Page 67 of The Lustrous Dark
Shay shudders, then sips her tea, which is sweet enough to make her left eye twitch. “I should very much like to hear that story.”
“Perhaps another time.” The Morchidat sips her own tea. “Today, I'm here to personally thank you, Shuika Fulan. I hear you have obtained a most valuable object for us.”
“Sayeda,” Shay says, her throat going dry again. What exactly did Shadi tell his mother? “I believe there may be some misunderstanding.”
The Morchidat arches an elegant eyebrow. “About?”
Shay flounders, but Khawla intervenes: “Khalti, Shay has merely agreed to show you the hjabat.”
“Oh.” Any warmth—and there had been little to begin with—leaves the Morchidat's face. She methodically sets her tea and cookies down on the low table. “So, you don't wish to join the Sisterhood?”
“No, I …” Shay finds herself unable to go on as she watches the Morchidat pull a rather large and sharp-looking knife from the belt at her waist and lay it on the table as well.
“Are you in opposition to our cause?”
“It's not that at all,” Khawla says lightly, sipping tea and chomping cookies as if the tension in the room isn't growing palpable. “I told her you were the best person to ask about what the ring actually does. That's all.”
“I think she can speak for herself.” The Morchidat turns to Shay while pullinganother, somehowlargerandsharperknife from a thigh strap hidden beneath her robe and setting it next to the first.
“I'm not opposed to anything.” Shay tries to keep her voice level while glancing at Khawla's parents. They appear unalarmed, and she wonders if they would intervene should the Morchidat decide to give Shay a personal demonstration of just what happened to her opponent. “I have some personal things I need to figure out.”
Marjan snorts. “Lalla, don't we all?”
Yara elbows her sister in the side.
While Shay struggles to vocalize an answer, the Morchidat withdraws five more knives and knife-adjacent implements from various hiding places on her person and lines them up on the table. She smiles brightly. “Well, why didn't you just say so?”
“Shay!” Khawla laughs, spraying cookie crumbs down the front of her sleeping gown. “The look on your face!”
The Morchidat's eyes narrow slightly, then bolt wide. “Oh, did you think … Why, I wouldn't dare harm the girl my son is enamored with.”
Shay works her jaw, these words nearly as frightening as the medley of weapons on display.
“Did Shadi say that?” Khawla boldly asks.
“He didn't have to.” The Morchidat waves her hand and looks at Shay. “A mother knows these things. Just make sure you resolve these issues, whatever they are, before your relationship with Shadi goes any further. Now.” The Morchidat slaps her hands on top of her thighs. “Let's see it, then.”
Shay pulls the hjabat from her pocket and hesitates, but with a reassuring nod from Khawla, she deposits it in the Morchidat's palm.
The Morchidat inspects the ring, tilting her head first one way and then the other, her manner almost clinical. Her daughters lean in from either side for a better look.
“Which one is it, Mmi?” Yara asks, awe tinting her voice.
“This is the ring of Iman, blessings upon her name.”
Unexpectedly, the proclamation causes a shiver to rush over Shay's arms, leaving goosebumps in its wake. “And can it help the Sisterhood restore women's magic?”
“It is only one hjabat,” the Morchidat explains, showing no sign of handing the ring back to Shay. “There are four in existence, one belonging to each of our Lallat. We cannot restore magic without the other three. But having one would be a start—one that I'm happy to repay by gifting you any knife from my collection.”
Shay stares at the row of knives, all cumbersome-looking and more suited to the infliction of gross harm than the precise harvesting of a delicate fiddlehead without damaging the plant.
Sensing her hesitation, the Morchidat holds one up, a menacing instrument with a handle in the middle and a wicked blade sprouting from each end. She closes her other hand over the hjabat, leaving one finger free, and strokes the blade in a manner that's almost tender. “Do you whittle? If so, may I suggest this one?”
Shay shakes her head wordlessly The knife in question looks entirely impractical for whittling, a point she thinks it wiser not to argue.
“Hmm, perhaps, something else, then?” She sets the hjabat on the table and asks Yara to hand her a paper bag from the floor beside the seddari. From the bag, she withdraws a pair of leather gauntlets and a leather vest and lays these out on the remaining table space. “Try them on.”
For a moment, Shay can only stare. The garments are beautifully detailed, stitched with a level of workmanship not found in any market stall. No, she'd bet her last luneer that these were custom-made. The vest boasts a scalloped trim, is edged with rivet accents, and has buckle straps at the sides. The gloves have small steel plates sewn onto them and are bound by thick laces.
