jai

I cock my head. “You’d like to know about Jai? It’s not too hard to find out, if you wait until nightfall, you know. Still, a request is a request…” I slide out a fat volume, bound in the midnight blue and charcoal gray used by the Guard. “Jai, sometimes known as Jaia, never Jaialeen, is a night guard, here at NoWher Hold. Her superior is Captain Teltramar, and her fellow guardsman is Kerch.” I lick my finger and turn the page, delicately. “Here’s a description of her:
Jai
Pale: whiteness upon whiteness, any hint of glacial blue only emphasizing the icy purity of that color. A form of albinism has drawn the color from this lightly-built young woman, leaving only the lightest of blues to her eyes. Sunburn’s angry red against china-delicate skin is incongruous, especially when the skin in question covers features that match rather neatly with a Greek caryatid’s. The amused almost-smile, the vague eyes, and the soft rounding of her chin and cheekbones all conform to that ancient idyll. Her build, too, is caryatid-like, and very demure at 5’3.
She wears a utilitarian black tunic with matching trous. The badge of NoWher Hold is displayed unostentatiously on her right shoulder. Her hair seems to be eternally half-up and half-down, easily escaping the confines of her rigorous pinning.”

I smile at the thought of the strange-colored woman, and continue scanning the page. “She is the fourth and last child of Healer Journeywoman turned Watchwher-Keeper Amrynee and Watchwher-Keeper Mathron. She has two elder brothers and one elder sister—Cheron, Ayren, and Randaila. There’s a fairly large age-gap between them. She was raised to be comfortable with the paired watchwhers—golden Feyirra and bronze Kyam—and kept their hours, encouraged by her worried mother. She’s far more comfortable with adults than children, since her waking hours have always been after all good hold-children have gone to bed. Her mother is also an albino.”
I snap the book closed and gaze out the narrow window. “It’s already twilight. If we go to the Guard Barracks, we might be able to catch her before she goes on-shift. Would you like to meet her?”
At the visitor’s nod, I rise from my seat, beckoning toward the entrance to the Old Archive Hall. At the other end I can see the closed doors of the Archive Workroom. To my left there’s the big door leading to the Hold Dorms and Guest Quarters; to my right, there are two smaller doors, with the shelves tight to their frames. I choose the nearer one, and knock politely.
A bleary-eyed, barrel-chested, middle-aged man answers the door, looking much the worse for wear. “Oh, Adean,” I exclaim, wincing at the bruises beneath his five-o-clock shadow. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“No, ma’am,” he rasps, and clears his throat. “Just got in, haven’t had the time to get in bed yet. You need one of us for something?”
I smile an affirmation, and answer hesitantly. “Well, yes, actually. There’s someone here who’d like to meet Jai.”
He nods, and then clutches at his head. “All right. I think she’s just gettin' herself prettied up. Let me yell for her.” Adean sways a little. “On the other hand, let me get Mechira to yell for her.” He staggers off, half-closing the door behind him.
Curious, I gently push the door open again. There is a small common room, whose back ‘wall’ is a dark curtain. The right wall is the same, although the space behind it would be much less.
A shrill coloratura reverberates in the cramped quarters, and I flinch back, guiltily, before I realize that it’s singing Jai’s name, albeit on a painfully high scale. “Mechira,” I sigh, and scuff my feet. The visitor takes no notice.
Hair tumbling around her shoulders, tabard slung over her shoulder, and one boot in hand, Jai limps out from behind the smaller curtained area. “Roha?” she queries. “What are you doing out so late?”
“We’ve a visitor here who’d like to make your acquaintance, Jai,” I reply, suppressing a grin as she balances unsteadily on a foot while trying to jack on her book with those strong Guardswoman’s hands.
“Oh. Well, nice to meet you,” and she waves a hand as she slips her tabard over her head, “whoever you are. If you will excuse me, I’m needed up at the tower.” Hairpins like stilettos vanish into her ivory mane, pieces falling gracefully from their anchor-points. “Captain Teltramar has twilight watch, and he gets really upset if you’re late relieving him. Catch me later, Roha, I’ve some news for those gossip-quick fingers of yours.” She closes the door firmly in our faces, and I shrug, philosophically. “Next time,” I assure the visitor, and make for my beloved Archives.