Midnight Jewel
Page 38

   “I’m sorry.” I felt myself blushing. “That was rude of me to say.”
   “Compared to some greetings I get? Hardly.”
   The cadence of her voice captivated me. The accent was a heavier, purer version of what underscored Grant’s words. It was so different from anything Evarian, and I wished I could understand the language’s dynamics.
   “You can call me Mira,” I told her. “And it’s very nice to meet you . . . ?”
   “Aiana.” She extended her hand, and I shook it. Silver rings adorned almost every finger. “I know you’re mourning your friends. I won’t bother you for long.”
   “Mostly just one friend.” I looked away, the novelty of meeting Aiana suddenly replaced by a stab to my heart. “And I don’t know how I’m going to get by without her.”
   “Don’t your people believe the dead are guided to a paradise by angels? Floating off on a sea of light?”
   “I don’t know what I believe.” I rubbed the bridge of my nose and tried to force my mind from Tamsin. “You’re Grant’s contact, aren’t you? The one who’ll take my messages to him. How are you going to do that?”
   “I work here,” she said, smiling again. “For the Thorns. We aren’t supposed to have met yet, but I wanted you to know who I am.”
   “What kind of work do you do for the Thorns?”
   Aiana spread out her hands. “Everything. Sometimes I chaperone parties. Sometimes I work as a bodyguard. Between seasons, I check up on married girls to see if they’re happy and are being treated well by their husbands. I make sure everything is going well, really.”
   “And what happens if everything isn’t going well?”
   “Then I deal with it,” she said after several moments. “Usually through reasonable means. Some marriages have been dissolved, but that’s rare.”
   “And if . . . if things can’t be resolved through reasonable means?”
   “Then I deal with it,” she repeated.
   She was half a foot taller than me, and even in the loose clothing, I could see a lean, muscled body. Something in her tone gave me a few ideas as to how exactly she might deal with such problems.
   “Grant gave me the impression that most Balanquans stay away from us—people from Evaria and Osfrid.” It was another bold thing to say, but there was an easiness about her that made me feel comfortable about speaking bluntly. “That . . . they . . . you think we’re primitive.”
   She laughed. “Not primitive. More like . . . uncouth. Most Balanquans think your people have little to offer and that your ambition is dangerous.”
   “And you don’t?”
   “I think you have something to offer.” She didn’t acknowledge the dangerous assertion. “There’s something fascinating about all of you. Uncouth, yes. But never boring. I didn’t plan on staying here—but then, I didn’t really have any plans at all when I arrived. Before I knew it, I’d connected with the Thorns and found I was content. And I get to keep an eye on Iyitsi.”
   “Who’s I-yit-si?” I stumbled over the word.
   “Who do you think?”
   “Grant?”
   “Yes.” Her earlier amusement faded. “I don’t like him using you, but he’s never listened to me before. Why should he start now?”
   “Is it hard for you here? Being Balanquan?” I faced enough prejudice, and I had much more in common with the locals than she did.
   “In some ways. Not in others. I don’t make any secret of who I am, and that’s easier than trying to dress or behave like one of you. If I did, I’d always be lacking. It’s better being true to myself and openly Balanquan. People don’t question my identity. Now, how they feel about Balanquans personally? That’s always a surprise.”
   “Grant says things are simpler when he plays up his Osfridian side.”
   “Simpler for others, maybe. As for him? Well, nothing is simple with him. But yes, he speaks like a local and shows enough of his father’s side that no one gives him a second glance. I don’t even think the benefits of seeming fully Osfridian matter as much as just proving he can transform into whoever he wants. As long as he can do that, he doesn’t have to figure out who he is.” Her gaze turned inward a moment as she pondered her own words. A few moments later, she shook off the mood and became stern. “Well. Don’t let his goals interfere with yours, Mira. You didn’t come here to chase conspiracies, and the instant you want free of that, let me know.”
   Something in her words triggered a question that had long bugged me. “You just called me Mira. He always calls me Mirabel. Is there any reason for that? Or just his own quirk?”
   That smile returned. “Names have meaning. Power. Mirabel is your birth name, right? The one your parents gave you? It defines you. Shortening it or making a nickname out of it diminishes that importance. So, we give other names if needed. Those who take on new status—a military leader, for example—can choose another name for that role. A person who’s been shunned may also choose something different. And in affectionate relationships—friend, family, husband, wife—we usually end up calling them something different too. A name just between two people. It signifies a bond. It could be something as simple as ‘brother’ or ‘sister.’ It could be something descriptive. The best translation for this is . . . a ‘close name.’”
   “But you don’t keep that custom if you call me Mira.”
   “I keep it among my people. With you, I feel it’s more important to adhere to your customs.”
   I pondered all of that. “Is I-yi-yitsi Grant’s birth name?”
   “Iyitsi,” she corrected. “It’s what I call him. He never told me his Balanquan birth name.”