‘Do you mind if I take off a glove?’

‘So long as you do it slowly.’

Pari did so, then lifted her hand so that her palm faced over her shoulder. She wiggled her fingertips, drawing attention to the golden tattoos.

The sharp object withdrew from her back. ‘Turn around. Slowly.’

Pari did this too, smiling so as to make the gold on her lips sparkle in the sunslight.

‘Pari?’ asked Nidra, disbelieving. The years had not been kind to her, as if this space in the Wild operated at different speeds to the rest of the world. Sixteen summers seemed to weigh double on Nidra’s frame. Her skin was prematurely creased with toil and hardship, her spine taking on the curve of one beyond her six decades. Pari was uncomfortably reminded of the trees she’d just passed. For all of that, Nidra still seemed quick, her eyes as hard as the crystal blade in her hand. Once, that blade had sat atop a spear but now it was held more like a knife, as diminished as its bearer. Somewhere within the bundle of fabric that Nidra wore would be the remnants of her legend, white where they had been gold, burnt where they had been inked, turning marks of pride into brands of shame.

‘None other,’ replied Pari.

The two clasped wrists, Nidra gripping Pari so tightly it hurt, a woman clinging to life. A story of suffering was communicated in that gesture, in the catch of her breath and the haunted look in her eye.

‘It’s not much by way of apology but I’ve brought some food with me,’ said Pari, pausing before adding with a smile, ‘and some wine.’

For a moment, she thought the other woman was going to cry but that moment swiftly passed, replaced by steel and quiet anger. Nidra gave a curt nod. ‘Let’s go inside.’

The inside of the house hadn’t changed since Pari had last visited. A spartan space, the hangings were faded and functional, used to cover the broken windows rather than to decorate. There was a small fire pit in the centre of the room, a token gesture towards comfort, and that was it. Nidra had left no mark of herself on the place. This is no home for her, merely a place to wait out the storm.

Without ceremony, they opened the bottle and began passing it between them.

‘I expected you before now. What happened?’ asked Nidra.

‘A delay with my rebirth. Beyond my control.’

‘High Lords!’ From Nidra’s lips, the title sound like an insult.

‘High Lords!’ agreed Pari.

‘To Yadavendra, temporary High Lord of the Sapphire.’ Nidra raised the bottle. ‘May his end be slow and miserable!’

They both took long swigs of the bottle.

‘To Priyamvada, temporary High Lord of the Tanzanite,’ said Pari. ‘May all her vessels be afflicted with piles!’