Moments passed before the merchant nodded his acquiescence. “Yes.”
“Kiffar will help you send them back through, then connect you with your contract ship.” Orluvoq gestured to an elderly woman, one of four attendants standing in the throne room, who accompanied the Rapi’ian man out.
At the room’s verge, he turned. “I will be here for my daughter.” The smooth walls simultaneously amplified the voice and drowned it in its own reverberations.
A pang tweaked Orluvoq’s chest. “That is not suggested, sir.”
He redoubled his stoutheartedness. “I will be here for my daughter.”
The queen sighed, head bowed, and slowly rubbed a thumb across her brow. “As you wish.” She looked up at the girl and nodded. “Come here, dear.”
Apparently the girl understood enough Nuktipik to grok the gist. She approached the throne.
When one learns to walk, the accomplishment trumps all else. Twelve years on and walking is but one of life’s presuppositions. Even so, the thought of losing it is cause for quaking. Twelve years Orluvoq had been exacting the beauty tariff. It no longer yielded her the same surety of strength and power, but losing it would mark a swift descent into weakness. She had been wrong. There was no better path, regardless of how steep the price of this one.
She took in the girl’s worry-creased face, and remorse flakes fluttered around her heart. No better path. A delicious lie. She simply wasn’t good enough to find a better path.
“I won’t tell you not to worry, but I am told having your beauty taken doesn’t hurt, if that helps at all.” The queen slipped a shard of tuuaaq into her mouth. “It just feels extremely uncomfortable.”
The candle on the arm of the throne blinked to a chill blue. The girl began to weep. Perhaps tonight, Orluvoq would too.
Twenty years ago, plague descended upon the Nuktipik people, but it didn’t assail them as a lone tyrant. Plague took the spirit from the body. The queen at the start of the world took the body from the spirit.
21
Qaffanngilaq
7 Years Before
The cold needled at Qaffanngilaq’s alertness, pricking her awake then pulling her conscious thoughts out—until she almost toppled over and it stabbed her awake again. Four years since she’d last seen the ice, save for crystalline dreamscapes, and what had drawn her ten-year-old self back? Death. Death had called her down from the summered heights. What better way to honor the dead than to follow them the way of all bodies? Down. Descending between worlds. Surrendering what warmth life offered. Seeking the dark which cradles corpses.
The dark hadn’t claimed the corpse before her entirely. Qaffa watched the aurora’s light play across her grandmother’s features. Kitornak’s body lay in a sledge adorned in a hatchwork of scarlet and green, awaiting its delivery to the ice. This the ninth time with her grandmother would also be the last.
A clutch of mourners ringed the body, their bodies rigid in dispute. Contesting silent, or in tears, nature’s malice in the giving. Every generosity it abundantly gave, later it rescinded. Pitch black hair uprooted by gray. Vigor and sprite eroded to crackling strain. Warmhearted mother snatched deep into ice. No matter how strong the boat, time would see it rowed to fragments and the diligent oarsmen drowned.
Heavy hollows weighed in Qaffa’s chest, though she couldn’t articulate why. Certainly, she ought to love her mother’s mother, and she suspected she did. But she had memory of only four meetings, the most recent nearly half a life distant. Her love felt like trying to learn a salmon’s dreams by playing its fishbone harp.
Perhaps it was in every glance she cast her own mother’s way. Orluvoq, whom so many spoke of from the sides of their mouths as imperious and exacting, wept in body-wracking clenches. Qaffa had even heard some people call her a monster. When a monster weeps, what can the world do but dread?
Two singers held out their last notes, then retreated. Paarsisoq, the Watcher at the end of the world, stepped forward. The young princess stepped with him and held his hand as he spoke of his wife’s life. It felt like something that fell under the purview of good granddaughters. She flexed her fingers inside her gloves, testing the confinement she’d grown unwont to.
Her gaze wandered across the candlelit faces of the assemblage perhaps forty strong. A heterogenous lot, as she gathered from the introductions earlier. Merchants, sailors, angakkuit, clan archons, the Rapai'ian prince Mahiahia. Maybe more. Either her Nuktipik was a little frost-rotten or some people cultivated accents specifically to avoid communication.
Her eye caught her father’s. She only held the intense connection a moment before glancing toward Nunapisu. She’d rather stare at that and slowly be overwhelmed by the acrophobic feeling that the end of the world would swallow her. Still, she couldn't but notice that his light glowed yellow tonight. He abided by Orluvoq's request that no blue attend the exequies.
Qaffa herself had no issue following her mother’s demand that no tirigusuusik powers show themselves at Kitornak’s funeral. Something about the blue flame disrespecting her grandmother’s memory. Qaffa wouldn’t touch the strange flame at all if it weren’t for her father visiting her dreams to assess her progress.
“My wife was a lover of stories,” said Paarsisoq. Qaffa tuned into her grandfather’s voice. She too loved stories.
“She would want me to tell her favorite so that it might live forever and teach you as much as it taught her.” He closed his eyes and sighed a plume.
“In the age of second names, there lived a woman called Mikit, the greatest runner the ice had seen. When dogs were still wolves, she ran alongside them. If they tried to turn her into fare, she would slap them on the nose and run until not even their howls caught her. Not only fleet of foot was she, but light of foot too. Her fellow clansfolk often spotted her running atop fresh fallen snow without a hitch in her step. It was even said she could dash across water without so much as a drop touching the top of her boots. Mikit lived a good life.
“In the same village lived a man named Erininar. He had no speed to speak of nor spryness of foot. He had the favor of the children, for he would often join in their play, but the adults gave him little more than squints and tight-lipped nods. He constantly gave gifts in hopes of gaining fellowship. No matter his efforts, and many they were, his clansfolk wouldn’t warm to him. Erininar lived a lonely life.
“One day there came a traveler to their igloos. He spoke of a forest in the east that was haunted by ten demons: four ijirait, three kigatilit, two atshen, and one tariaksuq. There couldn’t have been a more fraught grove of trees, yet if one could get past the rabble, a great treasure lay at the forest’s heart. Something that would surpass even Mikit’s sprightly running.
“The sprinter, loved by many, said she would go and test the woods, best the demons with her might. The village voiced a lively approval. In the morning, they saw their champion off and awaited her triumphant return.
“Shortly thereafter, unnoticed by any, Erininar, loved by none, left with a bundle for the forest east. If perchance the champion failed, he would run his trials and fetch the prize. If he never made the middle, at least he would die in a thrust of heroism instead of being shunned by his kin. And if Mikit achieved the treasure, no one would be surprised.
“For five days Mikit ran her best, taking occasion to stop at villages and ensure she was on the right path. On the evening of the fifth day, the tundra broke, and dark trunks of weathered pines formed a stretching barrier before her. She hadn’t been to many forests, but she was sure she felt something darker than mere shadow dripping out from this one. Seeing no reason to test what spirits there might be in the pitch of night, she awaited daylight. Luckily, summer was dawning, and a few hours later she stepped past the first trees.
“Four ijirait. That was to be the first challenge. Shape shifting creatures bent on hide-and-seek and snatching children. They didn’t worry her much. Mikit prepared her muscles for what they were made for then leapt into a mad sprint. A wild
caribou intercepted her, bashing her with its antlers, and she went sliding through the snow. But of course, it was no caribou. She pushed herself to her feet to run away from the ijiraq’s next charge, but it was nowhere to be seen.
“For two days she played the game of hunt and dodge with the four demons, retreating and circling back when necessary. Perhaps she should have been more worried at the start. At last, she came to a section of the forest where the black trees relented to gray. The second trial. Three kigatilit. Where the ijirait had loved mischief, the kigatilit loved violence. Faces like fishes full of glowing fangs, gangly limbs with arm-length claws spurting out. These worried her more than the last.
“But her worry soon proved to be folly. Though any unassuming person would freeze at the sight of a snarling mouthful of sharpened light leaping for their throat, it gave Mikit plenty of warning. She laughed at the kigatilit’s gracelessness as they hared and dove after her. Before she knew it, the surrounding trees changed color to the white of snow. The third trial. Two atshen. The spirits of murderers trapped in the permafrost with only enough power to emerge when they could smell human flesh. But what power it was, that boundless lust for blood! Now Mikit truly worried, for she walked the cannibals’ territory.
“She spent half a day in a tree taking what sleep she could, then she descended and ran her best. As she dashed, the atshen exploded from the ground. Spirit vestiges of ice cores ripped up with them, clinging to their muddy-red, skeletal forms. The chase waxed brutal. The atshen had more speed in them than any of the previous demons, they hungered for her meat and bones, and Mikit had been running for days.
“Giant, white trees passed in a blur as she struggled to escape the atshen. They slashed through her parka once, twice. She would soon slow, and her weakness would only feed their power. One of the spirits got in a third slash, deep in her back, and Mikit went sprawling.
“She woke up an hour later. How did she wake up? She should be devoured. Looking around she saw that the trees were no longer white. They stood as ghostly shadows. She reached out to the nearest one and her hand passed through. The final trial. One tariaksuq. A creature of obscurity that dwelt in the spaces where shadows pressed against reality—sometimes. It could step into reality as it pleased, but merely looking at it would send it back to the in-between.
“Mikit didn’t know how worried to be. There was nowhere to run to; the prize lay within this stretch of forest. And how could she run away from what she couldn’t see? She certainly wasn’t running back to the atshen without the help of the treasure. She slowly advanced.
“At the center of it all was an igloo built of the same transparent shadows as the trees. Barely visible in the center sat some object. A bone? The lack of demon so far set her unease, but she felt well enough recovered from the atshen that she decided to try the only thing she knew. Mikit sprinted toward the shadow house—
“—and passed right through. A shrill laugh echoed from the trees. She tried twice more, each time hearing the ridicule of the tariaksuq. For two days she attempted every method she could think of, but it only left her exhausted. She had no food left and had seen no game—or tariaksuq—since entering the shadow grove. Would she really die so close to the glory?
“As she lay in the dust-snow contemplating death, she heard the crunch of boots. She started and looked up to see a man, and not just any traveler, a man she knew. The most ignominious character in her clan here. How had Erininar gotten past any of the demons, let alone all of them? She was about to ask when he called out to the woods.
“‘Tariaksuq. Your watch is lonely, as mine has been my entire life. Come treat with me, for I would be brothers.’
“What was he doing talking to a demon? He would never—
“Something rippled in the air and a voice spoke from the closest tree. ‘Brothers? You would be brothers with a tariaksuq?’
“‘None other will have me. And,’ he reached into his pack and withdrew a length of narwhal tusk. Where had he gotten that? ‘I have brought you a gift.’
“A shadowy figure of a man appeared and lifted the tuuaaq from Erininar, then threw the stick into its body. ‘I could use a brother like you. Come to my house and eat with me.’
“Together man and demon walked into the igloo. The tariaksuq picked up the shadow bone from the floor, and Erininar accepted it. Mikit watched feeble in agony as the no-name swallowed the prize she’d earned but couldn’t touch. He vanished, reappearing an instant later before her.
“‘How did you get past the rest of the forest?’
“‘Once you find what the demons want, working with them is easy so long as you are willing to give.’ He handed her some seal fat from his pack. ‘Perhaps I will see you back at the clan, Mikit. If I ever decide to return. I can walk the shadows now. Go anywhere. It might be nice to find a people who appreciate me.’ With that he vanished once more and the cackle of the tariaksuq echoed from the shadow trees.
“It is said that when a child finds a toy that was lost, or a new toy entirely, Erininar has smiled upon them. Perhaps in your time of greatest need, if you can reach him through the shadows, he will appear and give you aid.”
Paarsisoq paused to let the story settle. “There are many meanings that can be interpreted from this, but my wife’s favorite was this. If you place all your confidence in one ability, the day will come where you break yourself on your own strength. You may find your own meanings, but in Kitornak’s memory, tell the story of The Ten Demons to your children. With that said, I think the time has come.” He stepped back and Qaffa followed.
At last, the speakers had finished their lores. The singers had finished their lays. The mother of the high north, who had given second lives to more than a score, was hefted from the sleigh, a man to each corner of the caribou hide. They laid her form upon the crust and stepped into the crowd of vigilants.
Nature trimmed the grievers' watch with garlands of disquieting hush. Minutes lapsed without a scratch save keening from constricted throats. Then, as bells from heaven drifting, minced a delicate tintinnabulation. Combing fingers white and clear clicked their way across the hide; found the body, found their mark, and began their careful climb. A strew of diminutive clinks prickled Qaffa’s ears as the ice consumed her grandmother’s flesh. Its queerly systematic spread saved the face until the end.
For a single, lucid moment, Kitornak lay in regal respite, draped in the white shared by queens and tundra. Then the veneer of ice clothed her face in its pall. The queen Orluvoq breathed a ghastly whimper as the body began to sink. It took longer than Qaffa would have guessed, but within minutes her grandmother’s barrow was a featureless swatch of snow at the end of the world.
Her feelings seesawed inside her. Sorrow, curiosity, confusion, fear, indifference, contrition, back to sorrow. How could she know what to feel after witnessing that?
The adults converged into smaller circles and murmured amongst themselves. With no one else her age around, Qaffa found herself drawn to the edge, woozy at how big nothing could be. Though they both stretched boundlessly, the black was so unlike the ocean. No sway, no sound, no spirit, no body. Nunapisu was naught but a name. She tightened her grip around her candle and toyed with the thought of sticking some tuuaaq in her mouth for greater control. But no, she didn’t like the sensation, and wouldn’t dare her mother’s disapproval.
A presence at her side floated into her perception. Heartbeats stumbled over each other racing into her chest. She'd known this moment would arrive.
“What does the void say to you today, daughter?”
A shiver oozed across her shoulders. “At the end of it all, there is only darkness.”
Qummukarpoq lifted a white-clad arm toward the aurora. “What then is that?”
“Arsarneq.” She watched its languid waves roll. “The heavenly light.”
“And what is this?” He tapped her candle.
She stared at the glimmer in her hand.
“As angakkuq,” he said, “yo
u have the heavenly light wherever you tread. You carry a flicker of the end with you always. If you truly master it, you never need fear it.”
Qaffa looked to the aurora’s inscrutable provenance and the blackness that birthed it. “A flicker of the end? So, I hold a piece of darkness in my hand, then when I burn it, it puts off light? I don’t know if I like that.”
“Is it dark in your head?”
The question put her off balance. “I think it might be?”
“And yet that is where your spirit lives. Is darkness bad?”
“Darkness is…” Scary, she almost said, but that wasn’t what the king wanted to hear. “No?”
“Your eyes fill with light, yet your head remains filled with darkness. How then can your spirit know what your eyes know?”
“I don’t know.” It all muddled dark in her head now.
“Light casts shadow, unless it touches nothing. And of what use is light that evades? In order for sight to happen, light must stop. And where light stops, shadow begins. What light asks, shadow answers. For you to see, light must die, yet would you wish your sight to cease?
“By your words, the tuuaaq you hold is born of darkness. As angakkuq, you destroy the darkness to birth forth light. You say you do not like this. Herein you confess that you value darkness more than light. But I vow to you, Qaffanngilaq, you need not fear the dark. This shall not be my resting place, and with proper schooling, neither will it be yours.” He gestured once more at the strip of green light in the sky. “That is where we shall take our rest.”
Some time had passed since her last such lecture from the king, and Qaffa’s head was a whirl of pinging darks and lights.
He faced his shoulders to Nunapisu, marking a shift in conversation. “When you looked at your mother tonight, what did you see?”
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