Kesta began to clear the snack and preliminary notes from the table as the two talked through the plan to be executed that night. She was meant to have more time, but the delay in the forest meant moving as quickly as possible. They gathered the necessary supplies, both for Marhawet’s infiltration and the supporting magic to be done by the mage. They spent another two hours solidifying strategy and finally, as the late day sun flooded the kitchen in streaks of gold, had a proper meal. Marhawet had never been more glad of hot food. A steaming hot stew, with hearty bits of hominy corn, swollen with a rich peppered broth. She couldn’t identify any meat, and didn’t care to. It was plentiful, and delicious.

  “This isn’t an official assignment, is it?” Kesta asked abruptly, as the two cleared the table. “That's why there's only one of you.”

  Passing a dish to the other woman she hesitated a moment, then nodded.

  “And that means you were chosen because they knew you wouldn’t make a big fuss about that.”

  She nodded again. She wondered for a moment how much the woman knew about the situation leading up to the envoy, if she knew it was unsanctioned, or that the mage council themselves directly dispatched her, outside of the typical military channels. She could see how that would be concerning. But it wasn’t some nefarious cover-up, only damage control for one fool-hardy mage’s mistake.

  Marhawet studied her furrowed brow. “You think it’s fishy.” she stated simply, resolving to share nothing further.

  “Everything about this is fishy,” Kesta sighed, beginning to pump water into the basin, “Tanetzlan is fishy. Waracan is fishy.”

  “Waracan is never anything but forthright.”

  Kesta snorted. “Which is why it’s strange they’d send you. There should have been an official investigation and diplomatic intervention, but instead,” her voice slowed as she fixated on the papers in front of her, as if trying to piece together her own facts of the case, “they sent a lone Enzalli.”

  Marhawet nodded.

  “It seems perfectly prudent to me.”

  “Well it would, wouldn’t it.”

  She felt the remark cut the air, grinding the conversation to a halt. The two were silent for a moment.

  “As a spy, I expected you to have the same outlook,” she finally offered. “Aren’t you glad your people are acting strategically?”

  She winced a bit, “I just send the intelligence they request.” She began busying herself with organizing the papers on the other end of the table back into neat piles.

  “You seem to have a complex relationship with the government.”

  “With Waracans” she corrected.

  “But you are Waracan.”

  “Hmph.”

  She felt for a moment she could finally get a clearer idea of the woman’s mind. She didn’t speak like military, she spoke like a civilian. Was it some kind of strange trick? Or had she simply been here acting the part of herbalist for too long?

  She leaned against the polished granite counter beside her, calculating her response. “I know the Citadel can be a bit…single-minded, in their focus.”

  Kesta glanced over at her, pursing her lips as if holding back. She looked back at the sink and stitched her brow. Marhawet just watched her and waited.

  “It's just,” The clay pot clanged against the sink basin as she slammed it down. She brought her hands out of the soapy water. Drips flew across the counter as she turned to face her, “you know why the public has so little modern information about our neighboring kingdoms? Because so does the Citadel. No one wants to come out here and learn. No one wants to be a spy in Wacaran. They find it distasteful,” she sneered, “So they harass people who are already out here instead.” She reached past Marhawet for a kitchen towel, pulling it aggressively from a shelf, and dried her hands. “I’m sorry,” she sighed, “I clearly have a bit of an ax to grind myself.”

  “No I...I understand what you mean.”

  She looked up at Marhawet as she put the towel away with a knowing smirk. “You’d be a great spy. You’re charming and you want people to like you.”

  Marhawet smiled sheepishly in response.

  “Pity you’re a giant.”

  The soldier stifled a laugh.

  “I’m afraid I insulted you earlier. I’m sorry. You know more about this place than me. I respect that.”

  Kesta gave a short nod of acceptance as she passed her en route to the sitting room. Marhawet followed after.

  “I do stand out,” she continued, pivoting to more idle civilian chat, “People may not care about outsiders here, but even in Waracan I’m the big lady with the scar,” she chuckled softly. She took a seat on one of the cushions on the other side of the room from her, careful to give the mage enough space to do her work.

  “You know,” Kesta stood from the desk and began looking through the shelves above her work station, “the nice thing about being out here, you don't have to go through all those regulations and sanctions for cosmetic magic. I could clean that up for you, if you’d like.”

  “No, don't!” Marhawet instinctively clasped her cheek, where the small but deep notch rested just below her eye. She blushed a bit, “my...partner likes it. Says it looks like the moon.”

  Her expression softened as her hands fell from the shelves. “How long have you been together?”

  “We had the joining ceremony four years ago.”

  “Congratulations.” She sat back down and continued her mage work.

  “Do you have a partner?”

  She gave a coy smirk towards the table in front of her. “That butcher.”

  “Oh,” Marhawet was unsuccessful in hiding the surprise in her tone, “Is it difficult to have to be in a relationship with...you know…”

  Kester turned around. “The enemy?”

  She grimaced at the realization of the misstep. “I...wasn’t going to…”

  “It’s fine,” she turned back to her work, “He isn’t my enemy any more than the farmer who picks this grain is yours,” she stated, “And I don't have to do anything.”

  “I’m sorry, that was rude of me.”

  So they harass people who are already out here instead, she said before. She studied the woman, her small frame, her soft hands, her loose braid streaked with gray. It occurred to her that the woman was not military intelligence at all.

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  “Are...you a highborn?”

  For a moment she thought Kesta hadn’t heard the question. She watched from behind as the woman pulverized some powder in a bowl of rough volcanic stone.

  “The council keeps an eye on those who leave. I don’t mind doing favors for the throne if it means I'm not dragged back to that damned citadel and buried in its tomes.”

  Marhawet nodded. “But still, I’m sure you could have come to some kind of understanding-”

  “This is the understanding,” she abruptly stopped her grinding “And I’m content with it. Maybe twice a year I am called to aid my former kingdom, and the rest of the time is my own. I’m free here.” She put down the bowl and turned around to fully face her, “I’ll finish this up. You should get some rest. Lots to do after sunset.

  Tamas stood with summer’s early evening sun to his back, taking in the mural. It was the only decoration adorning the courtyard. It was a magnificent thing, a great god, with blue skin and a jade green ornament on her nose. It was difficult to tell whether the headdress she wore was meant to be cloth, or stone, or perhaps a plant; the art was too stylized. She held a bundle of rope in one hand and an empty bowl in another. Surrounding her, a ring of small glyphs. It felt imbued with meaning he couldn’t glean. He felt a looming presence behind him.

  “Is it your god?”

  He turned to see a towering man with a strong face and a soft expression.

  “Oh uh, no, no I’m not familiar-”

  “Maya. Our mother. She heals us with her nourishment.”

  The man stepped forward toward the mural, placing his finger for a moment at the empty bowl. Tamas hadn't realized before that the spot on the mural was worn down to sandstone. The man placed the same fingers below his lip, muttering some kind of prayer.

  “You’re my herbalist.”

  “Coyopa.”

  “I remember,” he responded, a bit more defensively than he intended. The man only nodded, still looking at the mural. He may have been in his thirties, but still didn't look the youngest of his four doctors. His shining black hair was tightly pulled back into a low braid. He sometimes wore glasses in the examination room, but not today. “This is…the patron, right? Of the hospital?”

  Coyopa nodded.

  “Her children are the rabbits.” He turned to look at Tamas expectantly.

  “...okay?” He searched his mind for meaning but found none.

  Coyopa smirked at him, and turned back to the painting. “She protects all in matters of magic. Even the witches.”

  “Hm.”

  The two stood, jointly examining the mural. The doctor made no move to make further conversation. Tamas’ fingers twitched, feeling overly aware of his body in the presence of another. He gave into the excruciating obligation he felt to break the silence.

  “Are... you religious?”

  “Yes.”

  His answer hung in the air, oddly resolute in its finality. He watched as the man's eyes searched the outer corners of the mural.

  “Tamas!” a voice from across the courtyard. A figure jogged closer. “There you are. Dinner?”

  Thank god Xochil. A wash of relief as he turned to see his friend. He tried to make a polite acknowledgement before leaving, but scampered off far too quickly, feeling much like a rabbit himself.

  They always sat at the same long wooden table in the dining hall. The walls here were a much more utilitarian limestone wash. Members of the monastery were sequestered to their own long table along the wall, but the rest of the space seemed largely for public use. Tamas flew down the line of food, saying yes to whatever was offered to him, and joined Xochil at the table. On his plate were beans, roasted squash, slices of avocado, a chicken leg slathered in sauce. On the tables, as with every evening meal, were assorted roasted vegetables and condiments and a steaming plate of thin breads and wrapped dumplings made from corn. Xochil seemed skilled at using them as a utensil, but always needed help from the spoon. They were at nearly every mean, the leftovers would be tomorrow's breakfast, fried in a green sauce to a savory mush. He enjoyed getting a feel for the rhythm of the place.

  He took a deep drink from the clay cup in front of him, today a crimson red drink that was sweet and tart.

  “Slow down, no ones taking it away from you,” Xochil muttered, biting the end off a roasted green onion. He smiled sheepishly.

  “Sorry,” he put his cup down, “I don't know why I'm always so hungry.”

  “Good to see your appetite back.” She tossed him another tortilla. “You look a lot healthier than when we first met, that's for sure.”

  “Really?”

  She nodded as she chewed a mouth full of chicken, “still a bit pale and gaunt though. We gotta get you in the sun more.”

  He gave a small smile and tore his tortilla into several small pieces, suddenly self-conscious of his eating habits. He poked around his plate for a few silent minutes.

  “I think my herbalist might be a witch,” he said finally.

  “Who, Coyopa? Yeah, of course he is.”

  Tamas’ eyes widened, momentarily thrown by her blasé tone. “Is that…safe?”

  “Sure,” his friend shrugged, “pretty much all herbalists are witches.” She took another bite of meat. “It's what they’re supposed to be doing. I mean I don’t know the guy, but he’s one of the good ones, I suppose.”

  Others sat around them, friends of Xochil’s. Most had injuries of an overtly magical nature, though some were more obvious than others. One of them, a thin man with a small beard, spoke with a labored wheeze and occasionally started up a fit of coughing that sounded like howling wind until he spat up a clump of leaves and clay. Another had skin that took on a pinkish hue, as if stained from cochineal dying. He was thankful his injuries were mostly undetectable, he couldn’t stand the idea of the stares, of being “marked.”

  The others were talking about something. He was paying more attention to his plate, until it became directed at him. He felt Xochil elbow him.

  “Have you ever been across the sea?”

  He shook his head, mouth full of a bite he misjudged the size of.

  “The people there can navigate that blue wasteland like it's connected to them, it's amazing,” the pink woman remarked.

  Tamas swallowed his bite, “You mean like magic?”

  “No, not like magic,” Xochil snapped, “like constellations and tides and shit.”

  “Magic can’t do things like that,” the other woman added kindly.

  “That's like lighting a fire and hoping it’ll clean your house,” the man snorted at his own joke, “It’d sooner burn their boat down.”

  Tamas shrugged, it didn’t seem so absurd. He turned his focus back to Xochil, trying to enter the conversation in earnest.

  “Why did you cross the sea?”

  “It was an assignment, trade stuff.”

  “I thought you were a prison guard.”

  “I’m military, we have lots of assignments. I’ve been with diplomats, I’ve been on trade posts, I’ve been on the outer wall…” She poked absent-mindedly at her food as she continued on.

  “Is it scary at the prison?” the wheezing man questioned.

  Xochil snorted, “No. It's super chill. I literally just sit in a turret all day looking out at the city. Easiest job I ever had.”

  “Oh...I just assumed that's where you got injured. I heard there were witches there.” He took a bite from his own plate and forced his mouth closed as he coughed the food down. Tamas felt so sorry for him, it seemed like every action caused him great pain.

  Xochil laughed, “No, I got attacked in the north forest. I was out hunting boar with some friends. Day off. Go figure.”

  “So what happened?” the pink woman asked Xochil.

  “I just told you,” she snapped, “it's a boring story; hunting, got attacked, nothing to tell.” She took her first large bite in the fifteen minutes of talking.

  “A witch attack?” the man asked.

  “Just a creature,” she mumbled through her stuffed mouth. She piled up the remaining contents of her plate onto a single piece of tortilla. “But the friend I was with was dating a witch, and he’s dead now, so. That’s what you get I guess.” She shrugged and shoved the final enormous bite into her mouth.

  There was a beat of silence.

  “God, Xochil, I’m so sorry,” the woman muttered.

  “It’s fine,” she grunted through layers of tortilla. She gestured to her empty plate, “done.” She lifted her tray and swiftly exited the table.

  The pink woman looked accusingly at the man, “that was rude of you.”

  “You asked!”

  “And she clearly didn’t want to talk about it.” She directed her gaze toward Tamas, “and you? Just silent as usual?”

  Tamas straightened his back, for a moment having forgotten he could be perceived at all.

  “S-sorry,” was all he could think to say. The three returned to their meals in uncomfortable silence as others filtered through the dining hall.