In the Time You're Given

By Rachael Leslie

Alava, the daughter of the village chief, lives a sheltered life. Her main concern is why she hasn’t yet found a husband. Meanwhile, Mariem is secluded in the orphanage, a home for displaced or disruptive youth. Their fates will join, though, after Alava leaves her close-knit family and small town for the city and her future husband, and Mariem breaks out of the orphanage, joining the Wolves, an exiled people feared and hated by the rest of the country. The girls’ travels take them to other villages, where they find suffering and starvation because of a king more focused on protecting than on providing. The girls also learn the secrets of their people and their gods, and they must decide who to trust--and if they will live as they are told or risk themselves, their families, and their homes to fight for a new future.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rachael Leslie
• Release date: Oct 19, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301128419

Rachael Leslie

Rachael Leslie wrote her first stories for classmates at age five and immediately knew she wanted to be an author. Rarely seen without a pen and paper, she has written poetry and short stories. Leslie, an editor, spends her days writing for work and afternoons writing for pleasure. She finally has released her first ebook, "Achieving Apollo."

Book preview

In the Time You’re Given

By Rachael Leslie

Cover art by Michael Clements

Smashwords Edition

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

For Daddy, who taught me that other worlds do exist

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 5

Chapter 10

Chapter 15

Chapter 20

Chapter 25

Chapter 27

Chapter 30

Chapter 34

Chapter 38

Epilogue

PART ONE

Chapter 1

Orphanage

Stoic chants drifted across the courtyard. Mariem hid beneath a stone bench, her thin knees jutting into her chest and her bruised arms squeezing her legs. She rubbed her tears on her arms, sniffled, and hiccupped. Heavy footsteps passed her--thick soles clomping against the cobblestone. As the hems of the women's skirts swished against the ground, Mariem strained to hear their voices through the chanting.

She shouldn’t be out at night.

Well, she knows that it’s time for her medicine.

A thick tree trunk blocked Mariem’s bench from them. She’d hidden in one of the many nooks in the courtyard. The surrounding stone walls and lack of moonlight obscured her, but some light did come from the torches that blinked in the archway leading to the corridor. Along the hall, closed doors blocked the offices, dormitories, and other rooms within the orphanage. And a large, wooden door barred the institution from the outside villages--places Mariem hadn’t seen in almost thirteen years. She came to the orphanage at three years old after living in another one since she was a baby. The mothers--the women who cared for the children and who looked for her now--told her that her parents brought her to the orphanage for a better life there; they had the money to curtail her disease.

The women gave up on finding Mariem in the courtyard and shuffled into the building, but she knew they would peek out one last time to see if she would reveal herself. After years of hiding from them, she knew their ways. As she waited, she rubbed her forehead against her arms and wished she could stop the runny nose and achy head. Then, leaning back, she slid out from underneath the bench and peered around the seat. She saw no one. Mariem put her hands on the bench’s stone back and forced herself to stand then brushed the dirt from her thin, gray tunic.

As a bell tolled the end of prayers, the chants died. Now the men--called the teachers--would leave the prayer hall and go through the courtyard to their rooms, offices, or the dining hall. Mariem stepped into the tree’s shadow, her fingernails cutting into its trunk. She knew her dark tunic would be visible among the men's brightly colored clothes. After so many years, she had memorized the hiding process, especially since the mothers found any reason to punish her--she wouldn’t learn, she was late, she was disrespectful, she was unsocial….

Finally, the last of the men trailed out of the prayer hall and through the courtyard. She waited until the last one passed under the archway then waited some more before tiptoeing along the wall and into the corridor behind them. As she padded toward her room, she wondered if her caution was pointless--if the mothers waited for her. But she had nowhere else to go. She couldn’t hide all night, and she couldn’t sneak out. If the girls fled, they were brought back to harsh chores.

The stone wall supported Mariem. She pressed her hand against it, and her legs trembled. Reaching the room, she put her ear to the wooden door. Silence. The girls only spoke during morning and night prayers and when they did their chores--mending clothes, learning basic recipes, scrubbing the stones, making the beds, washing the linens, and whatever else the mothers found to keep them busy. Mariem opened the door and peeked inside. She didn’t see the mothers, so she slipped inside and closed the door.

Mariem! a girl whispered.

Pretending she didn’t hear her, Mariem tiptoed across the hay-covered floor to her pallet. This was one of two identical rooms in the girls’ area. Despite living here all these years, Mariem didn’t find its plainness comfortable or homey, with its dark stone walls and the cracked wooden ceiling that let in rainwater. The girls replaced the hay several times a month. The pallets--faded white, grass-filled sacks--lay on the ground against the side walls, evenly placed with only standing space between them. Another wooden door at the back of the room hid the chamber pots that the girls shared.

The girl hissed her name again. Holding a small, dented metal cup in her hands, she walked toward Mariem; the brown liquid sloshed against the rim of the cup. I was told to give you your medicine, she whispered.

Mariem grimaced but nodded her thanks and took the cup. Sniffing it, she walked to her pallet, let out a quick breath, and gulped it down. She gagged then looked for somewhere to put the cup. One of the mothers usually brought the girls’ medicine and took the cup away. No personal belongings, besides clothing and worship items, were allowed in the room. She shoved the cup under her pallet and lay down. The metal pushed into her back, so she tossed and turned until her exhaustion and the medicine put her to sleep.

The following morning, she woke to another girl kicking her bed. Rise, lazy wench. The girl kicked the bed again. Head Mother already came in twice. You missed prayers again, so you get to empty the chamber pots.

Mariem groaned. Nearly every morning they found a reason for her to empty the pots. The sickly girl struggled to her feet and shuffled to the adjoining room. She picked up a chamber pot and dumped it out of the long, low window into the trench then returned for another pot. By the time she’d washed and dressed, the others girls were at breakfast. She was the last one in the dining hall. The head mother waited for her in the entrance. Mariem sighed and, her head cast downward and her eyes on her feet, approached the woman.

Why are you late, Mariem? the head mother asked.

You know that I had to clean the chamber pots. Mariem replied, not bothering to waste time with niceties--titles or otherwise.

And why did you have to clean them?

Because I was the last one up.

Did you say your morning prayers with the girls? the head mother asked.

No, and I didn’t have time before I came here, either.

Your belly comes before the gods then? Now why were you late to wake, Mariem? Her forced sweetness mocked the girl, who fought her boiling anger.

Mariem clenched her teeth. I didn’t hear the call.

Did you oversleep because you were up late? Out in the town perhaps?

Mariem fumed, her blue eyes storming. She looked up at the tall, broad-shouldered woman. I haven’t left the orphanage for three years, and even then I didn’t make it to the bottom of the hill. You know it’s that noxious medicine you force me to swallow that makes me sleep.

It doesn’t have that effect on the other girls. The mother clasped her hands and nodded once. We will have a special lesson again today, Mariem, just you and I. She put her palm on the back of the girl’s head. It would’ve been a sweet moment if not for the violent shove that forced Mariem’s eyes to look at the ground. First, say your prayers. Atone for your disobedience. Then come to my office.

Mariem shot a glance into the dining hall, where her bland porridge grew colder. But I haven’t eaten yet.

The woman eyed Mariem’s weak, shriveled body. I doubt one missed breakfast will make a difference.

Sulking, Mariem battled her hunger as she crossed the courtyard to the prayer hall. When she black, metal doors banged shut behind her, the jittery girl jumped. Sighing, she discretely looked around the room. Several wooden benches lined the walls of the round, high-ceilinged room. Men, women, and children from the orphanage and nearby town of Legindae knelt on the stone floor. Families prayed in circles with bowls in the center. The smell of the bowls’ burning herbs mingled with that of the incense lit on the stone shelves around the room.

She straightened her tunic and ran her hand along her tangled, black braid before licking her fingers and rubbing the dirt from her thin, pale face. Then she glanced at her bruised arms, many of the marks caused by stumbling into walls and falling. Nothing she could do about that. She walked along the edge of the room with her arms stretched over the benches to the wall until she reached a shelf that held the herbs and bowls that the girls used for their prayers.

Before she could take her things, a deep voice spoke behind her. It’s past your prayer time. Did the Head Mother send you?

Yes. She looked at the ground, not turning to face the teacher.

Come with me.

Mariem braved a quick glance up at the short, bald man beside her. He was more portly than others in the orphanage. She knew it was because of his wealth; he was the orphanage owner’s son, and his position showed in his attire--a long, golden chain around his neck, jeweled rings on his fingers, and a dark blue tunic.

But, Teacher, I must pray, Mariem mumbled, her eyes returning to the ground.

The man ignored her. He pushed past the families, mothers, and teachers throughout the room, shoving some aside in his haste. Mariem, who stumbled behind him, received the glares. Reaching an alcove, he stopped and eyed the two stone statues, each about a foot tall, on the shelf. The gods. Iva, her hair braided atop her head, was round with pregnancy. She sat on a horse with her husband Zej behind her, his arm wrapped around her in protection and support. The other statue featured the goddess Marwin. Her hair fell freely to her waist as she ran, her hand outstretched to her husband Baylo running behind her, casting a glance into the distance.

The teacher turned to Mariem. Although she didn’t look at him, she could imagine the fake grin on his snarling face. I believe this is our first conversation, Mariem, he said.

She nodded, fighting the urge to tell him she hardly considered this conversation. Instead, feeling faint, she reached out to catch herself and leaned against the shelf. It teetered, and the statues rocked. Several people around them gasped.

The man gasped, too. How dare you! He grabbed her arms. She cried out in pain as he shook her. Then he noticed the people staring at them and pulled her into the alcove. Do you think these statues are here for your comfort? Do you think this is a place to relax?

Mariem fought against his grip. Let me go! You’re hurting me! She wrenched her arms free and scowled at him. She knew others watched them, but she didn’t care. I’m sick. I was trying not to fall.

"Weak and disrespectful."

She swallowed and looked back at the ground.

Why are you weak, Mariem?

She crossed her aching arms across her chest. It’s an illness. I’ve had it since I was a baby.

You’ve been ill all these years and you’re still alive? he muttered.

Yes. It seems the gods aren’t ready for me to die yet.

He stammered before shoving his finger in her face. Don’t talk impertinently to me, girl, or I will make your life here miserable.

She snickered. Too late.

I don’t know why the Head Mother sent you here to pray, he replied, his breath hot on her ear. You’re useless. You always will be. And you’ll always be an outcast. No one wants you, Mariem. You will always be lonely, weak, and forgotten.

Mariem sighed, fighting a sarcastic retort.

You know I’m right. Only an evil woman looks into the eyes of a man. You know why you’re actually ill, Mariem.

She’d heard this so many times. Because I’m claimed by an evil god, she intoned.

"Marwin. Yes. As soon as my father saw you, he knew you were claimed by the evil goddess. You may have forgotten your past, but my father remembers. You’re weak because you have the mark of Marwin. Your kind is what society battles daily. But perhaps you can become good. Do you want to be good, Mariem?"

If it will end this lecture, she thought then immediately regretted. She stared at the statue of Iva in the alcove.

The teacher put his hand on her back and, with great force, shoved her. Mariem fell to her knees on the stone and cried out at the pain in her hands and knees. Looking up, she saw the gods’ stony faces mocking her.

Chapter 2

Legindae

Alava dodged the ball flying across the yard. She chased the ball down, grabbed it, and hid around a tree. Peeking around the trunk, she saw her brother duck behind the short, stone wall bordering the property.

You can’t catch me! Ibran taunted her.

She aimed the ball at the black hair peeking above the wall and, knowing he would look up again, threw it. He yelped as it thumped against his forehead. Alava laughed and sprang to the front steps of their two-story, stone cottage. She darted inside and slammed the door shut behind her.

Alava! Shena grabbed her daughter’s shoulders and thrust her aside before glancing out the window to see if anyone caught the chief’s fifteen-year-old daughter acting like a schoolboy.

Alava remained still, her back against the wall as she struggled to catch her breath. She eyed the large room, which held little besides the family’s meal table, chairs, a weak wooden staircase tucked in the right corner, and a few doors. Everyone is inside, Mama, she whispered. No one saw us.

Maeva, Alava’s older sister, stepped into the entry room from the kitchen. As she watched her mother and sister, she thrust her spoon into the bowl she held at her hip and mixed the sauce for dinner.

Shena waved Maeva back to the kitchen and turned to Alava, who kept her eyes on the wooden floor. Shena sighed. "Alava, you can’t scamper around the village like a child. No one will respect you as a woman or as a future mother and wife. She put her hand atop Alava’s head and caressed her hair. You do want to marry, right, Ala? To please Iva?"

Alava looked into her mother’s blue eyes, trying to read the expression in the young yet wrinkled face--the face of a woman who house-tending and mothering had made less carefree. Realizing her stare and her thoughts, Alava smiled and lowered her head. She mentally berated herself and prayed that Iva would forgive her for her insolence.

Mama, you know I want to please the gods.

Then go help your sister.

In the narrow kitchen, torches flickered on the stone walls, providing the only illumination since sunlight no longer came in the window--an uncovered square cut into the stone. Cabinets spread along the two side walls with a few gaps for fire cauldrons on the floor; flame crackled in one, and a pot of stew bubbled on one of the counter tops. Alava inhaled the aroma and grabbed a spoon.

Are you going to help me or just sneak food? asked Maeva.

Alava stared at her sister, who returned the glare. Alava couldn’t understand Maeva. She cooked well, and she sewed beautifully. Shena had trained them both, and Maeva took to it easily. Clumsy Alava overcooked food and pricked herself with needles. Soon, though, Alava would be alone with her mother to do it all. In less than a week, Maeva would marry. The betrothal put more pressure on Alava. As of yet, no family wanted a daughter-in-law who listened in on boy’s lessons and couldn’t do wifely duties.

Realizing the aggravation she’d caused her mother already, Alava decided to be cordial with her sister. What should I do?

Maeva smiled and poured the sauce over a small loaf of hard bread that cooled on one of the counters. Set the table, please.

Alava’s mouth watered. She reached into a cabinet for bowls. For how many?

Seven. Father is bringing two guests to dinner.

Will there be enough food?

Alava, you know this is all we have. Set the table for seven, please.

Bowls in hand, Alava returned to the entry room. She placed the dishes on the table as Ibran came inside, ball in hand, and stared at the foodless table.

He frowned. "It’s not done yet?"

No, you scamp, Alava replied, turning her back to him to hide her smile. Besides, we have to wait for Father and his guests. Go get the ale, please. She looked at the place settings then turned to her mother, who had come back in the room from washing up. Father and the visitors must have important matters, to discuss, Mama. She patted her mother’s graying brown hair, which was tied into two long braids that were twined together and pinned atop her head. You look beautiful.

Ignoring Alava’s comment about their dinner guests, Shena thanked her then peeked into the kitchen. Is it finished, Maeva?

Yes, Mama.

Maeva set the steaming stew bowl on the scuffed wooden table. As Ibran returned with the ale, a bell’s toll filled the village. The family paused, listening. It clanged a second time. They all sighed. Shena untied her apron and draped it over a chair.

Well, my children, we dine alone tonight, she said, sitting at the foot of the table.

The bell had tolled twice. This meant that more travelers had arrived in Legindae with business to conduct in Legindae. As chief, Alava’s father Aranhi would meet with them, give them council, and board them or help them pass through. The family ate in silence, and then Alava cleared the table. Maeva had cooked, Shena told her, while Alava had played, so now Maeva could play. Playing for Maeva meant spending an hour on her hair. Her hair routine had gotten longer since her betrothal.

After washing the dishes, Alava blew out the torchlight, leaving one lit for her father, and went upstairs to the bedroom she and Maeva shared. Through the window, she watched the village. Small stone houses and other buildings dotted the area within the stone walls. They surrounded the courtyard where the chief’s house stood. Before her, Alava saw the meeting place where Aranhi worked, the boys’ school, and other homes. The communal garden was beyond the buildings, and the forest peeked over the wall and through the iron gate. To her right, out of view, the orphanage perched on the hill--the one side of Legindae without a wall. Behind the chief’s house, grassland gave way to the sea, while the fields to the left stretched for miles to Mishnol, the capital.

Leaving the window, Alava went to the corner of the room where she and Maeva prayed. Her sister’s herbs still simmered in the bowl on the wooden shelf. Alava knelt on the pillow and reached into the bags lining the back wall. She pinched out her favorite herbs then unlatched a small torch from the wall. She lit the herbs in the bowl and inhaled the sweet scent.

Iva, she mumbled, goddess of girls and mothers, with Zej you created our world and with Zej you oversee it. Tonight I ask you to watch over me. Help me learn my duties as a woman. And help the rain come, please, so we can have food. She glanced toward the window again. And help me find a husband so Mama will be happy.

Aranhi stumbled over the threshold the next morning as the girls were cleaning up the breakfast dishes. Bracing himself against the wall, he called to his family. Shena hurried in from the kitchen and took his hand.

Where is Ibran? he asked her.

At school, of course. And you need sleep. Shena led him to his chair at the table.

The chief dropped her hand and gave her a quick hug before sitting. Send someone to fetch him. I need to send a message.

Where are you sending him, Aranhi? He’s only seventeen.

Only seventeen! He is old enough to marry. Seeing Shena’s face, Aranhi sighed. Well, he is, Shena. Viktor can go with him. Ibran is behind in his training already. Aranhi stared at his wife and sighed. "Fine, but fetch someone. Looking toward the kitchen, he spotted his daughters in the doorway, their eyes cast downward. My girls. Come here."

They smiled and hurried across the room. Aranhi wrapped his muscular arms around them.

Father, Maeva said. You sound exhausted.

He wiped his eyes and ran his hand over the sparse tufts of black hair on his head. I barely slept last night.

Who visited you, Father? Alava asked.

Aranhi grinned. Oh, Alava, my curious one. Don’t worry. It isn’t your concern. He touched the brown braid draped over her shoulder, and his smile faltered. I need to speak with your mother.

Go to the garden, girls, Shena said. Get whatever vegetables you can find.

The girls grabbed their baskets and left the courtyard for the community-tended garden. Working in silence, Maeva and Alava plucked and pulled the dry, small crops that struggled to grow in the dusty soil. Once they gathered enough for dinner, they returned home. Ibran dashed up behind them as they opened the door. He stole a carrot from Maeva’s bowl and pushed in front of them into the house.

Is that you, Ibran? Aranhi called. Come here!

Ibran ran to the table, where their parents still sat. The unwashed carrot hung from of the side of his mouth. Yes, Father? he mumbled around it.

I need a message delivered. Go find a man who is free tonight.

What is it? Why can’t I do it?

Aranhi glanced at his daughters, and Shena ushered them into the kitchen.

Alava scowled. Ibran is only a year older than I am, she thought, and he’s already training to be chief. Why couldn’t I be boy so I could be part of things? Sighing, she scolded herself and prayed for forgiveness as she scrubbed the vegetables.

Shena’s words broke Alava from her thoughts. We’ll have two guests for dinner, girls, so prepare for seven again.

Do we have enough vegetables? Maeva asked.

Shena chuckled and spiced the meat. Yes. They’ll want meat more than vegetables anyway.

Are they from here? Alava ventured. Sometimes her mother mentioned things as they cooked or cleaned. That was how women learned the news. But Shena also could be guarded with her information.

They’re envoys from Mishnol.

The girls’ eyes widened.

Never look above their feet, Shena reminded them as she slid the meat onto the cooking shelf then checked the bread that cool on the windowsill. Don’t speak to them unless they speak to you first. Outspoken women--.

Set bad examples for all women, Alava finished.

Very good, Alava.

Should we use the tablecloth tonight? Maeva asked.

Yes, Shena murmured. And new candles.

Maeva hurried out of the room.

Shena came to help Alava. How are you doing, dear?

This won’t cook in time.

There’s time. Do you remember how to make the sauce?

I believe so, Alava said. But she doubted it.

Shena sighed. I’ll send Maeva in later to make sure it’s right. I need to get ready.

Alava surprised herself by remembering the recipe, although it took a few tries to find the right flavor. Maeva never checked on her, though, and the hammer beat on the door as Alava poured the sauce over the meat. Through the window, she heard it clang into its holder and men speak. Someone opened the door, and scuffles sounded in the entry room. Alava washed her hands in the cleansing bowl and wiped her face with a cloth.

Shena hurried into the room. Is it done, Ala? She glanced at the food. Just in time. Maeva already set the table. She grabbed plates and knives out of the cabinet. Carry the meat carefully.

Yes, Mama.

Alava wrapped rags around the handles and walked into the entry room. Straining to keep her ears on the men conversing by the door, she placed the pot in the center of the table then returned to the kitchen for the bread.

Children, come to me! the chief called.

I’ll get it, Shena whispered behind Alava. Keep your eyes down.

Alava’s head jerked back to the floor as Maeva stepped up beside her. Ibran skid in next to them. Alava watched her father’s feet loom closer.

Hello, Ibran, one man said.

Ibran bowed. Pleasure to see you again, sir!

Alava fought a scowl. So her brother knew these visitors already and hadn’t told her about them.

Aranhi slipped behind Maeva and Alava, putting his hands on their shoulders.

Why, you are blessed, Aranhi, you lucky man, a deep voice slurred.

Aranhi laughed. This is Maeva, and this is Alava. Don’t fret over what you’re getting yourself into, Sajo.

The drunken man chortled. Lovely, but two braids?

That’s Maeva. She is already betrothed. This is Alava.

The room fell silent. Alava felt everyone’s eyes on her, and she knew why they stared. A side glance at Maeva told her that her sister had washed and changed her clothing. Her double braids were neatly tied and her dress crisp. A smile marked her red-cheeked face. No doubt the men eyed Maeva’s petite yet curved frame. Alava was short and shapely but stocky. Gardening and cooking had stained her fingernails and clothing. Her single, light brown braid fell apart in tangles.

The drunken man laughed. Alava strained to understand him. After all these years, Aranhi, I expected more than scraps from under the table.

Now, now, Tinpum, another man muttered. A betrothal agreement is a betrothal agreement.

Aranhi squeezed Alava’s shoulder. Shall we eat? he asked.

Her face burned. She kept her eyes on her food, but she barely ate. As the men talked around her, her future husband worked on cleaning out the wine and ale cellar. When, an hour later, Maeva asked her to help clear the table, relief spread through her. Maeva told Shena they were ready to clean, and their mother nodded and grabbed a few plates. As Alava worked, she felt the drunk’s eyes on her, but, thankfully, not his hands. Perhaps he isn’t a bad man, she thought, just outspoken. Unlike expectations for women, outspoken men were encouraged.

With the table cleared, Shena sent her daughters to bed. Before Alava left, though, Shena stopped her. Taking her hand, she asked, Do you understand what’s happening, Ala?

Father arranged my wedding to the king’s envoy.

And a good arrangement it is, dear.

Iva will be pleased?

Shena hugged her. Iva will be very pleased.

Alava smiled, realizing she should thank the goddess for giving her a prestigious suitor when no one else wanted her. She might marry a drunkard, but she would be in Mishnol, and she would be an envoy’s wife. Iva had both forgiven and punished her for her thoughts.

Say goodnight to your father and your betrothed, Alava. His name is Sajo.

Yes, Mama. Alava went back to the table and stopped by her father’s chair.

Do you want to say goodnight to Sajo, Ala? Aranhi asked.

Alava nodded.

You may look up.

She looked into the eyes of a wrinkled man with few teeth. He rocked in his seat and slurred a speech she couldn’t understand.

Uncle Tinpum, don’t say such things in front of our host.

The other envoy scooted the old man’s--Uncle Tinpum's--glass away from him. The younger man, Sajo, looked to be in his late twenties with dark hair and light blue eyes. His handsomeness, though, was marred by solemn and worried expression, which made Alava even more nervous about their dissatisfaction with her. Realizing she was staring, she blushed and looked down again.

Sajo stood and walked over to Alava. Look at me, he whispered. I want my wife to be comfortable looking at me. He surprised her by taking her hand. You’ll be sixteen soon?

She nodded.

You will come to my manor in a few days. You’ll live in Mishnol and care for my home when I’m away, which is quite often. He dropped her hand. Goodnight, Alava. Your father and I have much to discuss.

Alava hurried past him and upstairs.

Maeva waited for her in the doorway. I heard everything! she whispered.

Hit by nausea, Alava tottered and stumbled.

Maeva grabbed her arm and led her to the bed. What’s the matter?

Alava whimpered. Why isn’t he married already?

Oh, you know how envoys are! He probably travels too much. And he still will, which means you can roam the city whenever you wish.

Alava groaned and leaned back on the bed.

What’s wrong? You’ve always dreamed of visiting Mishnol.

I have to tend his manor, Mae. An estate.

Oh, dear. You do have a lot to learn.

Alava smiled a little. Maeva was an easily frustrated teacher, but she had good intentions. Mae, will we see one another after we marry?

She sat on the bed beside her sister. We can visit each other. Do you realize how rich you’ll be?

Alava laughed. I don’t care about money, Maeva. I don’t know what to do with it. She glanced at the prayer shelf, and panic hit her as she realized she hadn’t thanked Iva properly. I should pray. Leaving the bed, she knelt at the table and mixed her sacrifice. Iva, goddess of girls and mothers, with Zej you created our world and with Zej you oversee it. This night I dedicate myself to you as a future wife. Please watch over me on this new journey. And thank you for this blessing.

Maeva walked over to Alava and took her hand, helped her up, and led her to the washroom. Get out of that dirty smock. We should fix your hair. You aren’t a child anymore, Alava. She helped her little sister scrub and get into her nightgown. They went back to the bedroom, and Alava sat on the floor while Maeva took her long, wet hair and formed it into two braids.

And when I marry, she thought, I’ll wear my hair up like Mama does.

Chapter 3

Orphanage

The dying flowers reeked on the head mother’s desk, and the smell mingled with the stench of sweat. Mariem, who stood, waiting between two chairs--the only furniture besides the table in the small room--gagged. But she focused so much on the flowers that she startled when the head mother spoke from the doorway behind her.

Why are you in my office, Mariem? Oh, yes. You ran from me yesterday, and then you hid. On top of that, we must discuss your rudeness this morning. So tell me first--why did you hide?

Mariem still stared at the flower. I didn’t want more bruises, she mumbled.

The mother sat one of the frail wooden chairs and folded her red skirt around her chubby legs. Why do you think someone would harm you, Mariem?

Habit.

She snickered. You’re a bad girl, Mariem, like most of the girls here. I promised Iva and the king I would watch over you and teach you what is right. Stifle the dangers within. But you reject my every attempt. Do you wonder why I’m so harsh toward you?

Mariem still stood by the chair with, her hands clasped in front of her and her eyes now on the floor. She nodded.

You have potential, Mariem. You’re a strong-willed girl who stands up for your beliefs. This could be an asset if led in the right direction. But you’re also ill-mannered. She stood above Mariem, who craned her head painfully to look up at her. Disrespectful. The head mother pointed to the ground. Don’t look at me as if we are equals, Mariem.

Sighing, Mariem looked down again.

As I said, I need to rid you of your bad habits and cure you of your hypocrisy and your illness. One day you’ll be a lively girl. Can you imagine that? The mother’s voice squealed with girlish glee. You’ll have so much energy! Then you will become a mother and teach others about the gods. Her feigned happiness cut short, and she frowned. Her constant mood changes unsettled Mariem. But we should talk about yesterday morning. I was told that you argued with one of the mothers.

Mariem didn’t respond.

The head mother sighed. She told me you didn’t want to pray.

"No. I didn’t want to pray a second time. My throat hurt, and the herbs gave me a headache. Besides, why wouldn’t Iva accept my words the first time?"

"You’re learning to pray properly." The head mother knelt beside Mariem, the fake smile still plastered on her face. She reached out, but Mariem jerked away. The