I stare at Saga’s hands, at the carving taking shape, and stop myself from tugging at my throbbing ear. “The Black God ruled in his darkness,” I begin. “He covered all the world with it, ignoring the pleas of the other gods. So the Red God, the god of fire, and the Brown Goddess, the goddess of the earth, came together and made between them the twelfth god—the Yellow God, the god of light. He was powerful, nearly as strong as the Prism Goddess, but he was yet very young. All the gods and goddesses agreed to send him to defeat the Black God, but they didn’t understand quite what it would cost.”
“No oneeverunderstands what something might cost,” says Saga agreeably.Snick snick snickgoes her knife.
Vil is watching me so steadily I have to fix my eyes on a distant point in the night sky, lest I get too distracted to finish. “Light and darkness met on the highest mountain of the earth,” I go on. “Little by little, the Yellow God defeated the Black God. Thread by thread he stole the darkness away, until what little was left of the Black God was able to be bound into a pillar of smoke. The other gods and goddesses appeared, congratulating the Yellow God. The Prism Goddess encased the smoke of the Black God in glass, and the Brown Goddess buried it deep within the mountain.
“But none of them had counted on the boundless power now contained within the Yellow God. When there is no darkness, how can the world sleep? When there is only light, how can you see the stars? The world was too bright, and the Yellow God too powerful.
“So the gods and goddesses reached a compromise. The Brown Goddess dug into the mountain and retrieved the smoke bound inglass. The Prism Goddess cracked the glass, enough so that every night the Black God could seep out and blanket the world, for a little while, with his darkness. But no one ever saw him in his true form again, for the greater part of his power, the very spark of his soul, dwelled within the Yellow God.”
I fall silent, watching the flames—the mark of the Red God—spin up into the night. I can still feel Vil’s eyes on me, but I don’t raise my own to meet them.
“I’ve heard that story many times,” sighs Saga. “But no one tells it quite like you do, Brynja.”
I shrug, but I’m pleased at her praise.
“Indridi next!” Saga crows. She puts down her carving knife and blows shavings off the hilt. The design is finished now, and I know from experience she’ll lacquer it, then fit it around the blade. Then it will be done, and she’ll start carving something new.
“Forgive me, Your Highness,” says Indridi tightly. “I don’t have any stories.”
“Of course you do. You’ve told them lots of times. What’s going on with you?”
Indridi’s lips pinch together and she doesn’t answer, her hands twisting together in her lap.
Knots pull tight in my stomach.
“Leave her be, Saga,” says Vil after a moment. “It’s late. We should all get some sleep—early start in the morning.”
Indridi shoots him a grateful look, and I forcibly shove down another pulse of jealousy.
Saga gives a very overdramatic sigh but acquiesces, packing up her carving things and leading Indridi and me back to the big tent.
“Indridi, what’s wrong?” Saga asks quietly when the three of us have folded ourselves into our bedrolls. Pala will not join us until later, when Commander Leifur relieves her watch.
“You know you can tell me anything,” Saga goes on. Her voice is infinitely gentle.
“There is nothing to tell, Your Highness. Truly.”
Saga sighs. “You didn’t have to come, you know, if you didn’t want to.”
For a moment silence spins between us, broken only by the distant pop and crack of the fire.
“I wanted to come,” says Indridi.
No one says anything more.
We sleep, and I dream, as I often do, of falling.
Ten Years Ago
Year4190, Month of the Ghost God
Daeros—Tenebris
I grow braver, bit by bit. Sometimes, when I am performing, I dare to slide all the way down the aerial silks and ropes, to cartwheel across the floor and tumble past the king and whatever dignitaries he’s invited to view his Collection. My fingers are as quick as the rest of me: I filch hairpins and jewels and, once, a small knife.
The king never speaks a word of praise—not to me, not to anyone. But mostly we’re all locked back into our cages when we’re finished performing. Mostly he lets us live.
I use the knife, first. I cut off my hair, and then I scrape the blade against my scalp again and again, until I have no hair left at all. I do it because I am terrified my hair will get caught on a chain or a rope or a silk when I’m performing, that I’ll get trapped, choked, that I’ll break my neck. I do it because I am afraid and because, here, it is the only thing that I can control. I feel lighter when I’ve done it. Freer. Like not everything I am has been taken from me.
