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She lets out a slow, shuddering exhalation. Her sweet fragrance surrounds me. Although her expression remains stony, a faint flush blooms in her cheeks.
I move closer, ignoring the stares of the Khaturians. My speech is low and rapid. They won’t understand me. Sylhara can’t hear me. “And Iwillhave you again. If it were up to me, I’d have you and only you. Every day. Every waking moment. I would drown in your scent and take my fill until I was drunk off of you. That’s how I feel when I’m around you, Finley. That’s why you don’t ever need to fear me, or worry that I’ll abandon you. I willnever.And if I drank this blood before me—this inferior offering, which is like a match-flame to your sun—it’s only because I don’t want to put you at a disadvantage right now.”
At last, she turns and looks at me. Her eyes are a rich shade of brown, shot through with flecks of amber and green. “Don’t leave my side,” she whispers, barely moving her lips, for she knows I can hear perfectly well.“And don’t let them beat around the bush. I’m not interested in drawn out ceremonies. Nor do I need to be treated like a delicate flower. Let’s get this over and done with. And if I come out of this as something unfathomable, well, you of all people will know how to handle me, right?”
Ah, there’s the Finley I’ve come to know. She’s breathtakingly fearless.
I look at the Khaturians.“Kohien ammanu.”
Let’s begin.
I switch to Rahavan. Sylhara can translate. “The reason for my visit here is simple. I’ve brought my preciousOramato you in the hope that you will share your vast and ancient knowledge with us. For although she is born of Rahava, her mother hails from over the Sea of Istrivan. From Batava. Although Finley never knew her mother, I’m reliably informed that she is a dryad.”
I wait for Sylhara to translate; for my words to sink in.
A low murmur ripples through the Khaturians. The shamans are all watching Finley with renewed interest.
One of them, a woman with a piercing white gaze and a short bob of pale blue hair, turns to Sylhara.
She speaks. I can understand the gist of it, but I allow Syhlara to translate anyway, for Finley’s benefit.
“Maiian tells me that your words ring true, because they’ve already sensed it—she’s no ordinary mortal. But if she truly is the daughter of a dryad and a human, then at this age, she should be manifesting her powers.”
“Well, I haven’t,” Finley says, loud enough for Sylhara to hear. “Maybe there wasonetime that I felt a glimmer of something; that I could possibly have magic in me, but it was so fleeting. I’ve never felt anything like that again.”
She turns and gives me averypointed look.
Sylhara translates. The elders and the shamans nod in understanding, speaking softly amongst themselves in Khaturian.
I command Sylhara’s attention. “Can the learned ones enlighten us as to why this might be the case?”
The one called Maiian speaks. Something aboutancient magicandseals.
She walks forward.
“Respectfully, she wishes to examine her,” Sylhara informs me in a cautious tone.
I take Finley’s hand. To my relief, she doesn’t resist. “Are you all right with this?”
“I want to know once and for all. If she knows something we don’t, then let her examine me.”
I watch Maiian like a hawk as she walks toward us. Carefully avoiding my gaze, the shaman presses her palms together and offers me a deep bow.
Then she turns to Finley.
“Masara naudan. Tochero nuzat.”Maiian says.
“She wants to take a closer look at you,” I translate for Finley. “She’s asking if she can take your hand.”
“She may.” Finley holds up her left hand.
She’s playing this well. She looks composed; almost imperious.
Like a queen.
Maiian takes Finley’s hand. The backs of the Khaturian’s own hands are covered in intricate white tattoos; swirls and patterns of leaves and flowers. She strokes Finley’s palm and murmurs something in another language altogether.
It sounds like a chant; low, lyrical, and incomprehensible. As I listen to her rhythmic words, I’m lulled into a trancelike state.
