“You may approach il’Jhain.”

Mordelain narrowed her eyes and scanned the sentries. Non had spoken, not moved so much as an inch.

“Come. The priestess awaits.”

Unsure, Mordelain approached gingerly. As she passed each duo her heart pounded. She could understand the need for caution but for so many guards to be at the heart of the tower suggested she was getting involved with something she would rather not.

“To whom am I speaking?”

Ahead, a woman in black appeared through the door as though it were mist. It reformed behind her, sealing away the priestess in a heartbeat. Mordelain stopped ten feet away and bowed instinctively.

“I am the Speaker. You know who, and what I am. You have come to these halls once before and then it was for ill gain. Why do you come this day?”

Hidden beneath a cowl, Mordelain could not see the woman’s face. She tried to remember what the Speaker was – whom she was. She cursed herself for filling her head with useless historical facts and recipes for date loaf.

“I came once as a huntress, for the good of this nation. Now, I come as an artificer, with a way to free of this Long Summer.” She took great care to remain neutral in stance and expression.

“A bold claim.” The Speaker pulled back her hood. “Look up, Mordelain of the Freerunners.”

Mordelain righted herself and looked at the familiar face. At first confusion, quick to give way to surprise.

“Priestess. It is an honour.”

Before her, the female matriarch of Fallien stood proud. Tattoos marked her as a Bedouin, her tribe long forgotten as the years of her rule passed. The question of the armed guard disappeared, replaced with why was the Priestess out of her cloister?

“I hope you have not come to try and kill me again.” The Priestess smiled warmly. “It was tiresome to replace the carpets from my doppler’s untimely demise.”

Mordelain frowned. “You know that I came to rid Fallien of the Harpies, I never intended to kill the real you.”

“One never knows a woman’s intent these days.” The Priestess waved her hands in concentric circles and pressed her palms together. The door melted away, black mist swirling into nothingness. “Come inside. We have much to discuss.”

Mordelain followed behind her queen softly stepping over the threshold into the most private and sacred place in Fallien. The door veiled a circular chamber that rose high to the top of the tower. Overhead, sentries stood on ledges and looked down on Mordelain like vultures. They too were silent and motionless, but the il’Jhain could feel their eyes boring into her.

“Forgive my asking, Priestess. Why the ruse?”

“Please, call me Amaya. Formalities are for men and those who think better than the peace I have assured for centuries.”

Amaya strolled to a low table and sat on a cushion. She folded her legs and removed her cowl proper. She wore simple leather armbands and a short dress of white muslin bound in place with spirals of silver. Whilst she waited for her guest to join her, she poured apple tea and set the table for two.

“I could not, Priestess.”

“You know more of Fallien’s history than any other. Once, this tower did not veil my identity in secrecy. The people of this scattered isle looked to my forebears as queen, but not so holy as to treat her so alien.”

“Those were different times.” Mordelain remembered Irrakam before the Tower was built. She remembered when there was a conclave of rulers, not just one. “Amaya…I will try.”

“Good. Now sit, drink, and tell me how you intend to free us of the hottest summer on record?” She proffered a hand to indicate Mordelain should sit.

“It would be my pleasure.” Mordelain sat, less elegantly than Amaya but with equal enthusiasm for the arranged spread. “Before I tell you, may I ask a question?”

“You already did,” Amaya smirked before she put a sweetened apple slice in her mouth.

“Yes I did,” Mordelain blushed. “Why so many guards at your door?”

Amaya chewed softly and contemplated her reply. Overhead, the changing of the guard marked passing of day into night and fresh sentries appeared and set torches into wall brackets. The cylindrical chamber turned into a dark night sky; flame born stars casting shadows on the polished walls. The tapestries and etchings that told the tale of Fallien’s priestesses came to life.

“You freed this court of it’s imposter. You slew the harpy queen and threw her unceremoniously from her tower. But her disciples still plot and scheme to end my rule. The Long Summer is a time of great danger and not just because of drought and destruction.” Amaya pointed skyward. “The glass dome atop this tower has cracked. I am not as safe here as I once was.”

Though dusk was settling into night, Mordelain could see the torchlight dancing on the stained-glass dome that once shone for leagues over the desert landscape. The heat had wilted and then cracked the dome, leaving gaps in the panels that a wayward harpy could slip through.