Page 16 of Firebird
“Ew, gross, Bunica! Don’t say things like that.” I shivered at the thought of my grandparents rolling around in bed together.
She laughed again. When silence settled between us, her soothing strokes with the brush lulling me into a sleepy state, she spoke gently but firmly.
“Emotions are powerful, Mina. Listen to me. One day you will not only be able to read them, but you will be able to control them. Change them. That will be your true power. You can bring hope to the hopeless, joy to those in sorrow, and calm to those in peril.”
She stopped brushing and urged me to turn around. I twisted to face her, still sitting, and looked up into the warm brown eyes of my grandmother, knowing she liked to see me eye to eye when she had something important to say, something that was touched with her gift of sight.
“One day, your gift will turn the tide of war. It will help vanquish the enemy. It will strike fear into the hearts of fierce, dangerous men.” She touched her wrinkled fingers under my chin, holding my gaze. “You, my darling Mina, will hold the world in your thrall.” She cupped my cheek, her eyes glassy in the firelight, distant with premonition. “You, and your sisters, will save us all.”
But Bunica was wrong. I couldn’t save anyone. Not even myself.
IV
MALINA
I awoke to the smell of baking bread and the prickling sensation of being watched. When I bolted upright and looked at the door, a curly-haired boy quickly ducked outside, leaving the door wide open.
“She’s awake, Kara!” a boy’s voice echoed, obviously the one who’d been spying on me.
“Stop being a pest and get me that goat’s milk or you’ll have no breakfast at all,” a woman snapped back at him.
“But I want to meet her,” whined the boy.
The morning light in the window told me the sun was well up. I’d slept hard, which was strange in itself, considering where I was.
Quickly, I got out of bed and straightened it, then looked for my shoes that I’d left behind the changing screen. They were gone, as were my torn and soiled clothes I’d come in.
The washbasin was empty, but there was a pitcher filled with clean water and a bowl on the side table along with a frayed stick and tooth powder for cleaning my teeth. There were also small ties set beside the comb I’d used last night. For tying back my hair, I presumed.
Strange. This wasn’t what I expected to wake to.
I combed my hair and braided it into a long rope down my back, then used the abrasive, gritty powder and frayed stick to brush my teeth before rinsing thoroughly.
“Are you ever going to come out of your room?” came that same boy’s voice.
I stepped from behind the screen to find a tall, gangly boy probably around ten. He grinned wide when he saw me, revealing dimples. “I’m Stefanos.”
He was a handsome child wearing a brown tunic and dark pants. He frowned down at my feet. “You need shoes.”
“The ones I came in are gone,” I told him.
He walked to the foot of my bed and opened my trunk. “Try these.” He set a well-made pair of sandals on the stone floor. “Or maybe these.” He set out another pair that covered more of the foot.
The second pair actually fit fairly well. I sat on the bed to strap them on. “You keep random pairs of shoes in the house?”
“Here, let me help you.” He quickly knelt at my feet and took over looping the straps around my ankle. “Yes. Dominus never knows when a new member might join our household.”
Member. I tried not to laugh at his kind tone, mentioningmembersjoining the house like it was a choice. Like we’dwantto join this household.
“My name is Malina.”
“You’re very pretty,” he said sweetly, flashing me that wide smile again.
I peered down at him with warmth, having nearly forgotten the openness of children, saying what they thought without a care. Still, he seemed rather old to speak so freely.
“Thank you, Stefanos.”
My gut clenched when I realized what he was wearing around his neck. A rudimentary metal chain, and chiseled into a steel plate at the middle was the nameJULIANUS IGNIS DAKKIA. It was his slave collar. Then my stomach flipped with nausea again at what the collar mostly hid—a deep scar running the length of his thin throat. This boy had once nearly been killed by someone’s blade.
