of Sword and Flame

Chapter 31: Vitex Keniensis

Anika opened her door with a heavy sigh, already loosening her belt and preparing to flop onto her bed. She shut the door behind her with a click, yanking at her belt to remove it. She stared at her bed with a satisfied smile. Then, something shiny caught her eye. She glanced at her desk, covered everywhere in loose papers, and there, feather-light atop it all, was a simple envelope with a waxy golden seal. She plucked up the envelope, staring at the letters across the back.

Anika tore open the envelope. She pulled out the small pale paper inside. Dear old friend, Anika read. She was about to question why in the world they were writing to her like that when a slight flaw in the page alerted her as to why. She swiftly lit a candle, bringing the paper up to the flame. As the flame danced through the air near the page, Anika watched as the letters slowly appeared.

Apollo,

We are writing this in full anonymity. We believe that someone is trying to expose our operation.

You're being summoned to the lab. Direct orders from The Overseer. Leave as soon as possible.

Tell no one.

Anika crumpled the paper, burned it, and glanced at yet another letter sitting atop her pile. It was frail and tender, and when Anika picked it up, she could smell frankincense and myrrh, trademark scents of Zinaab. Whenever her sisters wrote her a letter, they would put little sachets in with the parchment to remind her of home. Anika opened the letter delicately, savoring the smell as she pulled the little sachets out and tossed them onto her bed. Later, she'd tuck them under her pillow, shut her eyes, and pretend to be home.

It was a frail thing, her home. A balancing act on a tightrope, toeing her way forward with caution. She had a home so full of family it might burst; her siblings were content with this peace and quiet. They had a wealth of time, money, and joy in their lives. But Anika always craved more.

Like a Vitex keniensis, Jina used to say while cradling her sister's head. The words came out in quick, sharp bursts from her voice so deep as she tugged playfully on Anika's crinkled collar. You never seem to know when to stop spreading your roots, always searching for the next place to grow your fruits.

Jina pulled a small grasp of foliage from Anika's puffs of hair, curving to meet Jina's steepled fingers. Anika didn't need to turn to see Jina's arched brow raise in scrutiny. "Ani," she murmured carefully, "you haven't been stealing away amid the night's peaceful slumber again? You know the moonlight is only for secrets."

Anika smiled, recalling Jina's idiosyncratic tongue. She always spoke like a poet, her full lips, like two crescent moons, pursing around the words with conviction.

"Of course not, dear Jina. Because I have no secrets to be kept."

Anika felt another tug in her hair; a second leaf fluttered to the floor. Anika winced like a scolded child as she heard her sister's drawling, anchored sigh.

"This home has never been enough for you," Jina dragged her words through the air in benign strokes. She cupped her own reddened mahogany cheek in thought, staring out at the room's gilded shutters. Past them, the wind swept streams of leaves up and through the air, each moving with gentle sways like a mcheza ngoma's hips. "Is our opulent home not comfortable?" Jina asked coldly. Anika rose from the floor at her sister's bed's feet, turning. Her mouth had gone downward in an indignant frown.

"You know that's not my problem," she shot back sharply. "It's this whole place! It's all so stagnant, so empty of heart—" she began to pace around the floor "—and life! Must I be doomed to this limbo for all eternity?"

She finally paused, turning to look at her sister. Her sister's cold expression dawned on her face, and Anika studied her: her sharp cheekbones, her arched brows, the bundles of beads wrapping the crown of her head. Jina's head was empty of hair, as it had been for years.

Jina let another drawling sigh out and rose taller than Anika, reaching for a drawer on her bedside table.

"Fine." And with that, she tossed a slip of paper toward Anika. On its pale surface was a map; the end, circled in red, had, scribbled in Zinaabian, mji ambapo jua hukutana na bahari: the city where the sun meets the sea.

Anika read her sister's letter back in her room, filled with messages from all her siblings; the horrid, jagged brushstrokes of her youngest sister, who was only just learning to read and write, peeked out from the bottom of the page. She missed them dearly. But Anika wasn't content there. She wanted to be more, do more. The organization—Apollo—gave her that opportunity. She wouldn't squander it, not when they were so close.