Out

Chapter 11

Wilds, 324 Era Vulgaris, Centennial 24

"Zafre, wake up," Aron whispers in my ear.

"Hmm?" I ask, groggily. I roll over and a pebble digs into my shoulder. Sleep brought shivering fits, but no dreams. Just chills. Hours of being colder than I ought to be. Though Aron built a lean-to to shield me from the wind, the breeze still slipped through the cracks and into my bones.

"There is a welcoming party waiting to escort us into camp and they are all anxious to get a glimpse of you," he says. He is amused that I am a novelty, but I am exhausted by it.

"Welcoming party? I had hoped there would not be a fuss." I sit up and rub my eyes.

"Antista Zafirah, they would not let you in without a fuss. You are the prodigal daughter."

"I am tired," I say, yawning.

"Come on, Z. Better to go before they come in looking for you."

Aron grasps my hand, helping me to my feet to hunch beneath the lean-to. My knees wobble, so I grip his hand. I know he does not mind.

"Do I look all right?" I ask.

"It does not matter how you look; they will be amazed by what you are," he says.

My cheeks grow hot. "That is all very well, but I do not want to embarrass myself. If I am the prodigal daughter, that is slightly important. At least tell me I do not look like a limp noodle."

"You do not look like a limp noodle," Aron chuckles. "Whatever that is. Come on."

Aron tugs me and I reluctantly follow him out into the heat.

"You have never had noodles?" I whisper.

"Arci food? No. And gratulari, but I would rather not," he says.

"Some of it is delicious."

"So is Cerani food," Aron says. He links my arm with his so I can lean on him. My legs are weak, mostly from nervousness.

"I like Cerani food—mostly," I say. "As long as it has no more than four legs. And please make sure I never eat any organs. I am counting on you."

"Perhaps I should not tell you what we have been eating for the past ten days, then."

"Perhaps not," I agree.

"Antista Zafirah!" a high voice calls. A herd of footsteps scuttle towards me. Hands grip my arms and pull me away from Aron, who I imagine is amused by the whole thing. My escorts lead me and I do everything in my power not to stumble.

"Antista," Riva speaks, as we approach. "The women have brought a cart for you to rest in as we make the final journey into camp."

"Oh," I say. I am embarrassed that they have gone through so much trouble for me. "That is kind, but I am capable of walking."

"It is tradition for an honored guest," Riva says.

"I would rather walk," I say.

She says nothing, and the hands release my arms. I am relieved; it is too often that guiding hands feel like captive ones. I may be the Antista, but I am still a captive of my blindness, and at their mercy. Whatever I can do to control my body—I will do it.

"It is my express wish to walk alongside my Cerani hosts," I say, with every fragment of authority I can muster. "Not to be carried by them."

"That is your right," Riva says.

"It is my will," I reply.

"As you say." I do not amuse Riva. Despite her tenderness at learning my parentage, she continues to speak to me as if I am the enemy. It is I who should see the Cerani as my enemy, for all that has happened since our escape from Q. But I do not see them that way, and I do not appreciate being treated as such. If I am afforded any time with Riva, I will mention it to her. I am not so cruel as to embarrass her in front of the welcoming party, to do to her what she does to me. At least, I hope I have not done so. These days, I hardly consider my thoughts before I speak, and it could spell trouble, where Riva is concerned.