She stripped off her clothes and into one of the bathing robes, a loose, light slip that hid little. If a man had been there, she’d have considered herself naked. But in the baths, there were only other women. All was separated. The robes didn’t hide much, but they hid enough to not feel the need to stare.

At midday, it was probably empty anyway. She stopped at the end of the dressing room near the shower and dropped the robe long enough to pull the chain. Icy cold water gave her a familiar, exciting jolt as it splashed down upon her. She tried to shake most of the worst grime off, shivering now.

She wandered through the next set of doors, and a wall of lovely, warm steam hit her face. The tile under her feet even felt warm on this cold autumn day. Before her stretched a lovely expanse of soft, blue, steaming water.

She took a deep breath and then moved down the small stairs and into the water. The baths were lined with many places to recline; they were mostly for soaking, not washing. On the far end of the room were more showers for the real cleaning. She would do that last.

For now, she would just allow herself to sit still and be.

Sefim had taught her the importance of meditation, of silence, of simply being—important parts of the Way. From the moment she’d heard Aven’s name, she’d been stirred, though, deep in her soul. Simply being had grown harder and harder. Shouldn’t it be easier now? Now that it was over? It didn’t feel over, of course. It would likely just take her a while to accept that.

She found a spot to rest that didn’t even require her to hold her neck up, and then she settled in and tried to clear her thoughts. Each time Aven crept in, she tried to still herself, but a few seconds later, he would return. What was happening to Aven? Why had Sorin done what he had done? Would they find out the Akarians knew a mage had been involved? How exactly had Dekana died? What were they doing to Aven? What did the Dark Master really want with him? What would he do?

Would they send her after Aven’s brothers? Her blood ran cold. By the gods, she couldn’t stand the thought. Where was the Balance in all this? There was certainly little balance within her mind at the moment.

Stilling her mind was not working. She tried to focus on listening instead. She listened to the trickle of the water flowing into the baths, the hum of the cooler water of the showers, waterfalls of all sizes around her. Finally, that beauty was able to calm her for a little while.

Some time passed in peace, but gradually she began to feel that someone was staring at her.

When the feeling would not go away, she opened her eyes and tried to look around casually. No one was close by, but sure enough, off to the right she felt someone abruptly look away.

That old battle ax Menaha. But why? She knew Miara well and had always believed her a capable spy. Menaha shouldn’t be surprised to discover that Miara had returned or have any other reason to stare. And Menaha was not the type to stare. Could it be because of Dekana’s loss?

Miara closed her eyes and tried to put it out of her mind again, but the brief peace she’d achieved had vanished.

She had soaked enough. She should just shower and be done with it. She raised her hands from the water. Sure enough, raisins.

She rose and headed back toward the stairs out of the water, passing Menaha on the way, nodding respectfully.

“Good day, Miara,” she said. She had a voice that was lovely and dark, colored with age and experience. Her white hair was stark against bronzed skin; she still trained outside as much as ever. “Back from your mission? Are you feeling all right?”

Was her dark mood that obvious? She hated being so transparent. “Yes, I’m back. Feeling as well as I could be,” she replied. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, it’s just that—hmm, forgive me for saying, but…” Menaha started but seemed to hesitate. It was not at all like her.

“What is it? It’s all right.”

“Well, I don’t know quite how to put it, but… your scar. It looks—strange. Different. I could swear it looks smaller.”

Miara lifted her arm and craned her neck to get a look at it, and sure enough—she had never seen it in such a state. It did look particularly scabby, although the water had not been good for that.

“Am I finally losing my wits?”

“Huh,” she said. “No, you’re right. It does look odd.”

“It almost looks like it’s… healing,” Menaha whispered. “I’ve seen a few wounds in my day, and that’s what it looks like.” Her eyes studied Miara’s shoulder with the same intensity that filled her voice.

Miara frowned. “Strange, indeed.”

“You should keep it out of the water for it to heal best, but how…” Menaha trailed off.

“But it can’t heal.”

They both studied it for a moment.

“Just another new form of torture, I’m sure.”

“Indeed.” Menaha smiled bitterly and nodded. She leaned back to relax again, her enchantment with the scar broken.

“Have a good bath, Mena,” Miara said and headed for the showers.

She returned from the baths and went straight back to her bed. She wasn’t sure how much time passed, especially with the grayness of the sky and the seemingly unchanging cold of the autumn air. She stoked the fire occasionally, pulled the blankets up to her chin, and thought of Aven.

She knew it was evening not because of the sun setting or even her stomach aching, but because her father and Luha returned home. Evening prayer was coming, and suddenly, she hated more than ever to have to haul herself out of bed and kneel down for them.

She listened for a while, mind blank, to her father and Luha moving around in the rooms. It was a kind of bliss—or at least serenity—to just hear them nearby, going through the motions of life. The mundaneness of it made her feel at peace. At least she’d made it home. In the past, that peace had always been more than enough.

Not this time, of course.

The bells started to ring their warning off in the distance, and she hauled herself out of bed and made for the fire, trading one warmth as quickly as possible for another. Her father and Luha settled before the fire, too—the prayer could take quite a long time, and the floor was cold. Her room had both a fire and a rug that fit them all.

Her father glanced at her with the usual sadness in his eyes. Prayer had always been something he loved, and she hated making him dread it. Perhaps today she would just kneel down with them, not call the torture down on herself, the inevitable pain. What point did it serve? It hurt her and her father, not the Masters. It accomplished nothing. What good had her rebellion ever done her?