Page 91 of While the Dark Remains
My eyes prick with tears, and I do.
The days run into each other, but not like they did in the caves. Out here the sun rises and sets, the light lasting a little longer every day. The terrain changes constantly, the tundra melting into rolling hills and stretches of seemingly endless plains.
We hunt rabbits and squirrels and, once, a deer. I’m the one who kills and skins and cleans them. Saga can’t bear to watch. I don’t tell her it makes me sick, that I can hardly force myself to eat the meat, and wouldn’t at all if my body didn’t demand it.
We are perpetually in motion, which leaves little time for contemplation: eating, walking, hunting, climbing. We cross the Saadone River on an ancient, unmanned ferry—we’re north of any of the river towns and their larger ferries, but praise gods this one is serviceable. We are so, so close now, to Staltoria City, and the end of our journey.
One evening, as we feast on roasted wild pheasant and handfuls of purple berries Saga swears up and down aren’t poisonous, I stretch out my legs and groan. I ache everywhere, my back and arms and shoulders, but especially my legs. I rub them gingerly while Saga laughs at me from across the fire. Our company has become easier the farther west we’ve journeyed. I might even say we’re friends. As long as we don’t talk about Ballast.
I shoot her an irritated look. “Why are you laughing?”
She smiles. “You don’t realize what’s happening, do you.”
I keep rubbing my legs. “What are you talking about?”
“Your pants don’t fit, you had what you informed me was your first monthly cycleever—you’re welcome, by the way, for explaining that you weren’t dying—and it’s too warm these days, so you haven’t realized, but you can’t button your coat anymore.”
I blink at her, not comprehending.
“Brynja, you have become a woman,” she informs me.
“What?”
Saga holds up her hand and ticks items off her fingers as she talks. “Breasts. Hips. Cycle. And I think you might’ve grown a couple inches, too, since we left Tenebris. How can you not have noticed?”
I look down at myself and realize Saga is right. The shapeless shirt I pilfered from the laundry so long ago is way too tight around my chest, and my leggings are stretched out so much they’re beginning to rip in half a dozen places. And I’m still trying not to think about the fact that I have to suffer a monthly cycle ... monthly. “But I’m eighteen. I’m too old for this.”
Saga shrugs. “You’re not trapped in a cage anymore, Brynja, not putting yourself through rigorous training and acrobatic routines. And you’re eating properly. Your body finally has room and time and the fuel it needs to develop as it should have years ago.”
“Slaying endless cave demons was fairly rigorous,” I grumble.
She gives another bark of laughter. “In any case, you’ve changed so much I’m not sure even Kallias would recognize you.” She sobers at the name we seldom speak, and I stare into the fire, trying not to think about the things that will forever haunt us both.
I am glad I’m transforming into a wholly new creature, one who cannot be caged. One who tells herself she is not afraid of the dark, and almost believes it.
We sit in silence for a while after that. The owl calls from his tree, and the wind stirs through the branches. Stars pierce the sky over our heads, blue and gold and green. I haven’t worn my headscarf since Ballast tugged it off me, and I like feeling the wind in my short hair, prickling along my scalp, whispering of freedom.
I lie on my back and stare up at the sky. “Are you glad,” I ask her, “that our journey is almost over?”
“Everyone thinks I’m dead. I’m not sure of my homecoming.”
I think of my own home with a pang, and I shut my eyes, try to picture my sister’s face. I can’t see her clearly anymore. “They will be overjoyed to have you back with them.”
“I hope so. I hope my brother won’t resent me for it. He’ll be acting heir now, with me gone. I’ve felt guilty ever since the oracle chose me and not him. He was always meant to be king.”
“Tell me about the oracle,” I murmur, the owl and the wind lulling me to sleep. “I’ve never met one.”
“You’re very strange, Brynja Sindri. Everyone knows the oracle. She lives in a white temple on the top of the hill in the middle of Staltoria City. People go to her for prophecies. For any sort of serious decisions, really. Even my parents. Because it isn’t the right of birth that chooses the next ruler of Skaanda. It’s the word of the gods. And the oracle is their mouth.”
“What’s she like?”
“She’s ...” Saga lies back, too, arms behind her head. “Hard to describe. Young but not. Beautiful but ... not. She has threads of white in her hair and wears a medallion that is—I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like every color, and no color at all.”
I prop myself up on one elbow, staring over at Saga. “She sounds like ... Saga, she sounds like ...”
“Like the Prism Goddess,” Saga says. “I know.”
“A goddess wouldn’t live in a temple and answer questions from mortals.”
