35. Cyara

Cyara waited until the trio was well gone before she unlocked Diana's shackles.

Percival had been trussed up like a chicken in a blue embroidered tunic and brown trousers that were ill fitting—she had to roll the pants to accommodate his human stature—but they were, blessedly, clean.

Lyrena refused to wear anything other than her Goldstones uniform. But she had sent it to Eilean Gayl's laundry to have it cleaned and pressed. With a strand of rubies borrowed from Veyka braided into her blonde hair, she looked every bit the noble courtier she was. Anyone who had watched her spar with Veyka the last few days knew that it was a thin veneer over the warrior beneath.

Veyka, though, was the real accomplishment. Her glorious white hair, near glowing now that they had access to a bathtub, was still too short for the customary elemental plait. So instead, Cyara had braided it starting at one pointed ear, then up over the crown of her head and back down. When she tied off the end, the tail had just brushed Veyka's collarbone.

For all the Cyara missed the pleasant monotony of brushing out Veyka's long hair and teasing it into intricate designs, she could admit that the shorter length suited her friend well. It drew attention to her beautiful face and stayed out of her way better when she sparred.

Cyara finished brushing out and plaiting her own waist-length copper hair just as the supper tray arrived. As a servant set down the tray, Cyara walked over to the wall and unceremoniously unlocked Diana's shackles.

The woman did not move.

She did not even blink with Cyara so close to her.

This was going to take longer than Cyara had thought.

"You are welcome to come and eat," Cyara said, settling herself back at the table. She did not wait for Diana before dipping her spoon into a thick potato soup swirled with cream.

Diana did not move.

Cyara kept eating.

"You may as well enjoy an hour with free range of movement. Veyka would skewer me if she knew I had unshackled you, and Lyrena would be there to finish off whatever was left." She methodically cut off a chunk of dark brown bread and dipped it daintily into the soup.

Movement.

Slow, so very slow. But Diana was pushing to her feet, clinging to the unevenly stacked stones of the wall to pull herself up.

Cyara pretended she had not noticed the movement. She finished her bowl and cut herself a section of glazed meat, and Diana was still stagnant.

"The food will get cold if you stand there much longer." Cyara tilted her head to the side. "I have never been much good at using my fire for cooking. You will not like the mess I make of things trying to reheat them."

"Why are you doing this?" Diana squeaked.

So many ways to answer that question. Cyara decided on the most literal, for the moment. "Because I think you are caught up in a situation that is not your fault. I cannot release you, would not even consider it. But I can give you a decent meal while the rest of them are away."

And if you talk to me more easily…

Diana took one step, stumbled, clawed her way back to the wall, and started whimpering.

Cyara refilled her wine and prayed to the Ancestors that the Yuletide revelry kept her companions downstairs for the next several hours. She would need every minute.