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Raya braces herself against the wind and inhales deeply.
This high up, the humid Heart air sticks heavy to her throat like a steaming bowl of soup: almost hot enough to scald and just hot enough to feel like an old friend. The wide river below reflects the lazy clouds drifting overhead. She shutters her eyes and tries to capture this moment, including how uncomfortable it makes her feel to simply enjoy being here.
A few loose stones break free from the cliffside and fall towards the village below. The village where, if she weren’t currently playing hooky, she would be attending the fourth or fifth (or ninth, she really can’t remember where one ends and the next begins) iteration of peace talks. The leaders of Fang, Spine, Tail, Talon, and Heart are all in attendance. Today, instead of sharpened iron they will trade bamboo slats bound together with the fragile dreams of a nation still forming.
A frown tugs at the corner of her mouth as she feels the familiar guilt of ‘not doing enough’ mingle with the deeper anxiety of ‘not good enough’. Instead of being down there with her Ba, she’s here, peering over the edge of the circular rock formation that pillows the former temple of the dragon gem. The building lies empty and overgrown behind her. As it should be, she thinks, now that the dragons have returned.
The village below is alive with splashes of color (not unlike a school of fish, she imagines) that suggest the feast tonight will be one that keeps historians and storytellers employed for years to come. The entourages of the visiting diplomats mingle with the local residents who are barely less stranger to this land as their guests.
It’s disorienting, like déjà vu in reverse, to accept how normal everything appears when her mind only seems to be able to conjure images from the past. Raya swallows thickly, knowing just how quickly and violently a village of thousands can become just one small, scared little girl.
Six years is a long time to be away from home.
“Ugh, this is exactly what I was trying to avoid,” she yells and immediately bites her tongue.
Talking outloud to herself is becoming less endearing the longer she’s around people and she’s been trying her hardest to shake the habit. Maybe that’s why she keeps sneaking off to be alone, away from all those heavy stares and even heavier expectations. Her Ba notices but Raya does it anyway, and suffers the wounded look he gives her as punishment.
Her first mistake, she thinks now, was leaving her bedroom door unlocked. Ba had walked in, balancing a tray of soup bowls in one hand and a pot of tea in the other, and seen her room: untouched, except for the sleeping mat pushed against the far wall along with her packed bag. She remembers the slice of his eyes as they flicked from the mat to the open window. He’d gone deathly still in a terrible way that reminded her of the very nightmares she was trying to escape.
Many sleepless nights she had whispered entire conversations to herself, clinging to the hope that one day those words would fall on anyone’s ears but her own. And yet, staring into his wide eyes that day, she couldn’t find a single word to offer.
How could she explain that the sink of her weight into the mattress felt too much like drowning when his heart had only recently been made soft and breakable again?
Luckily, her Ba had known her longer than she’d known herself. They didn’t need words. Only the valley between his brows betrayed his unspoken questions as he’d knelt by her side and pulled her close.
Six years is a long time to be without the embrace of a father.
Raya squints against the sun, climbing to its zenith overhead, and scans the cliffs below. They are cut straight and sheer by the same wind that tugs playfully at her loose hair. If there’s one thing she’s good at, it’s tracking down a target. Ba would disapprove of her choice of words but he’s not here and besides, she’s doing this for him. (Sort of.)
Still, even the best hunter can’t track what doesn’t exist and she’s about to turn away when… There!
The smallest smattering of white; a period among the long strokes of green brushed along the cliffside; and the end of her quest. She grins, wide and full of satisfaction.
The Floating Cloud flower.
She’d overhead the kitchen staff gossiping about it over her morning congee (nothing so far had come close to Captain Boun’s). Apparently, the petals made a white tea so smooth and fragrant that it had allegedly brought peace between the feuding nomads that would eventually become Spine and Fang. Now that — a tea that could magically soothe over years of bad blood— sounded way better than trying to play diplomat any day. The staff’s insistence that it was a fanciful story, not an instruction guide, only fed her curiosity. After all, she’d already chased down the biggest myth of them all. What was one more?
Unfortunately, her luck appears to have run dry when she realizes she brought only one coil of rope and it certainly won’t reach the narrow ledge below. She lets out a frustrated huff, carefully leaning over the edge to see if she can potentially drop to a closer ledge and then down to the flower from there. Sweat drips down her face and she swipes it away.
She’s moved from the reasonable ‘come back tomorrow with more rope’ onto the very foolish ‘use your sword’s extension to rappel down’ when a sharp voice interrupts her thoughts.
“That you, dep la?”
Namaari, all sleek white-gold lines and sharp angles, stalks towards her with a smirk that tells Raya it’s anything but a coincidence that she found her out here. Raya pushes back carefully from the ledge. Through the trees, she can see the outline of Namaari’s annoyingly muscular cat sitting on its haunches, long tail wrapped around its large paws. The sunlight through the canopy covers its fur in bright spots as it watches her intently.
“I didn’t know they let binturi up here anymore,” Raya quips, and immediately regrets it when Namaari falters, a line creasing her brow as her eyes dart to the temple. Too soon, she chastises herself. She clears her throat and pushes past the awkwardness. “What are you doing here, anyway?”
“Looking for you,” Namaari replies, tilting her head like it’s obvious. The end of her long earring brushes her collarbone. “You keep disappearing early.”
“Oh. Right.” Raya suddenly doesn’t know what to do with her hands so she stuffs them into her pockets. “Sorry about that,” she offers lamely.
“Is it…” Namaari palms the back of her neck and glances away; she suddenly looks much softer than Raya’s ever seen her. “Is it because of me?”
Raya starts, a look of genuine surprise stretching her eyes wide. “What,” she says blankly, and then, with more force than intended, “Of course not!”
“Oh,” Namaari lets out a breath as she schools her face back into a more neutral state. “I apologize. I shouldn’t have assumed—”
“No, no,” Raya insists, stepping a little closer when the wind picks up, “it’s not really about you. It’s mostly… everyone else. Everything else. ”
Namaari nods like that’s confirmed something and Raya suddenly feels a little defensive. There’s a wretch in her gut as she realizes: beneath the sniping and posturing, Namaari knows how to be around people, has earned her people’s trusts, and has had the luxury of being able to talk to her mother for the last six years while Raya— oh. And there it is, the ugly truth hardening like a swallowed plum pit: Raya hasn’t learned anything in the last six years but how to be alone. A week on a boat with friends she barely sees anymore hasn’t changed that, not really.
“Hey.” Namaari steps forward and stops just short of putting a hand on Raya’s arm. She tilts her chin down a fraction so their eyes meet. There’s a sincerity to her voice when she says, “It must have been really hard, looking for Sisu by yourself.”
“Yeah it—” Raya turns away, unable to finish whatever it is she was about to say.
Some part of her wants to tell her, really does, but a bigger part still has trouble with the idea of opening up to the woman she’s spent so long trading blows with. It was easier to trust her when she thought the world was going to end. What is she supposed to do, now that it didn’t?
The sort of trust that means freedom to choose— to allow herself to make an emotional choice, not a rational one— well, that’s not something she’s had a lot of chances to practice. And as a rule, she generally avoids things she’s not very good at.
And yet…
Raya speaks, finally, with her back to Namaari— it’s the only form of trust she can manage right now— and hates how her voice wavers. “Do you want to help me with s-something?”
There’s a long pause.
She expects to hear the sound of retreating cat paws, or perhaps feel the slice of a knife between her shoulder blades. Stop it, she thinks firmly. You know she wouldn’t— Namaari steps up beside her, leaving plenty of space and avoiding her eyes. Raya is immensely grateful; the liquid pooling there would be nearly enough for Sisu to backstroke through.
The Fang princess peers over the cliff’s edge and says lightly, “What kind of trouble are you in today, Raya?”
Raya lifts one shoulder nonchalantly and grins. “Oh you know, chasing down a magical flower. Typical day for me, really.”
“Oh?” Namaari teases, falling easily into the safe and familiar dynamic. She traces the line of Raya’s finger to the flower below. “I didn’t take you for the type of girl who does that sort of thing.”
“And what ‘sort of thing’ is that, exactly?” she challenges, hands on her hips.
“Drugs?”
“Namaari!” Raya punches her bicep, feeling the unyielding resistance beneath her knuckles. The other woman laughs, full-bodied and echoing, her sharp canines flashing in the sun. An embarrassed blush creeps to Raya’s cheeks and for a moment she forgets how to breathe; she hasn’t heard Namaari laugh like this in— well. She persists, “It’s for making tea!”
“Right. Obviously. Magical tea.” Namaari says solemnly but she’s fighting back a smile. “I suppose stranger things have happened. How can I help?”
“The rope won’t reach if I tie it to a tree,” Raya explains, gesturing to the nearest one, which is unceremoniously being used as a scratching post by Namaari’s serlot. “I was thinking you could brace yourself against the rocks here,” she points to a spot near the edge, “and lower me down. That is, if those muscles aren’t just for show.”
Namaari scoffs. “Fang warriors are trained to lift their serlots from day—” Raya bites her lip to contain a giggle and Namaari’s eyes narrow. “Give me the rope, dep la.”
Getting Raya down to the ledge goes off without a hitch. Her feet easily find purchase in the bare roots and rocks, and she only stops once when she glances up and accidentally gets an eyeful of Namaari’s arms straining under Raya’s weight. “What are you waiting for?” she grits out from above, and Raya hastens down the last few feet.
“I made it!” she calls up and hears Namaari make a sound of acknowledgement.
Raya turns her attention to her feet, stepping carefully across the slick blanket of dewy greens and yellows. The Floating Cloud flower bobs in the wind, the curve of its fat petals reminiscent of the squat teapots they reserve for guests.
Her hand hesitates over the single bloom and takes its thick and winding stem— it has definitely grown here, undisturbed, for quite some time. She imagines that it first competed for soil and sun, pushing against the odds to thrive in this space, before later settling into a tenuous balance with its fellows. Will she be the first to snatch it from its home?
She groans and presses her palms to her face.
She went from drying her own jackfruit jerky and cutting off blisters the size of her palm to not wanting to disturb a flower because ‘it looks pretty’? The only consolation is that Namaari isn’t here to laugh at how soft she's gone. She sighs. She can’t do it.
Carefully, she drops to her knees to capture at least one memory of the flower before she returns empty-handed. She closes her eyes and inhales deeply, letting the rich and slightly sweet smell settle pleasantly into her lungs. It’s only when she opens her eyes that she sees a few buds in the shaded soil beneath its petals. A sliver of white peeks out from the tips, confirming their origin. What an auspicious sign, she thinks.
She carefully pockets as many of the fragile buds as she can find among the roots before returning to the dangling rope. “I’m coming up,” she shouts. “Are you ready?”
A moment later Namaari replies, “Ready!”
Raya grabs the rope and braces one foot against the rock wall, letting her weight settle. When she hears no complaints from above, she pushes off the ground with her other foot, and slowly begins the ascent. This direction is slower going, and her arms are still sore from the climb down.
The top is almost within reach when the rope goes slack and the cliffside blurs beneath her nose. She cries out in alarm as she clutches the rope with one hand and scrambles to find purchase with the other.
No luck. Any edges that would make adequate handholds have been worn smooth by time and the roots break under her grasp.
The ground is rushing up to meet her, and she hopes she’ll hit the platform and stop, hurt and alive, instead of the gruesome alternative. Her shoulder nearly jerks from its socket as the rope pulls taut once again, and she gasps at the sharp pain.
She pushes past the ache in her shoulder and clambers upward frantically, panic buzzing like a swarm of cicadas in her chest. Her fear makes her reckless as her thoughts bounce from worst case scenario (she did it on purpose) to worst case scenario (someone attacked her).
A pair of strong hands wrap around her forearm and hoist her up over the lip of the landing. She pitches forward ungracefully and sprawls onto the solid ground with a nervous laugh of relief. There is a soft thump as Namaari falls, shaking, to her knees beside her.
“Raya!” Namaari’s voice chokes and Raya pushes herself up in alarm. Attackers? She casts about but there’s only Namaari, panting and distraught. “Dragons, I’m so sorry! The rope slipped and— I thought maybe I’d—”
“Whoa.” Raya reaches out to grasp her shoulder, and the gesture works twofold to tether her a little more firmly to the earth as well. Her pulse is still racing. “I’m okay. I got the flowers, kind of, but I wasn’t sure…” she trails off as she notices a bright red streak on her arm.
The world spins a little. Did she cut herself on the rocks? She’d been so preoccupied with not falling. But there’s no pain. Shouldn’t she feel it? Her brain finally puts two and two together and her hands fly to Namaari’s.
Namaari hisses sharply as Raya turns her palms over. The skin is covered in long ropes of angry red blisters that bleed in the cracks. “You’re hurt,” Raya says.
Namaari grits her teeth and Raya can see a thin sheen of sweat forming on her brow. “Don’t worry about me. Are you—” She sways dangerously.
“Oh no, dep la,” Raya interjects firmly, “you’re hurt because of my foolish attempt to shirk my responsibilities. At least let me patch you up.”
Namaari glares at her and she glares back. If there’s one thing Raya knows how to be, it’s stubborn. Finally, the other woman’s shoulders drop. “I didn’t know you were a doctor,” she grumbles.
“Yeah well, there are a lot of things you don’t know about me,” Raya says, getting to her feet and steadying the taller woman when she moves to do the same. She keeps a firm hand on Namaari’s upper arm (in case she stumbles, she reasons) and guides her over to the empty temple. The serlot, awoken from its nap by the commotion, follows curiously.
Raya props Namaari against one of the entrance pillars and pulls out the woven bag she’d deposited there earlier. She rummages around, letting items clatter onto the stone floor, until she finds her jug. The water sloshes pitifully when she shakes it. “I’ll have to refill it,” she concludes, “so you might as well drink this first.”
She lifts the container when Namaari nods consent and tips it carefully. Even so, a few drops escape and Raya watches, transfixed, as Namaari’s tongue swipes across her lips. Her throat is dry and she suddenly wishes she’d saved some of that water for herself.
“I’ll be right back,” she announces, a little too loudly. She shoots to her feet, heart pounding, and holds the jug protectively to her chest. If Namaari notices her acting strangely, she thankfully doesn’t comment. The serlot curls into her side and Raya feels two pairs of eyes on her back as she retreats.
Raya takes the slightly longer route to the stream nearby to give herself time to think. She had considered going into the temple itself, to the crystal-clear pool at its core, but it feels wrong. The last time the two of them were there together… Stop getting so hung up on the past, she thinks. Let it go.
If only it were so simple.
She kneels and plunges her arms into the warm water to her elbows, scrubbing at the red streaks of Namaari’s blood. Soon it’s gone, indistinguishable from the water that ferries it away, but the raw skin doesn’t look that much different. Raya fills the jug and avoids her reflection.
Namaari’s serlot is dozing again when she returns and Raya briefly wonders who made the decision to ride animals that prefer to spend most of the day sleeping.
“The hero returns,” Namaari says, eyeing her up and down and still managing to look haughty despite how she cradles her hands gingerly in her lap.
Raya rolls her eyes and takes a seat next to Namaari. There’s a momentary flicker in the other woman’s eyes and Raya knows the discomfort she’s fighting: the instinct that warns against showing weakness to an enemy. But after a tense moment it passes, and the Fang princess holds her hands out, palms up, like she’s offering something delicate.
Raya cups her hands around Namaari’s larger ones. There is a familiarity to the gesture. This is how they began— six years ago with Namaari pressing a Sisu pendant into her hand— and this is how they almost ended— two months ago with Raya handing Namaari the fate of the world— so maybe this time it’s how they’ll become something new.
Raya unstoppers the jug. “This might sting.”
Namaari whimpers as the water hits the swollen flesh and Raya feels her heart stutter in sympathy. “Almost there,” she murmurs, gently rubbing the areas flecked with blood and rope fiber. Rust-colored water drips down the stone steps of the temple. She repeats the process on the other hand.
“Doing okay?” Raya asks when she’s done, leaning back to set down the empty jug and wipe her hands on her pants. Namaari nods, but the set of her jaw and rapid rise and fall of her chest betrays her.
“It’s not going to be the most comfortable bandage— these are actually for climbing— but it should do until we get back to town.” Raya pulls out a roll of fresh cloth strips. The serlot’s keen eyes follow the dangling end with interest but thankfully it does not swipe.
Namaari offers her hands once again and Raya scoots closer so she can take them into her lap. Their knees bump softly before coming to rest against each other.
She studies Namaari’s hands as she works. The swelling has already gone down, revealing an abundance of lines and branches not unlike the rivers Raya’s spent the better part of six years tracing. Her fingers graze over the middle line, the thickest, and she catches the faintest intake of breath from above. Ears burning, she continues circling the angry red skin until all that’s left is soft, clean linen.
Satisfied, she straightens and clicks her tongue. “Not too bad, for a no-good, scroll-stealing, world-saving binturi from Heart.”
“Raya.” Namaari’s smile is tight. “Thank you. For this and for— I know I’ve already said it before, but I really am sorry. For the gem. For your Ba. For Sisu. Everything.”
“You were just a child,” Raya offers.
“So were you,” Namaari shoots back. A hint of bitterness creeps into her voice, but it feels directed at someone far away.
“I guess… we’ve both been trying to live up to our parent’s expectations.”
“Yeah.” The Fang princess chuckles humorlessly, the sound more reminiscent of a sigh. She reaches up to push her hair out of her face. Raya catches her wrist before she can get sweat all over her handiwork.
“Here,” she says, “let me.”
Namaari goes perfectly still when Raya’s fingers brush her brow, catches the damp strands and pushes the hair behind her ear. Raya pulls her hand away and tries not to think too hard about how badly she wants to continue the motion along the line of Namaari’s jaw.
“It was really lonely,” Raya says suddenly, surprising herself. Namaari raises an eyebrow but doesn’t interrupt. Perhaps she senses if she stops Raya now, she’ll lose her nerve and the moment too. “I was so scared. That night was the last time I saw my Ba and I could barely keep my head above the water. The gem fragment was the only thing I had. I held it tighter than I’ve ever held anything.”
Namaari reaches out and rests her fingertips softly atop Raya’s clenched fists; the line of her mouth is soft and contemplative. Something inside Raya cracks.
The words come easier after that, like a river bursting through the damnation of six years of isolation. Raya doesn’t know why she chooses to share now, on his humid summer day, with peace talks happening a few miles away, or why she chooses to share with Namaari, the woman she once despised with every ounce of her being. It doesn’t make sense if she thinks about it too hard, so she doesn’t.
Instead, she focuses on letting the weight of those lonely years slough off like layers of stone, one story bleeding into the next: the time she almost fell into a canyon of toot-n-booms, the time she ate poisoned berries and hallucinated the mother she’d never known, and the time Tuk-tuk had almost drowned.
Namaari listens with rapt attention, quietly stroking the underbelly of her serlot when it rolls over. Her other hand stays on Raya’s.
The sun drifts closer to the horizon and the village below lights up with an array of multi-colored lanterns. Soon, music follows, the individual notes weaving together like a choir of voices singing, ‘We are here. We are here.’
“And that’s why I—” Raya stops in the middle of a story about how a group of desperate binturis had stolen her Ba’s sword, and says, “I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone that. Any of that.”
Namaari considers this for a moment. “Thank you, then, for trusting me,” she says, and Raya catches the hint that it’s not just about an almost-lost sword.
“It feels kind of… good?” Raya scrunches up her face like it’s embarrassing to admit. “Talking to someone— to you.”
“Any time, dep la,” Namaari says and leaves the offer hanging, ripe and ready to pluck. She rolls her shoulders with a groan. “Although, do you think we could continue this over some tea? I hear it’s life-changing.”
Between them, the serlot yawns. Raya gives Namaari a wide grin.
“Definitely.”