by Jenn Polish
“Lunav’s soul spread across Lunav’s land, touching every piece of quer body that Lunara had unspun. At each touch, new life arose; from the smallest insects to the largest dragons, and groundlings of all kinds, life sparkled across Lunav, from Lunav. Lunara watched Lunav’s soul giving life to all on, above, and below ground. The world as we know it had begun.”
The chiming of faerie wings gently meeting another person’s wings starts ringing out immediately, along with centauric whinnies and whoops, signaling our appreciation of the Accounting, of the work and artistry put in by those in this harvest’s Lunamez learning pod. But the noises simmer down when the realization sweeps across the Gathering that the performers are not finished. Mom’s hand stills on my head, and her body tenses. Mama’s head lifts from P’Tal’s shoulder, and Aora rises from Zeel’s lap. Blaze and Aon exchange a look, and Jax wheels all the way to the edge of the platform to see outside better. A confused buzz rises up throughout the entire Gathering, but quickly subdues as it becomes clear that Kashat isn’t done speaking, the enchanted, wispy images still forming above the nestling basket.
My eyes seek out Evelyn in the crowd below us and her lips are open slightly as her eyes take in the confusion around her. Her body, though, remains calm, remains dignified, like nothing can ruffle her, like nothing surprises her.
“And so it was that the trees made their first sacrifice to animal forms, and so it was that began the dominance of animal creatures. So it was that we began the legacy of the terrors we inflict today, and so it is that we still reenact Lunara’s birth. But so it must be that we do not celebrate her birth to reinforce our dominance, but to recognize our origins as treely peoples, as planted-based peoples.” There’s a stirring across the Gathering from the Hands, from Tacon and his King’s Registry cronies. Mom’s fingers have migrated from my head to my shoulder, and she squeezes. The Controller lifts two fingers gently by her side, but it’s enough. Richard looks furious, but he does not raise his weapon. If Kashat notices the Hands gripping their weapons tightly from his place in the nestling, his voice remains steady, and he doesn’t let on.
“So we pray today, on this day of days, that we will not be uncritical of the places we come from.”
A young one’s voice rises to replace Kashat’s, speaking in Underlandic centaur. “Lunav asked Lunara to sacrifice quer for the good of the land, but today we ask—should Lunara have acquiesced? Yes, Lunav’s soul is now within us all, but what is the cost of our lives? To be born of deadly sacrifice, even willingly made—was it willingly?—is to be borne of blood.”
“Blood.” It’s Kashat’s voice again, but he, too, uses the centauric tongue. The map of Lunav fades and is replaced by flashing smoky images, wisps of color and chaotic patterns, forming images of Dreams, of Slicings, of the palace’s injustices. Of a beautiful young non woman in soft blue riding gear bonding with a young spotted horse. Of that non dying of the plague.
Of the massacres. Of Lerian getting shot. Of Leece and Mara being dragged away. Of Rada.
Gasps jump through the Gathering and I tear my eyes away from Kashat and the others’ display to watch Evelyn. Something hard has settled into her eyes and she, now, is gripping her bow, her arm extended back toward her quiver. Her chin is raised, her healed hand steady. Iema is at her side, whispering urgently in her ear.
Kashat does not stop. He and the others weave intricate portraits of our souls through the sky. As he weaves, people—not in the Lunamez learning pod, just people, faeries and centaurs from the crowd, begin shouting out.
“How are we supposed to live without our hatchling dragons?”
“Or hatchling trees?”
“The young ones don’t know what it’s like to connect to the rest of Lunavic life anymore– ”
“They don’t understand why we don’t eat flesh, they don’t want grown food anymore!”
“And they’re not thinking of labor as murder!”
“Murder!”
“Settle down, Grovians,” a Hand interjects.
“And what about the dragons? They’ll be extinct if we can’t Dream any more hatchlings!”
“That’s enough, you’ve had enough warning!” Richard is clearly losing patience, but Evelyn has yet to give any attack signals.
The whisp images continue as Kashat’s voice cuts back into the chaos. “We are treely peoples, and we are being killed. Like Lunav before us. Consider this, people of the Grove, when you next take up your axes and scythes for labor. But if Lunav, the tree, could find a reason to celebrate—could find a reason for quer soul to glow that golden glow just as que was about to die—we, too, must celebrate, this day. Celebrate, because Lunav’s soul contains that kind of strength. Lunav’s soul contains that kind of power. And so do we all. Good season, good Lunamez.”
Kashat ends the accounting just as Evelyn is loading her bow, looking both reluctant and steady. Iema keeps whispering. The wisps, the images, fade, and all that remains is the descending nestling, the mutterings and gasps of the faeries and the centaurs, the eager buzzing of the surrounding insects.
As slowly as she raised it, Evelyn lowers her bow. Some of her men start toward the nestling, and she holds up a hand to stop them, her head still tilted toward Iema’s lips.
“Good season, good Lunamez.” The murmur starts with those standing near Tamzel, and spreads through the Gathering, through the lips of all the faeries and centaurs. Through my own lips, through Aon’s, even Blaze’s, though softly and bloodily. Whinnies and sparks and faerie wing chiming spread throughout the Gathering as the shocked crowd recovers itself. The sounds build and build, until the cheers and the chiming far outweigh the disgruntled complaints of Tacon, the angry arguments of Richard. Evelyn looks like she issues a short series of orders and slips away from the center of the Gathering, out of my range of vision.
Mom and Mama squeeze my shoulders as they hover up and out of the infirmary tent. “Your friend sure has some courage,” Mom says mildly.
“Mmmm.”
“Is it time for Lunamez stew?” Blaze coughs softly, quer voice choked with the chunks of blood lining quer throat.
Her growns laugh until tears leak out of their eyes.
“Yes, sherba, Hazal and I are going to bring back enough for everyone,” Mom tells quer in Underlandic centaur.
“Even Aon?” que asks. I grin and Aon nudges quer gently, like Lerian does—used to do—to me.
“Yes, even enough for Aon’s fifteen stomachs,” Mama assures quer. Jax grimaces a smile as they fly out into the throngs of Grovians waiting to be served Lunamez stew from the various bubbling pots that the Growers have conjured around the edges of the Gathering.
Shouts of good seasons and whispers of Kashat’s bold performance drift up to the platform on the breeze of the growing evening, the growing celebration.
Chapter Eighteen
I CLOSE MY eyes and before I know it, it’s the dead of night. Though the sounds of Lunamez merriment still ring in the distance, Aon is curled up sleeping at the foot of Blaze’s cot. Mama has her arms around him; the scarf she’s wrapped around her hair lopsided from the way his wings keep fluttering against her as he shifts restlessly.
There’s a soft rustling at the entrance to the infirmary platform. I blink rapidly and squint at the spot. My pulse drops. It’s the Controller.
Aon doesn’t stir as Evelyn enters, and for a moment I envy him his obliviousness, because now my body is completely awake.
Mom rises defensively and Jax stiffens. The Controller holds her hands up, palms facing them, as she approaches Blaze’s cot wordlessly. The young one’s eyes open with difficulty as que stares up at Evelyn, quer bloodstained face glistening in the flickering light of the infirmary lanterns.
Evelyn stands, looking down at quer for a moment, and all eyes are on her, but nobody, not even Blaze’s growns, move. Aon rolls over in his sleep and Mama, in hers, grasps him tighter. Mom adjusts Mama’s scarf absentmindedly so it doesn’t slip off completely, but her ey
es are glued to the Controller’s face.
In the silence in which only Blaze’s pained, rattled breath can be heard, Evelyn reaches deep into the pocket of her light cloak and pulls out a small, carved box with a fae glass circle on top. I squint and shift to sit up on my elbows to see better. Evelyn’s gaze shifts in my direction at my movement, but she doesn’t actually look at me; she’s back to looking at Blaze before I can even be sure she’s registered my presence.
Blaze tries to move forward too, but Aora’s fingertips on quer blood-crusted flank stills quer. Evelyn leans down to Blaze’s level, like she did the day que and Aon careened into her stomach by the steam pools, holding the box out in front of her so Blaze can see better. Jax leans over to turn up the flame of the lanterns a little, and after blinking in the newly adjusted light, I let out a small gasp at the same time as Blaze does. It sets quer off into a coughing fit, but once the blood is wiped away, everyone awake in the infirmary takes in the beauty of the box Evelyn’s brought out.
It’s a delicate little thing, a little bigger than my fist. Laced with gold and Flowing themed, the box is carved with waves on its side, complete with dolphins and mers swimming intricate patterns around each other fluidly in the fae glass globe that tops the box elegantly. The Controller smiles softly as Blaze tries to reach out for it. She pulls it back slightly and shakes her head.
“That’s not all,” she whispers, and reaches her thumb and first finger under the box, twisting something that must be sticking out from the bottom. The sound of metal winding into itself clicks through the infirmary, and, the moment Evelyn pulls her hand away, an ethereal serenade floods into our ears. I can’t make out the words—I think it’s Izlanian—and my heart flutters when I realize that the song is as layered, if not more so, than the most complex of dragon songs.
“It’s a music box from my home,” Evelyn tells an enraptured Blaze. Even though quer whole left ear and some of quer right ear are covered in pus-filled blisters, the rich tones are clearly reaching quer.
When que smiles, a small stream of blood trickles down quer cracked lips; but que reaches, again, for the box anyway. This time, Evelyn presses it gently into quer hands, and then, softly, tenderly even, wipes away the blood that is now leaking down Blaze’s chin. I wonder what happened to the ruthless woman who’s worn the Controller’s uniform so well since she got here.
The growns in the infirmary take a collective breath of shock, and I lick my lips, forgetting how to breathe for a moment. Mom shakes Mama’s shoulder a little, and Mama opens her eyes immediately and processes the scene in front of her. She swallows and cranes her neck up without moving Aon to exchange an incredulous look with Mom. They both look at me, then, and I close my mouth and try to focus, not on Evelyn, but on Blaze.
For quer part, Blaze’s now puffy, stiff fingers struggle to re-wind the music box as its song peters out into silence. Que squirms angrily when quer fingers can’t make it, but Evelyn just smiles that soft smile again, the one that I’m starting to associate with her looking at young ones. She asks with her eyes if she can take the music box back, and Blaze lets her with a frustrated huff. “Would you like me to enchant it so that it keeps playing?” she asks in Blaze’s home language.
The frustration on Blaze’s face dissolves somewhat, and que assents. Evelyn makes a big show of letting Blaze see all the golden bands of light that flow from her elegant brown fingertips to the music box. Something clicks inside of it, and we all know it will play until…
Until someone can no longer bear it, because Blaze will be gone.
Evelyn’s curls cover part of her face as she bends over Blaze to give quer back the music box, to make sure it’s positioned right so Blaze can hold it without too much trouble.
“Enjoy it, sherba,” she whispers into the harmonizing box, and straightens up slowly, all but forgotten by the fascinated young one. P’Tal leans over to help quer shift the box around so que can see it, see the globe with the swimming mers and dolphins, from all angles. He glances up at the Controller.
“Why?” he asks simply.
There’s a long pause, but somehow we all seem content to soak in the Izlanian melodies while we wait for Evelyn to compose an answer.
“Because Blaze is a young one, and I know quer Initiation was successful. This is not any of your faults, and it is certainly not quer’s.” Another pause. Jax stares at her quizzically. She sighs slightly.
“You want me to explain the things you don’t like, you want me to explain the things you do. Is there anything I can do in your presence that you won’t demand an explanation for?”
There’s a hesitation before a soft bark of laughter chokes its way out of my lips. Jax is next, then my growns, and, finally, P’Tal’s. Blaze querself is oblivious to all but the music box, but the laughter, finally, wakes Aon. He blinks both sets of eyelids in turn, rapidly, stretching and almost punching Mama in the face.
“What’s funny? What—” He splutters when he notices the Controller and shrinks back into Mama.
Evelyn grows somber at his response, and turns her eyes to Jax. “How is que?”
Jax just shakes his head. Evelyn nods, pursing her lips hard.
“Shall I send for Artem?”
“The man who Sliced quer? I don’t think—”
“You know he’s been unsuccessful finding a cure, but perhaps he can help now with pain reduction,” Evelyn whispers as though she didn’t hear Aora’s outburst.
“He might have some medicines we don’t have access to, Aora,” Mom whispers, fluttering over to her, hand slipping onto the spot on her back where her earthy brown flank meets her skin.
“You want us to trust him? Now?” she asks Mom, staring around at P’Tal and Zeel, and finally, at me.
I just stare at the music box that Aon and Blaze are examining together. Aora falls silent and nods curtly. I mirror the nod at Evelyn, and flutter my fingers outward at her. A Grovian faeric thank you.
Evelyn nods and waves her own wrist out toward me, our way of saying there is no need for thanks. Her dress rustles as she gingerly drops off of the low-flying platform and walks away quickly.
We wait together in silence, broken only by the soothing sounds flooding out of the music box.
Broken only by Blaze’s breathing, growing more rattled by the minute.
P’Tal has streaks of his young one’s blood on his face, from where he hastily wiped a tear from his eye after holding quer hand.
Jax starts to boil pine leaves. He’s putting more and more into a large, metal bowl, methodically, sullenly.
He does this when hope is lost. The scent comforts him, and, often, those who are sick. Dying.
But I doubt Blaze can smell it. At this point, Aon has to hold the music box almost right up to quer ear for quer to hear anything. His eyes are wild, but won’t leave quer face.
So maybe the pine leaves boiling are just really for quer growns. For Aon.
No one looks up except me when the head Slicer walks back in with Evelyn. It’s clear she woke him; it’s clear she made him sprint back with her. Her hands rest on her thighs, her mouth open slightly, her gaze penetrating the small crowd around Blaze, seeking only the young one’s face.
For my part, I shuffle off my cot and huddle myself into the corner of the infirmary, on the floor of the platform. Artem follows me with his eyes, and he stares for a moment or two at my wings as he, too, catches his breath. He takes something out of his carrying case, which looks similar to what I sabotaged in the Lethean Inn.
It feels like a lifetime ago, when Blaze was more an idea than a person, when P’Tal was worried the Slicing would kill quer.
I keep Artem’s gaze evenly until it makes my head swim, but I don’t blink. I don’t look away. He retreats first, bending over Jax, whispering something to him as he passes him a vial and jerks his head in my direction. Jax nods wordlessly, absently. He pockets the vial and keeps stirring his boiling pine leaves. Mom takes the vial out of his pocket and puts it neatly
in place on her own workspace. He doesn’t seem to notice.
The Head Slicer now mutters something to Evelyn, and she nods her assent. He looks over Blaze as Aora shifts over for him skeptically.
“Que won’t feel the pain of passing quite as much if we can get quer to drink this,” he tells quer growns, who glare at him for vocalizing the inevitable, the about-to-happen.
But Zeel grabs the green vial from his open hand and turns, more gently, to Blaze. “Sherba, hey, you’ve got to swallow this now, just a little bit.”
Que turns quer head, and blood leaks out of quer ears. I shift deeper into my corner and Aon’s own lip starts to bleed from biting it so hard. P’Tal’s body starts to wrack with barely contained tears and Zeel is clenching quer fist behind quer back so hard it’s making the veins in quer corded forearms all stand out.
“What is it?” Blaze croaks, and the words are so garbled I can barely make them out.
There’s a long pause. Jax wheels forward into Blaze’s range of vision. “Something to help you hear the music better, sherba.” His voice cracks. “You’ll hear the music better.”
Blaze stares at him solemnly, clear droplets now dripping alongside the red ones out of quer eyes.
“Will it hurt?”
Evelyn chokes down a sob and turns away. Artem looks down.
Mama takes P’Tal by the shoulders as Mom slips hers under Aon’s wing sprouts.
“Not even a little bit, Blaze,” Aon answers in a voice that’s not quite his own. Que grimaces up at him and each of quer parents reach to wipe the blood away from quer lips. Evelyn’s eyes are squeezed shut and her lips are pursed so hard it’s a wonder she’s not bleeding too. She wraps her arms around herself, but shrugs away from Artem’s offered touch.