“Ah, here it is.” His voice comes from beyond the door. He comes through the doorway carrying a bundle of cloth.
He presses it into my hands. My fingers touch not cloth but leather. Red leather.
“We don’t have very many left,” he says. “Once we lost the sixth, we lost the ability to make more. So we brought out the old uniforms from the archives—including the ones worn by the great Wardana of old. The mancers have gotten very good at mending them.”
I touch the ikons—some embroidered, some etched in the leather—dozens of them overlapping. My fingertips tingle as if the power of the ikons is palpable.
“Here.” He takes the jacket from me, and I place the trousers onthe floor. He shakes the jacket out and holds it open for me. The inside is a soft black, and ikons embroidered in ivory-thread are studded throughout like stars in a night sky.
Dalca helps me slip it on. Its substantial weight presses my shoulders down, and the sleeves come down past my fingertips.
“I’m not sure it’s my size,” I say, dryly.
Dalca laughs. “Trust me.”
He shows me how to fasten it; the inner layer has slim loops that pull over a row of tiny buttons, and the outer layer laces closed, with a button at the neck.
“Ready?” Dalca asks.
“For what?”
He touches an ikon and I gasp as a tremor runs through the leather. In inch-wide sections, it shrinks and stiffens, as if finding the shape of my body. Another tremor runs through it, and starting from the waist and inching upward, the jacket shrinks to fit me. It stills all at once, and I raise and bend my arms, marveling at how supple and yielding the leather has become. Its weight is no longer knee-buckling—now it’s merely comforting, no heavier than a hug.
Dalca’s voice is solemn. “Now you’re as protected as I can make you.”
His words warm my cheeks and have me feeling strangely exposed. I bend to pick up the trousers to hide my face, and Dalca turns his back to give me privacy.
The trousers are embroidered and lined in the same way as the jacket, thick with padding at the thighs and knees. They lace up at the waist, and when I activate the ikon right at my navel, the leather shivers and shrinks to fit.
I meet my reflection’s eyes. A Wardana looks back at me. My chin, my nose, my lips. But her shoulders are broader. She stands straighter. And in her gaze glimmers something that’s almost like bravery.
I run my hand down my side, tracing the thousandfold protections of the Wardana ikons. I remember what it felt like to look up at the Wardana flying overhead and have longing fill me up to the brim. But it’s almost like remembering a dream.
Isn’t this what I’ve always wanted?
Maybe I’ve changed. Maybe I want more now.
And yet. A slow smile breaks over my face in the mirror.
“Dalca?” I say, and he turns around. I meet his eyes in the mirror. “I’m ready.”
When we return to the reading room, we find Izamal and Cas already there. They don’t look up when the door opens, focused on poring over a mottled book, heads nearly touching. My eyebrows inch up my forehead; I’ve never seen them so close without bloodshed or bickering involved.
Izamal looks up first, his eyebrows rising as he takes me in. He smiles. “So. When are we heading out?”
Dalca makes a strange sound. “I’ve told you, I can’t ask you—”
“You didn’t ask, though. I didn’t hear him ask, Cas, did you?”
Cas flicks a lock of hair over his shoulder. If he noticed my uniform, I can’t tell. “No, I don’t think he did. Poor manners, really, for a prince.”
“Iz, your mother already lost one child. I can’t ask—”
“You’re not asking, Dalca. I’m telling you. Plus, how much more cursed can I get?”
Dalca turns to Cas, who gives an aristocratic shrug. “I’ve already packed.”
“You could unpack.”