I can’t bear for Maraya to find out that Polodos is the one who told Father where they were because I don’t want her to fight with him. “I mean, yes. I know things can never go back to what they were. But Father wanted to see you and I remembered how you always say it is better to face what troubles you most. That’s all.”
I press fingers over my mouth, afraid that Mother is going to yell at me again.
Frightened by the tension, Safarenwe begins to fret in the chair. Her movement attracts Father’s eye.
Hoarsely he says, “Is that one of the twins I’ve heard spoken of?”
“Take Safarenwe over to him, Amaya. It is no part of Efean culture to refuse to allow a child to know its father. Not even an extra and thus disposable girl.”
He winces.
All I can think of is that dark passage in Eternity Temple, the rough agony of its silence and the curdling stink of its secrets. The “extra” daughters inside.
Wan and cautious, Amaya approaches him.
“Amaya, how did you get to Saryenia so quickly? The winds were against you.”
“We were transferred to a warship, a fast galley, Father.” The delighted-kitten charm she used to show him has been clawed right out of her. The baby has caught the tense mood and fusses anxiously.
Father says sternly, “Let me hold her.”
Amaya obeys immediately. Safarenwe lets out an indignant squawk, then lifts her dark gaze to the stranger holding her. Her lips tremble with infant concern as she leans her whole body away from his grim face.
“Safarenwe,” he says, testing the name.
The baby reaches out to pat his lips. At her touch, the lines of his mouth soften. His eyes crinkle.
“Safarenwe,” he repeats, seeing how the name’s melody and rhythm wrap around her sweet little face and the distinct uniqueness of her presence in the world, for a name is one of the five souls that fill us. “Here is your papa, Safarenwe, home at last to meet you.”
She coos and smiles.
Pressing a hand to her eyes, Mother turns away. Maraya hurries to her and tucks an arm around her waist.
“Maraya, do you have no greeting for your father?” he says, for he never takes his gaze from Mother for long.
Maraya does not release her hold on Mother as she addresses Father with her usual calm tone. “I am grateful you are whole and alive, Father. But your explanations are nothing but weak excuses. You would never be as careless with the soldiers under your command as you were with your own family.”
“You left us to die in a tomb!” Amaya bursts into tears.
“I didn’t know!” he shouts.
Safarenwe wails.
Mother cries, “Give her to me!”
He crosses to her and she takes the baby from him. Takes a step back so he can’t touch her.
“Kiya—”
“You made your choice, Esladas. Now you will live with it. Please leave. Is Jessamy going with you?”
“No,” he says, speaking before I can.
The word startles her enough that she meets his gaze without enmity. Shared understanding passes between them like heat lightning, for the years of cooperation and love have molded their minds into one instrument when it comes to their children.
“I fear for her life if she remains within the palace,” he adds.
“Not for your own?”
“I am a soldier. I gave my life to Efea years ago. But I will not let them bury my daughter.”
“A poor choice of words,” remarks Maraya.
Polodos says, “Dearest, is it necessary to speak so harshly to your father?”
“Let her speak, Polodos, because she is not wrong,” says Father. “Kiya, before I go, may I see my son?”
Mother looks at me. A flicker of shame creases her brow, smoothed out so swiftly I almost miss it. She tips her head toward the net cradle, giving me permission.
When I halt by the cradle, Wenru makes a sour face that pulls a smile to my lips.
“I’m not happy to see you either,” I murmur.
Because Mother still hasn’t moved or spoken, I pick him up and march to Father.
“Here is the son you’ve long been praying for.”
My comment scratches a nerve. “I have never complained of my daughters, Jessamy.”
But he is a Patron man, born and bred, for whom the siring of a son is the most distinctive mark of manhood. Pride warms his face as he takes the baby from me. A son, at last. Yet after a pause his brows wrinkle in puzzlement as he and an exceedingly disgruntled Wenru engage in a far more adult stare-off than any person would expect from a baby barely half a year old.
Ro’s sister sticks her head through a gap in the curtain. She surveys our awkward stances and my flushed face with a smile tinged with malicious pleasure. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything. Polodos, I need help in here. More bread. Also, six people just came in asking for a pot of lentil stew.”
All throughout, unremarked, Cook has been grilling flat rounds of bread. Amaya hustles over and grabs the tray they are cooling on.
Father says, “My daughter does not serve strange men in a common inn—”
“I am no longer yours to command, Father! I will go about my life in my own way now.” With a defiantly theatrical toss of her head and a glance toward Denya, who is still hiding under the table, Amaya vanishes behind the curtain.
“Kiya, I thought we agreed—”
“Yes, we agreed, back when you were part of my household, Esladas. You are free to leave so my household may get back to work feeding ourselves and our customers.”
“I have an idea,” I say before Father can go on. “Send Wenru with Father. That would be fair, would it not? Mother keeps Safarenwe, and Father keeps Wenru.”
“Yes,” says Mother, so quick to grab for this chance that I am surprised, despite having warned her. “It would be best for Wenru to go with Esladas.”
Mother and Maraya exchange a knowing glance, and I realize that of course Mother has shared my suspicions with her other daughters.
Father holds the baby at arm’s length, scrutinizing the boy’s chubby little baby body for a secret deformity like Maraya’s clubfoot, which Patrons consider a stain upon the flesh, a mark of the gods’ disfavor. But Wenru glows with ruddy health. It is only the uncanny awareness in his gaze that curdles the natural affection a person ought to feel at the sight of him.
“How can I care for a child in my situation, without a wife to tend to my household?”
“You have a wife, Esladas. To my surprise, I feel a distinct sympathy for her situation since you have evidently forgotten your noble bride exists. By all reports she could nurse the child herself in another few months, if she can bring herself to allow mule lips to suckle from her pure Patron teats.”
I gasp. Never in my life have I heard Mother belittle another person; always she taught us girls that kindness heals.
Father also recoils from her biting words. “Be angry at me, Kiya. You have that right. But it lessens you to speak so disrespectfully of a woman who has suffered terrible harm. If circumstances were different, you would shelter her and be right to do so.”
Mother kisses the top of Safarenwe’s head as if to comfort herself. “This is more painful even than I had imagined. Please go, Esladas.”