This is the third post of the day, so if you haven't read the previous two, click back ;)

x-x-x-x-x

Chapter Thirty-One: The Worst Kind of Fighter

x-x-x-x-x

It was no great surprise to Kyp when Sanar began avoiding him. What displeased him, however, was the way she refused to deal with anything—not her near-attack and subsequent breakdown, and definitely not whatever was most bothering her about her so-called destiny.

The smart thing to do would be to give her plenty of room, and let her come around on her own. It was a not-very-time-honoured tradition with them, usually wrecked when he blew up in her face again—he had a few patience issues. Unfortunately, they had too little time to even attempt the waiting game. They were under two weeks' slow travel from Quatroc. In just a little more time they would be in the serious rebellion business.

In short, they were running out of time. Kyp could barely hold the Sildar without feeling that dull ache of wrongness.

Despite the situation, however, Kyp was not feeling particularly suicidal. Rather than sleeping their first night back with the group, he had opted to meditate. It wouldn't pay to not take some precautions for his temper.

His failure, he estimated, would be as abysmal as always.

x-x-x-x-x

Stars—creepy much? Sanar shot Kyp a glare before concentrating on the fire. Durron hadn't stopped staring at her since he sat down with the group for dinner. Looking back, he had done a far amount of this sort of thing before; her temper was not soothed by the apparent habitualness. It needed to stop so she could get her head on straight. For a girl who prided herself on weathering the storm without falling all over the place, she had been disgustingly taken off guard by this whole prophecy business.

Contrary to popular opinion, Sanar was not a total emotional idiot. She and Durron had to talk. She knew it—she was just putting it off. For the next century, if possible. It was her plan, and she was sticking to it. Even if—even if sometimes she—

Sanar swore under her breath. Even if, nothing, she reminded herself sternly. But it wasn't fair. She'd gotten used to Durron on this trip. She had left with two friends and reunited with her sister; but one friend stayed to cover the Whilems' disappearance, the other was murdered, and Clayra….

Durron had somehow filled the holes when Sanar found herself isolated. But she absolutely refused to just—just give in to some stupid story. She planned to give off serious I hate you, go away vibes. However deep that ache sometimes hit where it shouldn't.

Unfortunately, Kyp Durron was very good at being an ignorant kryntath who missed her vibes. Of course. Hence the staring while travelling, while making camp, and especially while finishing up dinner….

"I want to step up our pace," Dejah told the group. Sanar startled out of her thoughts. "More walking at night—" The fighter ignored Clayra's pained expression, "and earlier mornings. Two weeks' travel is too much, if you want to be ready for the anniversary."

"How will the Resistance react to our arrival?" Miko asked.

Next to her once-partner, Krista looked like she wanted to make a smart aleck comment, but she held her peace. Instead, like no one could see her, the blonde woman stole Miko's right hand.

Dejah gave the two of them a nonplussed look, but answered Miko's question. "You have Niha's support," she said, "which will aid you in some corners. She has proven herself as a prophetess, and she is well-respected by many. Especially those who believe in Mujir and the Prophecy. But…"

"We are strangers," Braun finished when she didn't. He and Veras had covered this well before their marriage. "More than half of us—including the Kavishka—are alien, and we're barging in to declare ourselves their saviours. And some must be tiring of waiting for the gods' actions."

Dejah could not deny his point.

"Does it help that—" Sanar cleared her throat, and tried again. "Because of my father, and my ties to the Resistance…could I help?"

The Resistance fighter shrugged. "Again, more corners' support, yes. But not all. Even if this mission is successful—"

"It will be," Kyp interrupted in a hard voice.

Dejah's gaze flicked briefly from Kyp to Braun. The widower was glaring into the fire. She continued, but now in a more subdued tone. "Even if the Jirs die, and Pucijir's Order is crushed, and the Holy Brothers lose all power, the Resistance will be leery of you." Her lips tightened. "We do not trust strangers."

"Why is that?" Krista suddenly asked. When everyone looked at her askance, she glared. "What? Intel operative here, remember? I can look this pretty and formulate questions using critical thinking and stuff."

"There are stories," Sanar answered a trifle absently. Picking up a handful of sand, she passed it from hand to hand, and watched as the pile got smaller. "That Pucijir's Order started on another world before taking over this one. That the Jirs abused power from a different source—hired off-planet mercenaries, used their strength and weapons and technology against us. But if nothing else, outsiders have never helped us. And…they're very different, very alien. It's hard to trust anything like that on a world like this."

"Of course," she heard Miko grumble under his breath. "Of course people can never be logical."

Sanar didn't reply. Her words rang in her mind, bluntly pointing out why the Sildar could be bitter and proud enough to reject Kyp. Perhaps the question was not, How could They do this, but rather, Why hadn't she seen it coming?

"We can worry about all this later," Dejah said. "At worst, the Resistance will refuse you full support. You can attack on your own; the Kavishka is meant to be alone in the end."

Sanar and Kyp shifted uncomfortably at what felt like a lie. Everyone tried to pretend not to notice.

"What exactly will be going on when we arrive in Quatroc?" Miko asked. "I assume something is planned—by them—for the anniversary."

Gantik spoke before Dejah did: "More or less the usual, despite the whispers of something bigger. Specially crafted statues, festivals, and more religious rites than you can shake a stick at." He glanced at Sanar. She had once been privy to the darkest parts of the secret rites. "And they will—that is," he faltered. It was hard to break the silence, especially to the outsiders who had no idea. "There will be…the sacrifice."

"Did they ask you to preside over that inconvenient little part?" Sanar asked, almost quietly. Her knuckles whitened as she made her hands into fists.

Kyp made a sound at the back of his throat. For a moment, Sanar knew they were both remembering Devnos' haunted account of the ritual's origins. She felt uncomfortable acknowledging that he understood what they shared. She looked away quickly.

Gantik threw Sanar a frustrated look. "My father was slotted to do it, and when he died—yes, they wanted me to take his place. I refused, obviously; there would have been no way to save the girls while the emperor and the Holy Brothers watched."

No one doubted to whom he was trying to prove himself. Clayra looked like she had bitten into a sour fruit; Kyp glared; Sanar only snorted in disbelief.

Braun spoke up before Sanar could make a scathing comment. "Three sevens to their reign makes this a pretty special year for Pucijir's Order. I'd rather not dismiss 'something bigger,' even if it might be just a rumour."

Sanar grimaced. "Rafintair really likes his religion," she agreed. "If anyone would make it a big deal…"

"We have a—well, several spies, but one in particular, who stays in the palace." Dejah tore a piece out of their bread, and began to pass it around. "Isra. She used to stay at the abbey on occasion—she's very good at what she does. When we arrive in Quatroc, we can see what she knows."

"Isra?" Sanar recognized the name. "A spy? She always seemed so…blunt."

Dejah shrugged. "I haven't seen her in years—I have only read some of her reports." She hesitated. "If you knew Isra, I should probably tell you—she is one of Gaffil's maids."

Sanar's face drained of colour. "You mean she's in Gaffil's bed."

Dejah nodded almost reluctantly. "Rafintair has shown some interest in her as well, though I don't believe anything has happened on that front." She looked down. "Isra could be lying. Geneva has expressed some frustration because of her—apparently she gives facts, but very little else."

"Are you sure we can trust her, then?" When Sanar glared, Gantik defended himself. "Stranger betrayals have happened, Sanar. Gods. I remember Isra, too, you know."

Clayra scowled.

"Isra wouldn't betray us. She was as bent on destroying Pucijir's Order as Geneva could expect in one of her fighters. And the standards can't get much higher than that."

"I've heard nothing of serious suspicion about Isra," Dejah cut in. It was a clear attempt on her part to interrupt a growing argument. "But I have not been in Quatroc for some time. And," she added, "Geneva does not much like me." She shot Miko an unreadable look. "She thinks I am too moderate."

"Well, I think you could stand to enjoy fighting just a little more." Krista blinked and smiled. Her hand, which had been holding Miko's, slipped free, then through his arm. Miko was grinning.

"Bombs are fun," the blond woman continued. Her expression was little more restrained than Miko's. "And you've got pretty much the best reasons a girl could have for wanting destruction."

"You misunderstand me." Dejah's voice was razor sharp. "I have seen the ugliest sides of this planet. There are some who want vengeance more than I, but I assure you that they are few. Geneva and I clash because I do not want this planet to lose its humanity for our victory." She raised her chin. "We deserve uncompromising justice. An ocean of blood does not always have to be a requisite."

"We appreciate the sentiment," Sanar thought she heard Gantik mutter.

"There are always exceptions," she growled back in his direction.

Gantik vehemently swore under his breath. Kyp scowled at Gantik before returning his stare to Sanar.

Larifx.

"I seem to recall you pulling more than a few punches, Kris," Miko said. Apparently, everyone planned to simply ignore the escalating tension surrounding certain members of the group.

Or so Sanar thought, until Miko gave Kyp, Gantik and her each a reprimanding look. What did he think they were, eight? Sanar grumbled silently. No one was going to behave just because the red-haired Jedi glared at them.

Krista's jaw tightened, and she brushed a lock of hair out of her face. "You didn't see me after my little holiday near the end of the war."

"Actually," Miko corrected her in a sombre voice, "I did see you."

She gave him a peculiar look. "Weren't you kind of busy not getting caught by the Empire?"

Miko might have flushed, but it was hard to tell in the inconstant fire light. "I was…prepared for what happened," he told her uncomfortably. "Everyone's luck runs out eventually—I had planned my reaction pretty well ahead of time."

Krista began to frown now; Sanar could almost see her mentally arranging the puzzle pieces in her head. "You can't plan for the day your cover is blown. That's why it's so dangerous. If you were around—I was with Jaina in the middle of everything, you can't set up any kind of security for that when it's just a vague possibility."

Miko, frozen for a moment, stared at Krista like a deer in headlights. "Kris—" He grinned nervously. "Um, it's really nothing—"

Now Krista just looked ticked off. "What aren't you telling me?" she demanded. "You know something about what happened, don't you? I broke under interrogation, and you—"

In a desperate move, Miko suddenly lurched forward and planted a deep, rather distracting kiss on his five year crush.

The others blinked. Sanar, thinking abruptly of Kyp's kiss a few years back, thought that Kyp might have passed a few tricks on to his apprentice.

Krista let herself be distracted for a few moments, then pushed Miko back from her. "You," she said almost breathlessly, "are up to something."

"Boys generally are, when they kiss you." Recovering herself, Sanar raised her eyebrow in an overly saucy manner. Krista was too busy staring at Miko to notice. "The question is, how to stomp on their sand castle for the most damage?"

The blonde grabbed Miko's wrists and stood, pulling him up with her. "You, me, talking," she ordered. Then she suddenly grinned (and blushed? Did Krista Harif blush?). She released one of Miko's wrists to touch her lips with her fingers. "And…other stuff." Miko acquiesced surprisingly quickly after that.

There wasn't very much privacy in the middle of a desert, but Sanar kicked Gantik when he stared after the couple. "Leave them alone," she ordered, and kicked him again. Harder this time. She was a romantic.

Dejah looked faintly concerned. "Is something wrong?" she asked.

Kyp seemed to understand her actual question, and he came to his once-protégé's defence. "Miko would never hurt her," he stressed.

Sanar told herself that Kyp—Durron—hadn't looked at her. There were no signals, or points to be won. Definitely no subtext to be found.

"In the war we just finished, Krista was…hurt," Kyp treaded carefully around the personal subject. "It's been bothering her for a while."

Dejah's eyes narrowed. "And what did Miko have to do with that?"

Kyp sighed. "Miko was a double agent, working against those who captured Krista. Soon after, his true position was revealed to our enemies. From what I've gathered, Krista has always worried that she cracked under the interrogation."

"Did she?" The Resistance fighter still looked too grim.

"I thought you liked Miko," Sanar snapped. She continued before Dejah could respond. "Krista didn't break. Miko overextended his position to get her free. He was found out and hunted because he used all his influence to free his supposed enemy. He's well-proved himself. And what are you staring about now, Durron?" she demanded, turning on the Kavishka. His gaze had changed from the general drive-Sanar-insane stare to a stunned expression, gaping jaw included.

"What?" she repeated. "I'm right, aren't I? Miko's the reason Krista didn't get executed or used to madness?"

Kyp released a long, slow breath. "Yes," he conceded. "You haven't told Krista, have you?"

"I'm not a total idiot," she rejoined peevishly.

"You aren't an idiot at all," he snapped. "If—other elements are—playing games, it's not your fault that—"

"Oh, no," she sneered. "That's right—it's your fault, you chose all of this—"

"Whoa, hey," Gantik interrupted. "Notice how Krista and Miko left for their little discussion. This fire is for the rest of us. Who are not going to spit at each other."

"Shut the lafit hell up, Gantik." Sanar's foot connected unerringly with Gantik's left shin. She was not fully gratified even when he flinched in pain. "Maybe you should leave, since you're the one who has the problem."

Over Gantik's shoulder, Miko and Krista were close enough to be kissing. It looked so easy from a distance. Maybe it was, Sanar thought; maybe she was, and always had been, the problem. She had been a nuisance and a complication for years—it had helped her survive more than what her childhood had prepared her for. But—

Larifx.

"What is the problem?" Dejah asked unexpectedly. Apparently, she was no longer going to just ignore the tension.

"Nothing," Sanar muttered.

"If there is a problem between the Kavishka, and Jarran Klis' daughter," Dejah said sharply, "everyone will be able to pick up on it. And as unprepared as some sections may be to die on strength of your father's name, every one of them would shun a mythical hero for the Klis reality."

The words wrenched Sanar's heart, mixing with Niha's horrible but at least somewhat dismissible warning. Dejah's was simply too blunt and—real. Still, it probably wasn't a good idea to backhand Dejah—she did it anyway, before she realized what had happened. The two women stared at each other.

"I—I…thought you'd duck," Sanar finally muttered.

Dejah let Braun help her back up. "Well, I know how hard you hit, now," she snapped back. "Whatever is brewing between you and the Kavishka, I advise you to resolve it now, before you damn your own fairytale."

Sanar's gaze landed on her sister. Clayra's face looked so white and frightened. The younger girl had never liked conflict. The Klis sisters were…slightly different in that respect. Dragging her eyes away from Clayra's, Sanar pinned Dejah with a glare. "And I advise you to shut up. You don't know anything."

"Both of you need to relax," Braun spoke tersely. "I'm pretty sure you're both supposed to be grown women. How about you act like it?"

Dejah yanked away from Braun's restraining hand, and pushed back some of her hair. "I am only trying to ensure the success of a long-awaited prophecy," she said, her voice icy. "Sanar did ask how she could help. If she can't be bothered to compromise a little—"

Kyp said, "That's enough, Dejah."

But at the same time, Sanar snarled, "It isn't that easy."

"All I know is that more of this is riding on you than on anyone else, except the Kavishka—and you claim to be more dedicated than even him—but you're letting the past stand between your words and your actions."

Sanar's face lost all colour. Kyp moved as if to—what? Keep her and Dejah from exchanging blows? Drag Sanar away and stifle her with his lafit, sincere, too familiar eyes and reassurances?

Sanar sidestepped him. "It isn't like that," she growled. "It isn't any-stars-kriffing-thing like that—"

"You're the worst kind of fighter," Dejah charged on. "All devotions and words and fire until something comes along that you don't want to do because you're tired or bored or it goes against your morals and—"

But just as Sanar was about to clock her, Dejah took a deep breath, relaxed her stand, and softened her voice. "And," she said, "that is what you can expect from Geneva." She raised her hands in peace, but Sanar was too taken off-guard to attack. "I thought you should have some kind of warning."

"What?" Clayra said, her face scrunched in confusion.

"Next time," Kyp told Dejah, "a simple, I should warn you it'll be difficult will suffice." His expression was tight, too restrained.

Sanar—

Sanar didn't think about it.

Dejah gingerly touched her lip. Sanar couldn't tell in the darkness, but she thought the fighter's lip might be bleeding. "Not when it comes to Geneva," the other woman said.

Sanar felt like all bones as she stood, stiff and awkward. Her temples throbbed, her tongue burned from being—unsuccessfully—bitten down upon, her fingernails had stopped and stayed digging into the skin of her palms. "Well," she said. "Thank you. For the—warning. I'll be sure to return the favour sometime."

You're the worst kind of fighter.

Dejah gave Sanar something like a smile. Her lip split—this time Sanar was sure—and gleamed in the firelight.

Horaire bled like a paxi. She would never get him off her skin. Out of her soul.

Sanar wasn't sure she remembered the last time she had struck someone. It probably hadn't been too long ago, she conceded. While she had been working up to Onyx, at the very least; maybe Jaina at some time during their turbulent relationship. Durron had been a moving target more than once, and a good throw could hurt like a punch.

But this felt different. None of the post-Horaire lashings had landed like this. Dejah was a fellow Resistance fighter. Fellow. Wasn't she? Or had Prophecy stolen that, too?

Sanar didn't look at Kyp. "I'm turning in early," she told the group. "Going to be busy, and all."

For a moment, she thought Durron was going to follow her. He half-stood, and his eyes were too bright like when he had bitten into something and refused to let it go.

(Let her go, this time?)

If she didn't have first-hand experience of Kyp Durron's stubbornness, the Jaina-part of Sanar would have led to instant recognition. It wasn't over, and he didn't want to let it wait a few days, let alone a few hundred years.

He straightened—took a step toward her—Sanar began to get ready to run—

But then he sat back down, scowling but letting it go. For a little bit.

Sanar almost tripped over her own feet as she escaped.

You're the worst kind of fighter.

x-x-x-x-x

"You've got a message."

Isra had been making her bed, but she looked up at the surly interruption. With self-restraint born of years of practice, she managed not to sigh. Sarex. He was one of the few messengers Gaffil could afford to let loose, so the choice made sense, but it still left her with the problem. Already he was eyeing her with his typical arrogance. Of all of the men Gaffil had employed, Sarex was her least favourite. Even the cold-blooded assassins were more bearable; she found that they, at least, could be understood. Her own blood was not particularly rushed with emotion.

Ignoring the letter's carrier, she snatched the sheath of letters from Sarex and began to study them. Long years with Gaffil allowed her to decipher the mad array of his message relatively quickly. By the end, entire paragraphs had been crossed out, and words twisted, but pages of boring administrative tasks were eventually transformed into short queries or commands.

When she had finished, she began to scan it.

I.

After S. gives you this, dismiss him. He is no longer under my service, and I cannot imagine that many will wish to claim him. I leave the arrangements of his fate to you.

It took her off guard, and Isra snorted. She raised her eyes to the footman who, rather presumptuously, had not yet left. Uncharacteristically, his expression betrayed some anxiety. "You," she said, "are absolute dung at being one of Gaffil's spies." She wasn't particularly eloquent, but this man could barely manage to understand blunt. Besides, it was better to let Sarex sweat while she decided what to do with him. "He's suspicious, and he has your head in a noose. Don't be such a fool."

The man turned white as a sheet, all bravado disappearing with her words. Isra wondered what, exactly, he had done to elicit such an obvious threat—and fear, on the messenger's part—from Gaffil. Usually Gaffil preferred subtleties to such games.

There was one possibility that occurred to her, suddenly, but Isra pushed it aside as soon as it came to her. Ridiculous, weak, foolish idea that will get you killed, Isra.

With an impatient wave of her left hand, Isra dismissed her audience. "If there is a reply," she told him sharply, "I will send for someone else. Perhaps you should pray to your god."

Her last remark inspired a particularly nasty look, and when he was gone, Isra shook her head. She was slipping. Gaffil tolerated her strength—maybe admired it, maybe laughed at it—but her worst enemies were not men like Gaffil Jir. She had to watch her tongue around the others, especially with Gaffil gone to fight the so-called Kavishka. Of all people.

Realizing that she stood alone in the middle of Gaffil's receiving room, the spy rolled her eyes. She had a hundred things to do before dinner—not the last of which was to finish her report for Geneva. She didn't have time to feel and interpret Gaffil's letter. He had been in one of his playful moods in the cover letter—codes and slights and mocking endearments to throw off any of Rafintair's spies.

"Not that I don't appreciate your blasphemy as much as the next girl," she grumbled out loud.

Making a decision, she strode to her room. The letter she quickly pushed up a well-used slit in her mattress. One of the Gaffil-approved hiding spots. She had a thousand things to do before dinner, and they couldn't involve Gaffil's games.

She told herself that he hadn't given her a legitimate opportunity to both humiliate Sarex and amuse herself. Gaffil didn't know his messenger had been harassing her, or that the man was as blasphemous as a Pirese priest.

Gaffil Jir did not know her at all. She wrote it in her reports for Geneva, and assured everyone of that every time they asked (and they always asked). He couldn't, so it had to be true.

But Isra decided that maybe she could see to Sarex' punishment. For whatever he did to Gaffil.

After all, Gaffil had practically ordered her to enjoy herself.

Make that a thousand and one things to do.

x-x-x-x-x

It was dark night by the time she returned to Gaffil's quarters. Most servants slept in general rooms apart from the more opulent nobility quarters, especially when their master left for an extended period. Because of her position as a spy for both Gaffil and the Resistance, however, Isra had been told to stay in her usual room. It would be very quiet in the apartment. Tired as she was, Isra looked forward to praying through the entire wing. With any luck, Gaffil would figure out what she had done, and go into one of his "disgusted atheist" moods. For such a dangerous man, he could sulk surprisingly well.

She had the presence of mind to stifle her amusement at the idea. Such mischief soon disappeared from her mind, though, when she approached the main hallway. Just before pushing aside the entrance's curtain, Isra heard the first, faint strains of voices.

No one else was supposed to be in Gaffil's wing of the palace. She completed the daily housecleaning herself, and it was not the fifth day for the weekly and complete cleaning. Harvil and Jerica avoided Gaffil's rooms for the comfort of their own, when their master was gone. Tewelin—

But even as she went through the possibilities, Isra was tightening her hair restraint and drooping her shoulders. Rafintair was one of the few people power-high enough to send someone into his brother's home.

But why? What was he doing?

The closer she got to the main bedchamber, the louder the voices became. Falling into the careful shadows, she all but held her breath. If found, she would have an excuse, and Gaffil would probably even back her up. But the Resistance wouldn't thank her for revealing to Rafintair the nature of her relationship with Gaffil.

Of course, they probably thought she could bear being Rafintair's girl, too. So the grace of Mujir demands.

"…surprised…agreed…" she heard, but nothing else.

Well, that won't do.

Steeling her resolve, Isra slid along the wall until she was as close to the door as possible. If Mujir wanted this, She would just have to distract—

"Gaffil plays his games, but Pucijir will give reasons to convince even the most headstrong servant."

Now Isra couldn't breathe. Rafintair. Rafintair was going through Gaffil's rooms, casually discussing his brother's reactions and faith like—like—

Isra did not eavesdrop on Rafintair unless there was no one else available to try. One of the other girls—the new one, what was her name again? They died so quickly—had been goddess-sent. Isra was noticeable, and Rafintair always noticed.

She had the sudden, wild urge to run and get the other spy, who was new but indistinguishable from the other maids. Isra wouldn't have to face Rafintair, who was particularly unpredictable towards her when Gaffil was away.

But then Rafintair spoke again, and Isra knew she couldn't trust anyone else to overhear this conversation.

"Gaffil had his uses, but Pucijir cannot abide pride of such magnitude. At least this way, his sacrifice will reveal a small measure of the Kavishka's strength."

"Even infidels have their place," a familiar voice agreed. Ethin. One of Rafintair's favourite priests. Gaffil couldn't stand him. Isra had her own reasons to loathe the man.

"For the son of a maid, he has held up surprisingly well under his duties. But his poor breeding has been revealed through his disrespect for Pucijir. As my brother has some Jir blood, Pucijir gave him every opportunity to repent for as long as he could. That time is over. It is Pucijir's will, now, that someone devoted take Gaffil's position."

Ethin must have found it painful, but he avoided begging for the job. "Shall we begin dismantling Gaffil's rooms and staff?"

"We wait for my brother's defeat," Rafintair snapped. "As I've told you." Had he just kicked a wall? It sounded like it, but Isra didn't dare move to check. Still, usually Rafintair at least pretended to maintain his self-control. "We'll have to burn most of it," the emperor thought out loud. "Not that there's much to burn. Gaffil never was one for excess."

Or you could be burned to death…

Isra did not intend to die because of Gaffil Jir.

"The servants, too, I suppose?" Ethin almost sounded regretful.

A pause, then— "Not all of them. The spies, of course. But some of the men may be sent away to remember Pucijir's offer of forgiveness."

The spies? Isra's heart seized up, briefly, even as she forced her way through the adrenaline. How long had Rafintair known members of Gaffil's network?

"And the maid?" Now Ethin was leering.

"The maid will be transferred to my court." Rafintair paused. Isra's heart stopped beating. "I think she may be prepared—or nearly—to take vows."

"Few are," Ethin said, but Isra wasn't paying attention anymore.

Rafintair. Transferred. Taking vows.

It was more than Geneva could have hoped for. When the Resistance leader found out, there would be a transfer. Plots. Heresy. Isra would break her soul to make sure the Resistance knew everything.

Gaffil will—

But Gaffil would be dead, Isra thought numbly.

With painstaking care that she never forgot, even in her state, she withdrew from Gaffil's quarters. Gaffil wouldn't be stopping Rafintair—he would die, sent out on a suicidal mission—and Geneva would take advantage of that, and—

"Stop it," she muttered in the empty hallway. "Just stop it," she repeated, a little louder. Desiring little more at that moment than anonymity, she arranged her scarf over her face to conceal her identity. It took her a moment to realize the scarf was the stone-coloured one, her favourite. It felt soft against her face; despite that, it was stronger than it looked, and it was the only one she could wear on the windy days if she wanted to protect her face from the sand.

Gaffil had given it to her years ago. At the time she had still jumped at every sound, as if the Holy Brothers were going to race in and execute her at any moment.

Gaffil will be dead. How strange, her reaction to that statement.

Suddenly impatient, she pushed her reaction aside for later consideration. The absolute last emotion she could afford was panic—and she wouldn't, couldn't, panic—but it was closely followed by attachment. In the end, Isra had been chosen for her job for a reason. So it's time to start thinking.

The facts: Whatever Geneva's ambitions, Isra had to stay out of sight for a few days, lest Rafintair tried to push his schedule ahead of time. The change could be devastating without a plan. If Gaffil didn't come back.

If, not when. She reminded herself of the "suicidal" mission semantics. The Kavishka, defeated by no opponent, was not real. Rafintair might believe in the impostor, but the holy emperor was a religious fanatic and a fool.

Gaffil, for whatever his faults, was not stupid. And even Rafintair shouldn't bet against his brother in any kind of honourable combat. Odds would have to be weighed down with a not insignificant portion of Rafintair's worst. It wasn't like Gaffil wouldn't notice if Rafintair sent a dozen Holy Brothers to kill him.

Isra took a calming breath, and forced her mind into gear.

The Kavishka was an old wives' tale.

Gaffil wasn't an idiot. If Rafintair put a dagger to Gaffil's back, he would notice. Even Rafintair knew that, didn't he? But if the priests were involved…

What, Isra? So what? Isra tightly fisted her right hand, let her fingernails cut into the skin of her palms. She picked up her pace in the hallway, barely caring that she had bumped into two indignant men. They were nobodies. She was still "Gaffil's" girl. They wouldn't attack her. By that reasoning, she thought, she ought to be taking advantage of the next few days.

So what if the priests and the Holy Brothers are plotting Gaffil's death? So he'll die, and good riddance to the worst threat the Resistance has.

Geneva would probably be so ecstatic that she even cracked a smile, albeit a scary one.

And you—

Isra barged into the maids' quarters for the first time in months. She had a bed in this section, but she hadn't slept a full night in it since being fully transferred to Gaffil's household. The cot wasn't made—another girl had probably long-since stolen the blankets. The pillow had been replaced with a few belongings that didn't fit under the other beds. Isra scowled, and swept the bed clean with a clatter. She ignored the glares and snide remarks sent her way. She needed to lie down before her mental state propelled her into making another person bleed.

And you will be stuck with Rafintair until you hate yourself even more than you do Rafintair, and you'll kill yourself before you see anything better.

Mujir, she thought. Turning on her side to face the wall, the spy covered her face with one hand.

Geneva would get off Isra's back. The Resistance would have unprecedented access and power. They might even stand a chance at…at changing something. Selfishness wasn't even a choice, now. There was too much to be gained.

(I think she may be prepared—or nearly—to take vows.)

And she knew it. Knew she couldn't be selfish. If nothing else, her failure now would label her a traitor to the Resistance and she would be executed. After all this time, she would be denied entry to Mujir's paradise.

She wasn't that good of an actress, she admitted later in the dark. Gaffil knew about her. He had played along for his own reasons, but Isra had no doubt that Gaffil Jir had figured out her secrets, just as she had solved too many of his. He had protected her thus far.

But she was—

Someone was going to make the same observations, the same connections, that Gaffil had. And then she—

She didn't want to die. Not the way Rafintair would plan for her when he found out about her. Not with her only recent memories being of Rafintair and violation and torture and worse still. She had told herself that some day it might come, and that she could handle it, but—

But she had never wanted this.

x-x-x-x-x

"Your Highness." The servant bowed quickly.

It was a new one; hard-cornered and with only enough grey in his hair to have given him some moderation. Even when Gaffil nodded for him to stand at ease, the messenger was alert, ready to take note of everything. Gaffil felt the corners of his mouth twitch upward. This man had Isra's choice written all over him.

"You have something for me?" he asked gruffly. Isra's reply had taken longer than usual. He wasn't used to that—she was quick with both truth and fabrication.

The messenger bowed again and handed him a thick folder.

Before the man could leave, Gaffil spoke. "What happened to the one I sent? Sarex?"

The messenger met Gaffil's eyes levelly. (Definitely Isra's pick.) "Sarex has disappeared."

"Oh?"

"The Holy Brothers will find him soon. Traitors of Pucijir and the Emperor are always caught."

Gaffil didn't laugh. He wouldn't. "What are the charges?" he queried.

"A search of his room revealed Mirese propaganda, revolutionary papers against the Emperor and yourself." The man paused. "And several brothels have claimed his financial patronage. Paid before he tithed."

Gaffil. Did. Not. Laugh. (That's my girl.)

He turned away, waving away the messenger. When the man was gone—well, Gaffil might have laughed a little before opening Isra's folder. It was a brilliant example of Isra's trickery, after all. He really couldn't have picked a more fitting end himself for Sarex.

After he read Isra's letter, however, there wasn't a hint of a smile on Gaffil Jir's face.

G,

R is taking your quarters. No doubts that you are not returning. Real mission, poison, attack, I know not. Already subduing the servants, melting valuables. No decision yet about successor.

R made deal with priests. E came today about my vows ceremony.

I am of course a slave to the Jir dynasty's will.

Isra.

That she had used her name was worrying enough. Initials could be denied, if only for a few moments. Isra had not given herself that back door.

E came today about my vows ceremony.

Isra was scared enough to let him know. Assassination attempts were nothing new to him, or even to her. She knew the risks as well as he did, and had never fretted over them. It was one of the reasons he had kept her for so long.

She shouldn't have written this letter, he thought viciously. If he survived—he would survive—then she would continue to work for him and the Resistance. If he died—

She was only another spy, another strategy piece. What did he care about her?

She should never have written this letter.