The Silent(7)

The breathing in the room evened out again.

“See the door at the end of the hall. Reach out and close it. Hold it with your hand if you need to. Close the door and say, ‘Domem.’”

“Domem,” they said together.

Still.

Still.

“Domem livah,” Kyra said, and her sisters repeated. “Domem livah.”

“Domem manah.”

“Domem manah.”

Still the mind.

Still the soul.

Still the heart.

Livah was a word in the Old Language that encompassed all three. It was the center of oneself in a spiritual sense, as manah was the holistic body. Kyra was slowly learning much of the language that had shaped her thoughts, though she hadn’t understood it for most of her life. The Old Language was the angelic tongue. The voices of the soul in humanity. There were accents and variations, but beyond superficial differences, every human and angelic soul spoke the same language. It was universal. A spell spoken by kareshta or Irina worked the same, though Irina were stingy with the knowledge of more powerful magic.

It was fine, Kyra told herself over and over. Shielding would allow her sisters to live. To exist as more than shadows.

Finding true power was for others who would come after her, those who had more years left. Those like Intira and Bun Ma.

The magic in the room pressed close and settled in each woman like a warm flame. Kyra felt her livah shining bright and whole in her mind’s eye. She opened her physical eyes and saw Prija staring at her. Her gold eyes flickered as if there were a fire burning behind them.

“Prija,” Kyra said calmly. “Domem.”

The fire flickered brighter.

“Domem, Prija.”

The other women were aware now, watching Kyra with wary eyes.

Kyra felt the mental punch a second before she shouted, “Zi yada!”

Prija fell over unconscious as Kyra’s nose gushed with blood. Intira held a hand towel out to Kyra as Kanchana and Bun Ma rushed to their unconscious sister.

Bun Ma spoke quietly as Kanchana rolled Prija to her side and put a blanket under her head. If the previous three weeks were any indication, the woman would sleep for several hours, then wake and continue on as if nothing had happened. Kyra didn’t know if she was getting through at all. She just hoped.

“Bun Ma said that our sister lasted much longer this time,” Intira said.

“She did.” Kyra pressed the cloth to her nose and pinched the bridge. “Progress.”

“Why do you let Prija come every day when she makes you bleed?” Intira asked.

“Does she want to be here?”

“Kanchana says she does,” Intira said.

“Then she may come,” Kyra said. “As long as she wants to attend, she is welcome. I can defend myself.”

“Her rages are getting better.”

“Then something is getting through.” Kyra patted Intira’s hand even though the girl flinched. “We will keep working.”

Intira rubbed her hand where Kyra had touched her. She wasn’t offended, just startled.

Like Kyra and her sisters, Intira was unaccustomed to any human or Grigori touch. Soul voices were usually stronger with contact, so kareshta learned very early to avoid touching any other being unless absolutely necessary. It was why few of them ever took lovers or mates until some had learned to shield themselves. Kyra used to think she didn’t like to be touched, until one day a tall scribe took her hand and made the voices go away.

Was it Irin magic? Or was it simply Leo?

No one else had ever given her true silence. Then again, Leo was the only scribe she’d ever touched. She’d craved it after a single moment. It was part of the reason she couldn’t allow her fascination with him to grow.

“Let me tell you.”

“It will only make it worse when I leave again.”

“So don’t leave. Stay here.”

“I can’t.”

Intira crouched in front of her. “Kyra, are you feeling well?”

Kyra nodded and took the towel from her face. The bleeding had stopped and Kanchana had drawn a blanket over Prija. They left her in the meditation room they used for instruction. At some point during the day, Prija would wake and slip back to her room or escape into the forest. It was hard to keep track of her, but Niran was adamant. The compound was not a prison. As long as Prija wasn’t hurting anyone, she could come and go as she pleased.

“Come,” Intira said. “Kanchana says the brothers have prepared a meal for us.”

And it was a good thing they had. Kyra’s stomach was rumbling when she rose. Practicing controlled magic burned energy. Fighting off mental attacks from out-of-control kareshta burned even more.





Prija I





She woke alone in the empty cottage.

It was Prija’s preferred way of waking. Alone.

She sat up and looked around at the meditation cottage.

A place of peace and learning, the pale woman had said.

Peace and learning.

Learning was useful. Peace was an illusion. She’d had no peace since Kanok had died.

A playful song danced at the back of her mind. Kanok’s voice. It was the only sound she heard in her mind anymore. The other voices had been snuffed out. The stars were dim. She’d never told her brothers or sisters that fact. But then, Prija didn’t like to speak. She’d avoided it for years.

The only power she had left was like a stone. Once, she’d woven delicate, secret magic. Magic that had frightened her own father. Now she could only throw her power at others, hoping to wound them enough that they’d leave her alone. She kept trying to wound the foreigner, but so far the woman had proven surprisingly resilient.

Moonfaced girl. The first time Prija had seen her, that was what the woman reminded her of. Her skin had a luminous quality that seemed to reflect light like the moon. She had soft edges and a gentle voice.

Prija was not soft. Her fingers were callused from playing her saw sam sai; the three-stringed bowed instrument was her only voice since her father’s death. Her feet were broad and padded from running and climbing through the forest. Her hair was perpetually tangled. She was thin and hard.

She was not like Bun Ma, whose soft face and body reminded Prija of her dead mother. Kanchana wanted to be a warrior. She pretended to be hard, but she was soft inside. Prija sometimes heard her crying at night. And as for Intira, the girl was soft as boiled rice, and Prija would kill to keep her that way. Intira’s mind was like one of the crystal vases Prija had seen once in the village. Cut finely and reflecting a thousand facets, the young girl’s mind was as beautiful as it was complex.

The moonfaced girl was interesting. She was hard but appeared soft. And she was stronger than the others realized. Stronger than any of them thought. If she weren’t, Prija would have knocked her unconscious by now.

Silently, Prija picked herself up off the bamboo floor and walked into the forest. She liked the lessons because they allowed her to spend quiet time with her sisters, but they weren’t useful. Prija already knew how to control her thoughts. It had been an accident, but she knew.

All you had to do to mute the voices around you was to kill your father and destroy most of your mind.





Chapter Four





Leo woke to the smell of lemongrass and coconut drifting through the Bangkok scribe house as the setting sun backlit the bamboo shades that covered his windows. He could hear the bustle of the city below where the vendors at the night markets were setting up stands and preparing food for the crowds that Friday night.

He’d indulged in a short nap before dinner after greeting Dara and her brother Rith when he’d arrived. Alyah showed him to his borrowed room and told him to rest and refresh himself before dinner.

The Bangkok scribe house was a narrow wooden house that stretched five stories up from the street. The painted gates concealed a peaceful garden decorated with lily ponds and a myriad of ladders and stairs leading to rooms surrounding the central courtyard. It was the most immaculate scribe house Leo had ever seen. His room was small and the bed was short, but both were more than adequate. He stayed in far less comfortable lodgings for most of his assignments.

His room was also close to the kitchen. He suspected someone in the Istanbul house had warned them of his appetite.

Oh cue, his stomach grumbled.

He stretched up and forward, reaching for his toes as he flexed his feet. The talesm on his arms appeared to move as his muscles did. The black ink had been patiently scribed over hundreds of years. His longevity spells, halting his age in what humans would guess was his late twenties. Spells for patience and self-control. Spells for clear vision. For empathy—he’d long suspected Chamuel’s blood flowed in his veins. For swiftness in battle and wisdom in strategy. His talesm were as much a part of him as his hands or feet.

Bent over, he breathed out a prayer for clarity and perception. Though he had been called to this scribe house to advise, he also needed to learn. If he was to advise his brothers and sisters here, he must hear their needs first.

Leo was young, and any request for instruction still humbled and surprised him. For decades, he’d been the lowest-ranked warrior at the Istanbul house. The fact that he’d acquired a reputation for being a good teacher still surprised him.

He rose from the bed and dressed in the loose pants and cotton shirt he’d seen the other scribes wearing. He was glad his last visit to Shanghai had been in the summer. He had plenty of clothes for warm weather even though he’d had to have most of his tailored. He stood out like a blond Goliath in Southeast Asia. Fortunately, Thailand had enough international tourists and residents that locals rarely gave him notice.