Page 49
Beatrix has returned with argument, disorder, and demands enough to occupy an army.
She has also brought the first deliberate opening I have permitted in that armor.
I will not close it.
15
BEATRIX
One week after the southern solarium tried to kill me, a new row of fylvek grass hangs from its repaired ceiling.
The slender bronze blades turn slowly in the charged current flowing through the vents. Below them, trays of goligan root occupy the central table, washed and sliced for drying. Metallic lolean cuttings stand in black soil along the eastern wall. Their silver petals catch every flash beyond the glass and scatter it across shelves crowded with jars.
The room works.
Zog replaced the shattered crystal conduit. Grolm reinforced the doors and added a manual release within my reach after I refused to enter without one. The collapsed ceiling section now bears three dark braces thick enough to support a Volvath. Red dust still creeps beneath the window seals, but it settles in manageable lines instead of coating every surface.
I have spent seven days turning survival back into routine.
I have spent those same seven days keeping Draxon at the edge of every conversation. Knowing why he left has not erased the leaving, and each necessary exchange with him still catches against anger I am not ready to surrender.
Orders wait beneath stone weights on one counter. A dark elf laundress needs salve for hands burned by metallic soap. Two human kitchen workers have paid half a jeton each for numiscu antidote. One of Grolm's guards traded a strip of treated cloth for goligan powder and pretended the medicine was for someone else.
The spire has ailments enough to sustain an apothecary.
It also has walls full of ears.
I tie the last bundle of fylvek to its hanging cord and check the distance between the blades. Too close, and trapped moisture will blacken the edges. Too far apart, and the charged air will dry them unevenly.
The door opens behind me.
"If that falls on my head, I am leaving," Miana says.
I turn.
She stands beneath the lintel with folded linens balanced against one hip. Pale brown hair is pinned away from her face, and a twist of golden wire turns between the fingers of her free hand. The familiar motion usually means she carries information.
Today she also carries three Volvath guards.
They wait in the corridor behind her, filling it with bone-white, iron-grey, and mottled black carapace. All wear the plain armor of the lower patrols rather than Grolm's crimson house guard. Their horns are shorter than Draxon's, their weapons scarred by work instead of ceremony.
"You failed to mention the procession," I say.
Miana glances back. "They were shy."
The bone-white guard gives her a flat look.
"We were not shy."
"You stood outside the laundry for half an hour deciding who had to ask me."
"That was discussion."
"Of course."
Her pale blue eyes meet mine. Amusement appears briefly before caution restores her servant's composure.
I gesture toward the open space beside the central table. "Come inside."
