The prison tower was silent, save for Mithrin's afternoon nap snores. Meya peered at the sunlight streaming in through the bars. The rays hadn't changed color, but their angle seemed to have tilted.
How long had it been? An hour? Two hours? Shouldn't take the Hadrian couple that long to interrogate their sons, should it? And wouldn't anyone at all bother to double back and check if Meya was still talking with Amoriah? Was she, ultimately, alone, as she always was?
The realization rattled her, but it shouldn't. Since she had become part of Arinel's—then Coris's entourage, learned to move, act and survive as a group, she'd forgotten what it was to be alone. To rely on herself, never expecting salvation nor assistance. What was she doing, waiting for help that would never come? How pitiful, crying for people—men, no less—who weren't even here?
Think! How would I escape?
Meya took stock of all she was left with. She'd have to break these Lattis shackles with the only known method—her blood. She could dig her nails into her palm and let the blood drip onto the shackles. That way, she could avoid Lattis entering her body, but the mixture could still drip onto her bare skin.
How much would she forget this time? Who would she forget?
Arinel, laying her hand atop Meya's as she accepted death, entrusting her name to Meya—embracing Meya as she passed on her clan's priceless charms of luck. Lady Jaise, returning her ancestor's legacy to her as rightful heir. Atmund, the boy she saved—Frenix, the ultimate troublemaker—Philema, tending to and comforting her like a mother—Dorsea—Tissa—
Coris.
Glinting, sly silvery eyes. Faint, melancholic smile. Awkward, bony embraces. Ice-cold lips. Cheeky teasing. Shared laughter. Shared tears. Shared nights and days. Twice she'd forgotten him against her will. Now, she would knowingly erase him? Cherished memories, forever lost. Would she risk that again? Without even a goodbye?
Meya's fingers trembled. She dug her nails into the flesh of her palms. She couldn't bring herself to slice through, but there was no other way.
Be decisive. Be ruthless. Be strong. Be free.
Meya gritted her teeth against grief, urging strength into her numb fingertips. Before she could make up her mind, clattering noises echoed from the ladder, rising higher and higher towards her.
Meya hung her head and fell limp from her bonds, the picture of meek defeat. The visitor set foot onto the walkway with steps light and unsure, paused, then sprinted. Their shadow reached first into Meya's field of vision, eclipsing the light. Then came feet. Surprisingly small, wrapped in simple hay shoes, appearing and disappearing under fluttering lace hems. This was no Hyacinth guard. Meya couldn't resist herself. She looked up.
Ice-blue eyes wide with fear and shock. Spotless cheeks flushed from the steep climb. Locks of rich golden hair streaming through her hood. She stood panting, a snowy hand clutching her cloak at her chest.
"Lady Arinel?"
Meya croaked, voice cracking from thirst. Arinel surveyed her from head to toe, then raised her trembling hands to her mouth.
"Oh, Meya." She breathed, her voice choked with tears. After a moment of useless fretting, she gathered herself, tugged off her cloak then wrapped it around Meya. She struggled with the clasp—her fingers were shaking horribly.
"Father—he found out—I'm so sorry—" She spluttered, hiding her face in shame. Meya was too shocked to care.
"How did you know? How did you get here so fast?"
"Never mind that now." Arinel cut across. She leaned close, narrowing her eyes at the shackles, then rummaged in her pockets, "He'll have you tried for petty treason. You have to get out before his men get here."
Arinel resurfaced with something Meya had never imagined she'd be caught holding—a set of lock-picks. She studied the shackles again, then eyed Meya quizzically, "Why haven't you gotten out?"
Meya watched as Arinel jammed the picks into the keyhole, then tapped the rainbow gleam on the metal.
"Lattis. Dun feel like burning down the whole danged town yet." Arinel's wide-eyed look morphed into fury. Meya shrugged, "You're Lady Crosset. Just sort things out with Amoriah then send them home."
Arinel froze, blinking. She roused herself then shook her head, working the lock-picks ever more furiously.
"I'm Lady no more. Father disowned me when I left Jaise." Her voice trembled as hard as her hands. Meya's frozen heart clattered in the pit of her empty bowels.
"Milady, you shouldn't have—"
"What should I have done, then? Let you burn at the pyre?" Arinel snapped. A flash of glowering blue eyes and fluttering golden curls, then she was again warring with the keyhole, grumbling,"This isn't working—I'm going to melt this. Be still."
Arinel produced a jar filled with crimson liquid out of her pocket, then a knife which she dipped into the red. Meya couldn't help herself,
"Where did you—"
"Not now, Meya!" Arinel growled through gritted teeth. As she sawed through the shackle, she held up her cloak to absorb the amnesiac mixture. Still, the smidgen of fear in her voice didn't escape Meya's ears, "Where's Coris? How could he let this happen?"
The name dragged Meya back to the dark place she was in. Meya hung her head, staring at her belly.
"He dunno. He's being grounded." She sighed. Arinel's sawing paused. "His parents are here. Seems Zier's been tattling about our planned little detour to Everglen."
The first shackle caved under the weight of Meya's hand. Massaging her aching shoulder, Meya glanced up to find Arinel petrified, gawking. She thawed, fury radiating from her delicate frame.
"Drown you, Zier." Arinel cursed under her breath. She moved over to Meya's right, taking out her frustration on the second shackle. Meya snorted,
"To think I was growing rather fond of him, too, you know. No offense."
"None taken." Arinel rolled her eyes. A clatter, and Meya was free. She barely had time to rub blood back into her wrists when Arinel tugged her to her feet. "No time for goodbyes, then. They're waiting. Come on."
"They who?" Meya didn't budge. Arinel spun around with an exasperated cry.
"Meya—"
"—In nine months I'm gunna multiply, milady. Are they prepared for that?"
Meya exploded. Arinel stood blinking, then her hands flew to her mouth again. Her eyes darted to Meya's middle, back to Meya's eyes, then welled up with tears.
"Oh, Freda." She breathed. Sinking to her knees, she touched cold, soft, shaking fingertips to Meya's belly.
"Coris's?" She looked up, the question barely escaping her lips. Meya turned away at the sharp pang in her heart. Who else could it have been?
"Have you told him?" Meya closed her eyes with a sigh then shook her head.
"Dun think I'll keep it." She slumped onto her prison seat. Even as she said it, her hand joined Arinel's on her middle, cradling the as yet nonexistent bump, "I'm afraid I'll become my mother. But I'm afraid I'll regret it. I'm afraid how Coris would react. But I dun wanna keep secrets from him. I dunno what I'm more afraid of."
Tears burned in her eyes, threatening to spill—she pressed them back with the heel of her hand. Arinel's hand left her belly and clasped over hers, smooth fingers slipping between her rough, warty ones. Her palm pressed over the back of her hand was a patch of grounding warmth amid the swirling, chaotic sea of darkness.
"Do you want to keep it?" Her voice was soothing, like the cool reprieve of a damp herb poultice over heated skin split open by whip lashes. Meya couldn't suppress her tears any longer.
"Dun matter what I want. Can't have it in this danged life."
"Why?" Arinel tugged Meya's other hand away from her face and held it, too. It urged Meya to set aside sarcasm, untangle the chaos in her heart.
"I—I killed hundreds of people in the Famine. I robbed my mother of her Song. I brought my family so much shame. I have to make up for all that."
Meya's shoulders trembled under the soul-crushing weight.
"Say Coris somehow miraculously made me Lady Hadrian, I couldn't be sitting around braiding my hair and cooking and weaving and raising children and making love to my husband while Greeneyes are suffering and humans are starving all over Latakia. I can't be a woman, milady. I can't be—me."
The confession robbed Meya of what remained of her strength. Arinel caught her as she fell, sobbing, spilling tears and her deepest, darkest fears down the lady's shoulder.
"And I'm so scared. And tired. And cold. I wanna go home but I can't. Not like this. I haven't accomplished a thing. I haven't done Dad proud. I'm not a maiden no more. I was an exile. Now I'm a traitor. And now I'm pregnant out of wedlock. And 'tis all—my—stupid—fault!"
Meya buried her face into Arinel's soft hair, clinging on like one would the last bollard standing in a storm. Arinel held her, a distracted hand running down her back, then her hand began to tremble.
"Meya, this is too much. You're punishing yourself for existing!" She shook Meya, as if to jolt her out of her insane beliefs. Meya remained limp and listless. She huffed in frustration and tightened her embrace.
"What's wrong with becoming your mother? What's wrong with cooking and weaving and raising children and marrying the man you love? Why do you have to be so afraid?"
Tears tumbled down Meya's cheeks. Arinel pulled back and stared deep into her eyes, blue eyes blazing with determination.
"You can have a babe. And you can save Latakia. It's going to be double the hurdle and double the work, yes. But I've never taken you for someone who'd settle for second best. And you're not alone. You have Gretella. You have Agnes. You have me. Let us help."
The gleam in Arinel's eyes blazed bright white, like sunlight reflecting off virgin snow, Meya shuddered as her earnest emotions arced through the thick fog into her heart. She didn't deserve such pure friendship and love from the girl she'd exploited and manipulated and scorned. She averted her eyes. Arinel sighed, frustrated.
"What's the point of fighting for a better life for every Greeneye in the three lands, if you can't have the life you dreamed of, too?" She took Meya's hands, pleading. Meya heaved a tortured sigh, remembering the other, more worrisome obstacle.
"But even so—Coris—he dun want children." She shook her head hopelessly as she blubbered out Freda knew what. Her head was a jumble of half-formed fears and excuses and reasons and facts and emotions, but she was so drained, it was all she could do to unload it in one go,
"But he's too noble. I'm sure if I told him, he'd take the babe because he felt responsible. And I dun want that. And he kept saying he's gunna die soon. I dun wanna make him live for the babe's sake. Just because I can't bring myself to kill it. But what if he wasn't just being a depressed dolt and he just up and dropped dead one day? I dun wanna orphan the babe. What if I died giving birth? Or maybe I'd die aborting it. Either way, it's gunna hurt. I dun want that. I dunno what to do."
Silence. All Arinel did was caress her hands. Somehow, the awkward yet earnest gesture gave Meya strength. Although the darkness remained just as pitch black, she was no longer alone inside it.
"We still have time, Meya. It's still early." Arinel gave Meya's hands one last squeeze—a signal to move, "We'll figure something out. For now, let's get you out of here. One thing at a time, Grandmother always says."
Meya nodded. Yes, escaping was first priority. She'd only have to worry about all those if she still had a life to live.
"Is Jerald here? Just pretend you're the arresting party your father sent." She suggested as Arinel helped her to her feet. The Lady shook her head.
"I tried. Amoriah's under orders to not hand you over to anyone but his trusted men. So we move on to the last resort."
"Which is?"
The clunk of boot against metal rung echoed from the ground below. The two girls jolted and spun around, staring, waiting with bated breath as the clunks rose higher up the ladder, the barest of pauses between steps a testament to the climber's strength. A head of straggly black hair emerged, heralded by a familiar cold, no-nonsense voice tinged with that unforgettable Nostran accent.
"Dragons—double the lifetime, half the patience, Lady Crosset. What's taking so long?"
Arinel hid her face behind her hands.
"I'm so sorry, Meya. It's the only way." She squeaked as the towering shadow eclipsed her repenting form. Meya raised her eyes to his emotionless, emerald-green eyes. Across his neck, a jagged scar slashed a slanting swathe of dead, bone-white against olive brown. The mark of her betrayal, forever branded on her brethren.
"Meya Hild." said Gillian with a mirthless smile.
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