t even let the word into her mind, it was so frightening.
She had to know for sure.
She flung the door open and ran down to the hall and stairs, heading for the forest. The freezing air hit her and knocked some sense into her. What did she think she was doing? Every mage was bound to be in prayer—what would she say if someone saw her? Streaking toward the border wall at top speed in the middle of the evening’s prayer was highly suspicious to say the least.
She couldn’t wait, though. She had to know.
She slipped into the form of a small gray cat and blended into the dying grass and late fall darkness, slinking into the shadows. She took a roundabout path, darting from tree to tree in the pastures, avoiding any shepherds who might still be heading in from the pastures, but her feet raced at top speed. There was no pain, only the elation of the wind moving past and the good kind of burning in her muscles.
She quickly reached the spot she’d reached so many times before. She’d thrown herself against this invisible wall again and again—as herself, as a cat, as an insect, a bird, a bear, anything—but always nausea and pain had thrown her back.
She slid back into her own form. She wanted to be herself for this, if it worked. She had passed no one on the way here. She took a step forward, then another.
Nothing happened. Her heart pounded.
Three more steps. Five. Seven. She broke into a run. Soon, she was under the cover of the woods, of night, racing through them with blind, unbridled elation, guided only by the light of an early moon. A few hundred yards into the forest, she felt a wolf who sensed her elation. He, too, raced with her over and under branch and stream, intoxicated with motion unchecked, laughter in their thoughts.
It was true. She was—somehow—free.
Free.
She could hardly believe it, hardly think; instead, the only expression of the explosion of emotions in her mind came through her body, burning out in sheer speed and movement through the trees. The wolf came nearer and raced by her side for a while before heading back into the forest depths. Time disappeared again, and she had no idea how long it was till she tired enough for thoughts to be thinkable again. They crept back in slowly in the form of questions, like… how could this happen? And when?
And then a thought stopped her cold in the darkness. If it was true—as it seemed to be—was there something she could do to help Aven?
She turned on a dime and headed straight back to consult with her father and form a plan.
She was on her own damn mission this time.
As she ran back toward the border, she reached out to find her father. She needed to know if the prayer was over yet and if he was still in their rooms or if he’d gone somewhere else to look for her. She found him just outside the dormitory rooms.
I’m on my way back now.
Okay—it’s over. What the hell is going on?
I’m not sure. I’ll be there shortly. Meet me at home.
She took even more care going back. Some of her excitement had burned off, and there were likely more people about now that prayer was over. In her cat form, she slinked under as much ground cover and as many bushes as she could, darting as though she chased some unseen, tiny rodent. When she felt certain no one was in sight, she transformed back into herself in an alley between buildings and walked with as much calm as she could muster back to the dormitories. Of course, it was suspicious to not have been at home during evening prayer, and quite out of her normal routine, but it wasn’t suspicious if no one was paying attention. And why should they be? There was no way for slaves to get free. So there was nothing really to be on the lookout for.
She stared into the crackling flames, turning the idea around in her mind, letting it settle in, feeling with each bell clang the impending pressure to make a decision. What did it matter? How could she make a choice when no choice of hers would make anything better in the end? Disgusting. Her resistance didn’t matter anymore.
She bent to kneel on her own. But before she’d moved more than an inch, she stopped, frozen by a sudden memory against her will—the look on his face when she’d attacked him on that balcony back in Estun. Soon, other images flooded her thoughts—gray-green eyes, his eyes frowning at the first discovery of his shackles. Young girls dancing in the snow. Rosebushes. A healed little boy running in the forest. Sunlight on the river and glistening drops of water on skin.
For a moment, she could see him standing at the edge of the nomad encampment, looking at her with that look in his eyes, dim firelight playing across his features.
She clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms. She straightened.
No. It mattered. Now more than ever.
She was still a woman with an opinion, who had been born free, even if she hadn’t lived free for very long. And if this was the only way she could show that that woman was still alive under her curse, then so be it. It would be worth a small amount of discomfort on her father’s part.
The deep, heavy bells ceased. There was the brief tense silence, the calm before the storm, as she waited for the lighter, higher bells of the prayer service to begin.
Then they came, one after another, deceptively gentle, crystalline with beauty. They built into a delicate and wandering chord, full of glory and the joy of worship.
Miara realized suddenly that her eyes were squeezed shut. The only pain she felt came from her own nails digging into her palms. She opened one eye, then the other.
Luha and her father were both kneeling before the fire, craning their necks as much as possible to stare. She stood beside them, no pain, no pressure, no fear.
No compulsion.
She staggered a step back, then another, and fell partway sitting onto her bed. She clutched at her shoulder, nothing there but a strange lump. No pain. She yanked the neck of her tunic wide to expose her shoulder, and she lurched toward the mirror.
Indeed, it was even smaller than at the baths. Menaha had been right.
It was going away.
“How— What…” she whispered. Her father and Luha could not answer; they only stared. But there was a brilliant glitter in her father’s eyes—of hope, of joy, of something even more.
Could it be that something had changed? That something had… broken? How could it be? Was this just part of the days of rest they’d given her?
It had never been part of the days of rest before. They had never forgotten to tell her that she had them, or how many. For the first time in years, she hadn’t woken up in the morning.
Was it possible? Could she really be— She couldn’t even let the word into her mind, it was so frightening.
She had to know for sure.
She flung the door open and ran down to the hall and stairs, heading for the forest. The freezing air hit her and knocked some sense into her. What did she think she was doing? Every mage was bound to be in prayer—what would she say if someone saw her? Streaking toward the border wall at top speed in the middle of the evening’s prayer was highly suspicious to say the least.
She couldn’t wait, though. She had to know.
She slipped into the form of a small gray cat and blended into the dying grass and late fall darkness, slinking into the shadows. She took a roundabout path, darting from tree to tree in the pastures, avoiding any shepherds who might still be heading in from the pastures, but her feet raced at top speed. There was no pain, only the elation of the wind moving past and the good kind of burning in her muscles.
She quickly reached the spot she’d reached so many times before. She’d thrown herself against this invisible wall again and again—as herself, as a cat, as an insect, a bird, a bear, anything—but always nausea and pain had thrown her back.
She slid back into her own form. She wanted to be herself for this, if it worked. She had passed no one on the way here. She took a step forward, then another.
Nothing happened. Her heart pounded.
Three more steps. Five. Seven. She broke into a run. Soon, she was under the cover of the woods, of night, racing through them with blind, unbridled elation, guided only by the light of an early moon. A few hundred yards into the forest, she felt a wolf who sensed her elation. He, too, raced with her over and under branch and stream, intoxicated with motion unchecked, laughter in their thoughts.
It was true. She was—somehow—free.
Free.
She could hardly believe it, hardly think; instead, the only expression of the explosion of emotions in her mind came through her body, burning out in sheer speed and movement through the trees. The wolf came nearer and raced by her side for a while before heading back into the forest depths. Time disappeared again, and she had no idea how long it was till she tired enough for thoughts to be thinkable again. They crept back in slowly in the form of questions, like… how could this happen? And when?
And then a thought stopped her cold in the darkness. If it was true—as it seemed to be—was there something she could do to help Aven?
She turned on a dime and headed straight back to consult with her father and form a plan.
She was on her own damn mission this time.
As she ran back toward the border, she reached out to find her father. She needed to know if the prayer was over yet and if he was still in their rooms or if he’d gone somewhere else to look for her. She found him just outside the dormitory rooms.
I’m on my way back now.
Okay—it’s over. What the hell is going on?
I’m not sure. I’ll be there shortly. Meet me at home.
She took even more care going back. Some of her excitement had burned off, and there were likely more people about now that prayer was over. In her cat form, she slinked under as much ground cover and as many bushes as she could, darting as though she chased some unseen, tiny rodent. When she felt certain no one was in sight, she transformed back into herself in an alley between buildings and walked with as much calm as she could muster back to the dormitories. Of course, it was suspicious to not have been at home during evening prayer, and quite out of her normal routine, but it wasn’t suspicious if no one was paying attention. And why should they be? There was no way for slaves to get free. So there was nothing really to be on the lookout for.
