I want to touch that hair, smell it, run my hands through it, wrap it around my wrist and—damn it, Veturius, get a hold of yourself. Stop staring.
After I pull my eyes from her, I realize that I’m not the only one dumbstruck. Many of the young men around me sneak glances at her. She doesn’t seem to notice, which, of course, makes her all the more intriguing.
And here you are, Elias, staring at her again. You twit. This time, my attention hasn’t gone unobserved.
Izzi is watching me.
The girl might have only one eye, but I’m fairly certain she sees more than most. Get out of here, Elias, I tell myself. Before she figures out why you look so damn familiar.
Izzi leans over and whispers something into Laia’s ear. I’m about to walk away when Laia looks up at me.
Her eyes are a dark jolt. I should look away. I should leave. She’ll figure out who I am if she stares long enough. But I can’t bring myself to move.
For a heavy, heated moment, we are immobile, content to watch each other.
Skies, she’s beautiful. I smile at her, and the blush that rises on her face makes me feel oddly triumphant.
I want to ask her to dance. I want to touch her skin and talk to her and pretend that I’m just a normal Tribal boy and she’s just a normal Scholar girl.
Stupid idea, my mind warns. She’ll recognize you.
So what? What would she do? Turn me in? She can’t tell the Commandant she saw me here without incriminating herself too.
But while I’m still considering, a muscular, red-haired boy comes up behind her. He touches her shoulder with a possessiveness in his eyes that I don’t like. Laia, in return, stares at him as if no one else exists. Maybe she knew him before she became a slave. Maybe he’s the reason she snuck out. I scowl and look away. He’s not bad-looking, I suppose, but he seems too grim to be any fun.
Also, he’s shorter than me. Considerably shorter. Half a foot, at least.
Laia leaves with the redhead. Izzi gets up after a moment and follows.
“Looks like she’s taken, lad.” A Tribal girl wearing a bright green dress covered in tiny circular mirrors sashays up to me, her dark hair done up in hundreds of braids. She speaks Sadhese, the Tribal tongue I grew up with.
Against her dusky skin, her smile is a blinding flash of white, and I find myself returning it. “I guess I’ll have to do,” she says.
Without waiting for a reply, she pulls me to the dance floor, a remarkably bold thing for a Tribal girl to do. I look at her closely and realize that she’s not a girl but a grown woman, perhaps a few years older than me. I eye her warily.
Most Tribeswomen have a few children by their midtwenties.
“Don’t you have a husband who’ll take off my head if he sees me dancing with you?” I respond in Sadhese.
“I don’t. Why, are you interested in the position?” She runs a warm, slow finger down the skin of my chest and stomach, all the way to my belt. For the first time in a decade or so, I blush. Her wrist, I notice, is free of the Tribal braid tattoo that would mark her as married.
“What’s your name and Tribe, lad?” she asks. She’s a good dancer, and when I match her step for step, I can tell she’s pleased.
“Ilyaas.” I haven’t spoken my Tribal name in years. Grandfather Martialized it within about five minutes of meeting me. “Ilyaas An-Saif.” As soon as I say it, I wonder if it’s a mistake. The story of Mamie Rila’s adopted son being taken to Blackcliff isn’t well known—the Empire ordered Tribe Saif to keep it quiet. Still, Tribesmen love to talk.
But if the girl recognizes the name, she doesn’t acknowledge it.
“I’m Afya Ara-Nur,” she says.
“Shadows and light,” I translate her first name and her Tribal name. “Fascinating combination.”
“Mostly shadows, to be honest.” She leans toward me, and the smolder in her brown eyes makes my heart beat a little faster. “But keep that between us.”
I tilt my head as I look at her. I don’t think I’ve ever met a Tribal woman with such sultry self-possession. Not even a Kehanni. Afya smiles a secret smile and asks me a few polite questions about Tribe Saif. How many weddings have we had in the past month? How many births? Will we journey to Nur for the Fall Gathering? Though the questions are suitable for a Tribal woman, I’m not fooled. Her simple words don’t match the sharp intelligence of her eyes. Where is her family? Who is she, really?
As if sensing my suspicion, Afya tells me of her brothers: rug-traders based in Nur, here to sell their wares before bad weather closes off the mountain passes. As she speaks, I look around surreptitiously for these brothers of hers—
Tribal men are notoriously protective of their unwed women, and I’m not looking for a fight. But though there are plenty of Tribesmen in the crowd, none of them so much as look at Afya.