Fingerprints

a story in four parts

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Black

“Tsssss!”

The young girl looked up from the fireplace she was stoking and glanced about the room for the source of the voice. The room, as she had expected, was still empty. Mistress Adeshi wouldn’t retire to her bedchambers for a while yet, and no one else had a reason to be in the Mistress’s rooms besides the one readying them for her arrival.

She wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of a sooty hand and continued to rake together the last of the glowing coals.

“Tsssss, Tavi!”

Louder now, the direction of the voice was clearer—the window. Someone called to her from outside.

“Tavi!”

No, not just someone—she recognised the voice at last. Dana. Her brother.

Tavi shoved the brush and poker aside and stood. She checked her skirts and her feet for excess soot before scurrying across the tiles to the open window. Careful not to leave black fingerprints on the sill, she leaned over and peered into the garden. “Dana?”

A head of tangled black hair erupted from the bushes just below her, along with the unmistakable scent of the stables. “Tavi!” Dana cried, his grin a beacon in the midst of his dark, dirt-streaked face. “Thought you’d be here by now.”

“What do you want?” Tavi asked. “Shouldn’t you be helping with the horses?”

“All done for the night. Master Arvaden was very pleased with the quick work we put in today. But that’s not why I came. There’s a new storyteller in town and I’d like to go see—” He broke off, gazing intently at his sister’s face. His smile disappeared. “Tavi, what happened?”

Tavi’s hand flew to her cheek. “It’s nothing.”

“That’s not nothing, there’s blood—”

“It’s my fault,” Tavi broke in. “I dropped and broke an urn. I’m fine.”

Dana’s eyes narrowed. “I said if she hit you again—”

Tavi shuddered at his words. “Dana, I’m fine.” She forced her hand to her side, glad he could not see the welts covered by her sleeves. Dana always worried too much. “There’s a new storyteller in town, you said.”

He was silent a moment before his gaze softened. “Yes. The weaver’s son. I’ve been going to see him every night this week. I’m going tonight, Tavi. I want you to come.”

She shook her head.

“Such stories,” Dana breathed. “The ideas he has, you wouldn’t believe. You have to come hear them. Please.”

“No.”

“Tavi—”

“I’m not going with you again.” Tavi shrank back against the window frame and buried her hands in her skirts. “I’m sick of their stories. They all want the same thing. To k—” She broke off and squeezed her eyes closed for a moment. To kill the Shaan. She didn’t dare say it aloud, least of all in Mistress Adeshi’s bedchambers. She felt sick just harbouring the words.

“They deserve it,” Dana whispered. His eyes darkened as they flicked to Tavi’s injured cheek again.

“No,” said Tavi. “They feed us—they give us a place to stay. Master Arvaden is good to us. I’m not going out to hear any more stories.”

Dana clenched his fists, equally stubborn. “Look, Tavi—” Then he sighed, stepped out of the safety of the bushes, and reached for his sister. He was barely tall enough to grip the windowsill beside her. “This storyteller, he’s… he’s different. I don’t know why. But he doesn’t tell stories about the Shaan. Come with me. You’ll see, I promise.”

No stories about the Shaan? Tavi blinked at her brother in disbelief. Were there any stories without the Shaan?

As if he could sense her sudden curiosity, Dana moved back. “I’ll wait for you by the water gate after sundown,” he said. “Mistress Adeshi shouldn’t need you after then.”

Tavi did not watch him sprint back through the garden. Instead, she fetched a rag, dampened it, and rubbed his grimy fingerprints off the windowsill again.

---

Red

Tavi flew through the rest of the preparations: she built up the fire, heated a deep, silver basin of water, and lit the sconces and the portable lamps around the room. As she worked, she tried to banish echoes of old Shaan stories from her mind. Dana’s talk of storytellers had dredged them up again.

They came from the south, from a land of a wavering sun, in search of warmer lands. And what they were not given freely, they destroyed…

No. Tavi fixed her thoughts on the splendour of the room nearly ready around her. That’s not true. They don’t destroy everything. 

She washed her feet and hands, careful not to splash the clean tiles. The cold water stung where the skin on her arm was broken, but it would not do to appear before Mistress Adeshi looking like she’d spent the night in a chimney. Once done, she threw the soiled water out the window onto the bushes below. The sunset had brushed the jasmine’s white flowers a delicate gold.

They took our crops, our homes, our people…

It really is a lovely garden, Tavi thought, before drawing the curtains to protect her mistress from any wandering eyes. It wouldn’t be long now before the lady herself arrived.

Just as Tavi poured the last jug of steaming water into its silver basin, Mistress Adeshi made her appearance.

She floated into the room, her attendants hovering around her like hummingbirds around a honeysuckle, adjusting the train of her robes here or relieving her of some trinket she carried there. “Your bath is ready, my lady,” said one, and, “What fragrance would you like this evening?” asked another.

“Rosewater,” Adeshi said, gracefully stepping free of her slippers, which an attendant promptly removed. The woman’s gaze paused briefly on Tavi, who flinched. “I have had a trying day.”

Tavi waited beside the fireplace, hands clasped and head bowed, as silent as a sprig of thyme. Her job was best done when it went unnoticed. Mistress Adeshi did not need her now, but it was wise to be nearby if one of the attendants should take issue with the temperature of the bath.

Our only freedom is in their destruction…

No, Tavi told herself. Lies. 

But what did it matter whether the storytellers spoke the truth or not? In the end, their stories led them to the same place—bloody and broken beneath a blackstallion’s hooves.

To block out that gruesome image, Tavi fixed her eyes on Mistress Adeshi’s voluminous embroidered train. Threads of gold caught the candlelight as she threw it off and let it crumple to the ground. 

Thankfully, the attendants found the bath acceptable. They added the rosewater, as requested, and gestured to Tavi to leave the room.

Tavi gathered her tools as quietly as possible. She was halfway to the door when Mistress Adeshi called out after her. “Girl!”

Tavi froze. Perhaps I got soot in the water, she thought in a panic. Perhaps I—

“See that my daughter’s rooms are well-heated.”

“Y—yes, my lady.”

“If she refuses decent garments in favour of those ridiculous shawls,” Adeshi continued, speaking now to the attendant on her left, “she will at least have a good fire going to keep her warm.”

“You think of everything, my lady,” her attendant answered.

Trembling, Tavi backed from the room and hurried down the hall. 

---

Blue

Dazhera, Mistress Adeshi’s only daughter, sat before a mirror as an attendant brushed kohl above her eyes. Tavi tried to work quietly at the fire—she did not wish to disturb Dazhera’s preparations—but an unbalanced log toppled from its perch with a crack, sending out a shower of sparks. She held her breath and dared a glance in Dazhera’s direction. Fortunately the young woman had not noticed.

Although the sun had set, leaving the gardens in a gloom of twilight, Dazhera had not had her curtains drawn. A warm breeze brushed through the room, and Tavi thought of Dana, no doubt already waiting for her at the water gate. Would she go with him? Her memories frightened her, but Dana had said this storyteller was different. 

He doesn’t tell stories about the Shaan.

If that was true, why did Dana even bother listening to them?

“Tavi?”

A swish of fabric and Dazhera’s voice broke through Tavi’s thoughts. Quickly she set down her tools, stood, and bowed her head. “Yes, my lady?”

Dazhera laughed. “So formal! It’s just me, Tavi. What, has Mother been hard on you today?”

Tavi stared at the shimmering hem of Dazhera’s dress and held her tongue. It was no use lying to Dazhera, not with her injury as plain as the nose on her face, but it would also be the height of stupidity to agree with her and accuse Mistress Adeshi of being harsh.

Dazhera sighed. “She doesn’t mean to be. Mother just wants things perfect. Everything perfect.” She sighed again. “All the time.”

Tavi doubted Dazhera shared her mother’s ideas of perfection. There was their disagreement over the appropriate warmth of clothing, after all.

“But let’s not talk about Mother. I’d like your opinion on this gown—I know you have an eye for beauty. What do you think?”

Obediently, Tavi looked up.

Dazhera stood before her in a sleeveless gown, her arms flung wide with confidence. They bore their usual patterns of indigo vai, designs swirling from her shoulders down to the backs of her hands, but tonight accents of glowing, silvery blue joined them. Dazhera was blessed with Light—she must have traced the bright lines there herself.

Her dress, held at her shoulders by delicate silver clasps, reached the floor, its many diaphanous, glass-beaded layers giving the impression of a waterfall as she moved. She pulled a wrap of a similar fabric around her shoulders, and Tavi understood Mistress Adeshi’s objections. Such a shawl was merely a decoration, like the kohl framing Dazhera’s upturned eyes. It offered its wearer no warmth at all. 

Not that Dazhera needed it. Beneath matching patterns of vai along her cheekbones, her face glowed. Her hair, such a deep, glossy blue it was almost black, tumbled down her back, woven through with silver thread and droplets of glass.

“You’re like a spirit of the moon, Mistress Dazhera,” Tavi said, and she meant it.

Dazhera laughed, but her shoulders drooped. “That ought to catch his eye, then,” she said wistfully.

The attendant who had painted Dazhera’s face stepped to her side. “If it please you, my lady…”

“Yes, Shadrali, you are dismissed,” Dazhera said. “Thank you for your assistance tonight. I’ll call a porter for the journey.”

As Shadrali hurried from the room, Dazhera wandered over to her open window. Tavi hesitated. Should she turn back to the fire? Attend Dazhera? She was uncertain whether the dismissal of Shadrali included her as well.

Before she could act, Dazhera called to her. “Look, Tavi. There’s your brother, out by the water gate.” Absently, she traced pale lines of Light along the windowsill. “I wonder what he’s doing there.”

“He’s waiting for me,” Tavi blurted out. 

“He’s waiting for you?”

“There’s a storyteller,” Tavi added, and immediately regretted it. Even Dazhera knew storytellers were against the Shaan. She’d probably said too much.

“The storyteller…”

Tavi ventured closer to the window. “Forgive me, my lady, I misspoke—”

“Dana!” Dazhera called suddenly. Her voice was low, but in the evening stillness it carried far. Across the gardens, Dana straightened and turned toward them.

No, thought Tavi.

Dazhera beckoned to him with a glowing hand, and, moving much more slowly than he was wont to, he crossed over. 

Dana stopped beneath them and bowed low. “My lady.”

“At ease, Dana, there’s none here but me and Tavi. She tells me you’re heading out together tonight?”

His eyes cut to Tavi. She hung her head, too ashamed to meet his gaze. 

“In truth—”

“To hear the storyteller,” Dazhera continued. “I wish—” She broke off with a shaky laugh. “No, Mother would lock me in the coffers if I tried. It’s best I don’t.”

Tavi glanced over to see her own confusion mirrored in Dana’s face.

“Go, Tavi,” said Dazhera. “Thank you. But you should be off.”

“The fire…”

“The fire won’t need tending. I won’t even be here most of the night. You may go.”

“Mistress Adeshi said—”

“If she says anything, tell her I sent you out.” At Tavi’s panicked look, Dazhera sighed and crossed to her dresser. When she returned, she pressed a coin into Tavi’s palm. “Here. It’s not a lie. Bring me back some spiced quail eggs.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Tavi stammered. “You’re most kind—”

“Just go already.” Dazhera pushed her toward the door. Tavi winced at the sudden pressure on her injured arm. “Off with you now. Go!”

Tavi paused just outside the doorway. She couldn’t get out of it now—she would have to see the storyteller. Her heart lurched.

There is only one answer. We must kill the Shaan.

She swallowed hard. The storytellers had not known Dazhera. They would never have said that if they knew.

“… promise to tell me everything he says.”

Dazhera’s voice shook Tavi back to reality. She tucked the coin safely away and hurried from the hall.

---

Green

Tavi and Dana hurried through the narrow streets of Val-Nordhen, only stopping to exchange Dazhera’s coin for a small handful of spiced quail eggs. Tavi tucked them into the sash at her waist, thanked the spicer, and dashed off to catch up with her brother. She might not be keen to hear the storyteller tonight, but it was better than finding herself lost and alone in a narrow alleyway too far from Master Arvaden’s grounds.

Dana did not mention the fact that she had spilled their plans to Dazhera. Her error had turned out well in the end—perhaps he didn’t mind.

They ducked around a corner. Tavi stumbled over something sharp in the road and would have fallen had Dana not caught her by the arm. She cried out in pain as his fingers dug into the bruises there.

Fortunately, Dana mistook it for a cry of alarm. “Are you all right?” he asked, steadying her.

“All good.” She shrugged off his hand, and noticed for the first time that in the dark of the alleyway, patches of his palm gave off faint blue Light.

“Dana? You’re glowing.”

He shoved his hands into his pockets with a grunt. “S’nothing. Come on, we’ll be late.”

Several twists and turns later, they came to a building heavy with chatter and light. Tavi sought out the sign above the door and recognised the weaver’s mark. “Is this it?” she asked.

Dana was already at the door, speaking in low voices with the man who stood in the entrance. After a moment or two the man jerked his head toward the indoors. Dana took hold of Tavi’s hand and pulled her inside.

The room was strangely quiet for how packed it was. Tavi couldn’t see past the man in front of her, easily two heads taller than she was, but she could hear a voice above the murmurs. The speaker was young, but his words were steady.

“… and so from the earliest light of the sun through the heat of the day, he worked for the reward he had been promised…”

Dana still had her hand in his. As he wove through the press of listeners ahead of them, Tavi slipped through right behind him. Before she knew it, they had reached the front. Someone bumped into Tavi from behind, and without anyone ahead of her to break her fall, she tumbled to the rough wooden floorboards and struck her shoulder against the struts of an upright loom.

Tavi sucked in a sharp breath. This was not where she had hoped to spend her evening.

She had just struggled to her knees when a hand moved into her field of vision, reaching toward her. Tavi looked up.

A young man, several years older than Dana, crouched before her. She knew without asking that he was the storyteller, that he had left his loom to help her. His hands were as dark and calloused as Dana’s, but his eyes were gentle, and she understood why her brother had called him different. Tavi took his hand.

He helped her to her feet. “I’m Tavi,” she said. Not that he would remember, given the amount of people that must flock to hear him each night, but it seemed right to introduce herself to someone who’d picked her up off the floor.

“Galu,” he replied, “the weaver’s son.”

“I’m here to listen,” she added.

His face lit up with a brilliant smile. “I’m glad of that, Tavi.”

As Galu regained his seat, took up his shuttle and continued with his story, Tavi burrowed back into the crowd until she was beside Dana again. He pulled her close. “You all right?” he whispered.

Tavi nodded.

It was a while before she noticed that despite Dana’s protective grip around her shoulders, she felt no pain. Had the bruising subsided already? Surreptitiously, Tavi prodded along the length of her injured arm—no pain at all.

What?

She touched her cheek. The welts were gone. Her skin was whole.