She blinks at me as if I’ve just asked something very foolish. “Have you forgotten that I’m of the Urol class? I’m on the next to lowest tier of the Urisk class system and religion. I have some significant issues with my own people.” She huffs out a breath, her mouth forming a tight line. “I don’t even know what I believe anymore. It’s all so troubling. And confusing. All I know for certain is that I want no part of any culture or religion that watches anyone’s children die of the Red Grippe on the other side of a rune wall and does nothing to help them.” She considers the border, a seditious half smile forming on her lips. “I think that’s my new religion. No children dying of curable things on the other side of a wall.”

I raise my brow at her. “That’s your religion? Your entire religion?”

She shrugs. “That’s all I’ve got, Ny’laea. Seems to keep me busy enough.”

My mind lights with the memory of Bleddyn caring for Smaragdalfar refugees back in Verpacia, most of them children. How gentle she was with them. And now she’s here in the East, smuggling sick people like Nym’ellia’s family, across the border so they can get medicine and care. It strikes me that Bleddyn, for all her confusion and harsh ways, is a deeply admirable person.

“It’s a good religion,” I tell her, chastened.

She laughs. “You know, I think it is. I think it’s a very good religion.”

“No, I mean it.”

Her eyes meet mine, more serious now. She nods. “It might be the only religion worth having right now.”

CHAPTER THREE

NY’LAEA SHIZORIN

Elloren Grey

Voloi, Noilaan
Eastern Realm
One day prior to Xishlon

“Welcome to Voloi,” Mora’lee enthuses as she slides a steaming bowl of soup in front of me.

“Thank you for offering me work,” I say, uneasily glancing at the wanted postings nailed to the hostile plum tree behind her, my own face scowling at me from over her shoulder.

She cheerfully waves away my thanks as she sets out a tea set marked with lavender moons, then pours us violet tea, a rose-scented steam curling from it. “I’m pleased to have the extra help,” she confides, smiling warmly. “Especially with tomorrow’s festival.”

“Mora still needs to find someone to kiss,” Bleddyn says with a suggestive waggle of her eyebrows as she digs into the soup. “I know of a young Smaragdalfar soldier stationed dockside who might volunteer. How many cups of tea are you two up to?”

Mora laughs, flushing, this talk of kissing dour Professor Hawkkyn, of all people, mixed with tea clearly some inside joke between them. I resist the urge to raise my brow at it.

“When’s he coming by?” Bleddyn asks, and I still, realizing she’s subtly scouting out the situation for me.