“Same as your story about being Iriyat’s daughter,” Yiran said. “And just like your story, they’re hilarious. Read all of them, you’ll see.”
Was this a gesture of friendship? It didn’t matter. Alizhan didn’t have time. “Sure,” she said. “See you later.” She stuffed the pamphlets into the basket of thornfruit, topped it with the stack of flatbread, and made her way to the door. “Oh, and Yiran?”
“Yes, my lady Ha-Varensi?”
“Shut up,” Alizhan said, irritated by the mocking title. “I want to ask you about someone. A guest. A priest named Sardas.”
“He’s not here,” Yiran said. “Iriyat wouldn’t let him stay in the house. She sent him down to the Temple instead.”
“Well, if he comes around again, don’t let him give you anything to drink,” Alizhan said. That was the best gesture of friendship she knew how to make.
When the bells rang for the Rosefinch shift, Alizhan found Kasrik waiting outside the screen in her bedroom, just as he’d said. She sat on the floor next to the screen with the basket she’d taken from the kitchen. The pages Yiran had given her serves as napkins for her thornfruit rinds. Her stomach was still growling. It was probably rude to eat in front of Kasrik—though with the stone screen between them, she wasn’t really in front of him—but she wouldn’t have cared even if she hadn’t been hungry. And she was very, very hungry. Alizhan chewed while she waited to hear what Kasrik had to say.
“So?” he said. “Will you tell me what you’ve been doing while things have been going to shit around here?”
She swallowed her mouthful. “We did get the book decoded. Iriyat is exactly who you always knew she was—and worse. But she destroyed the book and its translation already, so that’ll be no use to us. We can still put her on trial with the Council. Witness accounts will have to be enough.”
“You’re kidding.” He exhaled, frustrated. “You know the Council won’t believe any of us. We’re just poor kids making up stories. They didn’t even believe Mar when he came to them empty-handed. Why’d you go and lose the damn book?”
“They didn’t believe Mar because he said he had proof, in the form of a property on Gold Street, and then he couldn’t provide it to them. It would be different if Mar had gone to them with a story of being personally wronged by Iriyat.” Alizhan tried to explain as calmly as she could. Kasrik had never liked her, but there was a sharp edge in his voice now that hadn’t always been there. She stopped eating for a second, wishing she could read him. “Are you alright?”
“Of course not. I was tortured, remember? And she took Mar. I told you. You wandered off to the other side of the world and I’ve spent months risking my life every shift trying to get that slippery bitch thrown in prison. Now you stroll back into town and fuck up within seconds.”
His tone told Alizhan he was particularly stung by the change in Mar. Took, as if Mar had belonged to him. Had Iriyat made it so Mar no longer recognized Kasrik? To a boy with so few people who cared about him, that would be a blow. “I think I can fix his memory,” Alizhan said. “I’m fixing someone else’s.”
“First useful thing you’ve ever done.”
“The journal wasn’t for nothing,” Alizhan insisted. “I know what Iriyat has done now. Her parents didn’t die in the wave.”
“They’re alive? Where have they been—never mind, I don’t care. Would they accuse her in front of the Council?”
“Her mother’s dead,” Alizhan said shortly. She didn’t want to get into how or when that had happened. “But I think I can restore her father’s memory. He has good reason to hate her, since she attacked him and left him incapacitated for decades.”
“That could be enough,” Kasrik said. “Especially if they remember him. Ezatur’s old enough to, and so are some of the heads of the minor houses. And if we can turn public opinion to sympathize with him, it just might work. How long will it take you? And when can you fix Mar?”
“I need more time,” Alizhan confessed. “Iriyat’s going on a trip to Adappyr this triad. If she gets out of my way, I’ll have time to restore Orosk and it’ll be easier to slip out of the house and help Mar. What do you mean, turn public opinion to sympathize with him?”
Alizhan couldn’t imagine how Kasrik could accomplish such a thing. Orosk Varenx wasn’t a very sympathetic figure. And his beautiful, widely beloved daughter was a master at twisting a story to suit her needs.
“The pamphlets, of course,” Kasrik said. “What did you think I meant when I said I’d been risking my life? Didn’t you read what I gave you?”
“It was about Mar and Iriyat getting married,” Alizhan said.
“No,” Kasrik said. “The other one. I wrote it—well, Eliyan helped, but it was my idea.”
“You and Eliyan write pamphlets?” Alizhan pushed aside the pile of thornfruit rinds and spread out the pages Yiran had given her. “The kind about how the stars are a hoax or the kind with dirty pictures? ‘Ten Ways to Make a Man Yours’? Don’t tell me you’ve been the author of The Sunrise Chronicles this whole time.”
Kasrik sighed, disgusted. “No, you dope. I’m Vesper.”
7
Magic Is Real
Readers,
Our whole lives, we have been lied to! The Temple of the Balance and the Council of Nine conspire together to tell us that our eyes and our hands and our hearts deceive us. They tell us our children are Unbalanced, and that there is no cure for this but to abandon them on the steps of the Temple orphanage. They refuse to speak of magic—a natural part of God’s Balance—and instead incite fear and violence by blaming “Nalitzvan superstition and barbarism.” Good, enlightened readers of this pamphlet, they are WRONG.
MAGIC IS REAL.
It is no curse, but a blessing borne on the blood and gracing certain persons among us—our neighbors, our friends, our families, our children—and it is we who shall be cursed for harming the innocent.
I myself, your faithful truth-teller Vesper, have seen a child in the Marsh who could know a man’s thoughts without even looking at him! I have seen pains healed with a touch and memories altered! I have seen people who could predict the outcome of any wager and people who can throw and shoot with unerring aim. I have seen people who can change their voices and faces so as not to be recognized by their own parents! These people are born this way, part of the Balance, and to them, their behavior is as natural as breathing. And we have beaten and killed them for it—because we have been lied to!
Search your memories. If they have not been altered, you will find moments in your own life—encounters with your own friends and family—that you know in your heart can only be explained by magic.
WHY have the powers of Laalvur kept this from us? They lie for their own gain! But our ignorance will serve their dark purpose NO LONGER. Readers, open your eyes, learn the truth, and be free! MAGIC IS REAL.
* * *
Yours,
Vesper
5 Yahad 764
8
Hospitality
Thiyo’s mother had always wanted him to track and kill medusas, just like his father. She’d been bitterly disappointed when he’d inherited her gift for languages instead of his father’s tracking abilities. So now that he was returning home with black scars and no ability to speak, she ought to be bursting with pride. At last, she had a son who was living up to his father’s legacy instead of hers. A real hero.
Thiyo huffed to himself, not a full laugh, and Ev glanced at him. But he couldn’t explain the joke.
When he’d left Hoi with Ilyr, his mother had been furious. Her anger would still be burning a year and a half later, he had no doubt. The thought slowed his progress up the beach toward Sunslope. After he and Ev had been found on the beach, their erstwhile rescuers had shuttled them hastily away from the island. The trip to Hoi had been a silent few hours—no doubt the crew felt punished for having brought home foreigners, and Ev felt afraid for her future. Thiyo had been silent because his only other option was the humilia
tion of trying to speak a language he no longer understood. But at least it had spared him Ev’s questions about his family.
She knew his father was dead, and she’d guessed by now that he didn’t like to talk about his mother. Ev didn’t try to keep up a conversation by herself, as she sometimes did now. Instead she trudged up the beach beside him. The way home was still familiar. The track winding up the mountain and into the forest was no different than it had been. The air was warm and wet. The sun was strong. He might as well never have left.
Ev stared as they passed through the clusters of curled ferns and broad, purple-striped leaves. They pushed aside heavy, hanging vines bursting with blue and red flowers. The path was bordered by blooms and shrubs and mushrooms in orange, yellow, pink, and teal. For Thiyo, everywhere else in the world felt drained of color, and the islands felt just right. Ilyr had explained to him once that his first sight of the rainforest in Hoi had made him feel as though something was wrong with his eyes—how could those plants be real? Was he dreaming?
Ilyr had finished that story by saying, “I felt the same way when I saw you,” but Thiyo didn’t enjoy that memory much anymore.
A fishfly, its iridescent wings gleaming like scales, fluttered across their path. Ev said something awed.
The wet, earthy scent of the forest mingled with the sweetness of flowers, but as they walked, something sharp and sour filled the air. Thiyo saw the source: a rotflower growing nestled in the roots of a huge tree, its open maw surrounded by wide, red petals with white spots. The diameter of the bloom was as long as one of his arms. Thiyo wanted to tell Ev about it, but all he could do was point. She stopped to exclaim over it and then began to bend down. He caught her around the waist and pulled her back before her face got too close.
She was indignant about being pulled back, but she didn’t move away from him. She stood in the circle of his arms for a moment, still transfixed by the plant in front of her.
Thiyo pointed at the flower, then pinched his nose. Then he mimed a buzzing fly looping through the air toward the flower to explain the rotting smell.
Ev nodded, and then he led her away from the stinking flower. He hoped the rotflower would be the most harrowing thing they encountered on their walk, but it wasn’t likely. They were, after all, going to see his mother.
The village of Sunslope hadn’t changed much, either. Like the room they’d been offered in Kae, most of the homes here were built of wood, fabric, and paper, lightweight constructions that could be dismantled and moved in advance of waves, or, failing that, they would represent no great loss. Some of the homes, including his mother’s, had stone floors, but stone walls were for people who lived at far higher elevations. Sunslope, though it spread over three levels terraced into the mountain side, wasn’t high enough for that.
His mother, Tayihe ra Milalitha u Kithei, lived in the middle terrace of Sunslope, in a modest house that belied her late husband’s glorious legend and her own political power. It was important to remain humble in appearance.
Remaining welcoming in appearance was obviously less important to her, since she stood in the open doorway and watched Thiyo and Ev walk uphill for ten minutes, acknowledging them only with her stare. It was a cold reception. But she’d respect the laws of hospitality and let them stay. Thiyo hoped.
She crossed her arms over her bare chest as they approached. She had on a long, woven skirt, slit up both sides, and many pearl and shell necklaces. The loose waves of her hair—hair just like Thiyo used to have—tangled with her jewelry. She wore a few scattered braids in it, decorated with flowers. Thiyo was a little taller than her, and even though that had been true for years, it still came as a surprise. Her spotless, smooth skin was just a shade darker than his—he’d inherited the freckles dusting the bridge of his nose from his father.
Thiyo met her eyes, which were the same dark brown as his own, and willed her to be the first to speak. It didn’t work. Nobody had ever willed Tayihe to do anything she hadn’t already decided to do. Thiyo would bet that in all fifty years of her life, nobody had said no to her until the moment he left Hoi. He’d also bet that after witnessing her reaction, nobody had said no since.
So be it. He’d have to humiliate himself in front of her sooner or later. Hello. Hello, hello, hello. How hard could it be to say? He used to be able to guess words when he didn’t know them. He used to be able to play the air between him and another person like an instrument, plucking sound and meaning from nothing. He’d just have to try that again. Thiyo opened his mouth and said what he prayed was a close approximation. It felt right. It felt like his brain was connected to his tongue and he was saying a word. A Hoi word. A greeting. Please let it be right.
It wasn’t. Tayihe narrowed her eyes for an instant, and then said something incomprehensible. Then something else. And something else. Were they different questions? Different languages? He could tell, at least, when she switched to a gesture language. Perhaps she assumed he’d gone deaf. If only his injury had affected his ears, rather than his mind. Thiyo knew—had known—all the signed languages and writing systems he might have needed. Not anymore.
Thiyo gave her a sad little shrug and then slipped off his ragged coat, letting it fall to the ground so she could see the scars on his arms. As if this conversation weren’t miserable enough already, at some point during the process, he found himself blinking back tears. He hadn’t ever expected to see his mother again. He certainly hadn’t expected it to be like this. He held his arms out.
Tayihe gasped at the sight, then took his right forearm between her hands, holding it with one and lightly tracing the scars with the fingers of the other. When she reached his hand, she turned it over and gently examined his fingers, healed crooked from the beating. When she looked up, her eyes glinted with tears. She let go of his hand and grabbed him into a hug, squashing them together so he could feel the hard outlines of all her necklaces against his chest. He lowered his head to hide how hard he was crying—a mainlander reaction, a reserve that would never have occurred to him before leaving the islands—and she cupped the back of his head with her hand.
“Thiyo,” she murmured. “Thiyo, oh, Thiyo.”
“Mama,” he said, and she kissed him on the temple and ushered him into the house.
Tears sprang to Ev’s eyes, watching Thiyo’s mother welcome him home. It had been so long since she’d seen her own family. She couldn’t imagine doing what Thiyo had done—leaving home for the unknown, possibly forever, without her family’s approval and farewells. And had he said a word at the end there? She thought she’d heard Ma or Mama or something like that.
She hung back, unsure if the welcome extended to her and embarrassed to be seen dabbing her eyes. And then a woman’s voice, clear and low, said in flawlessly unaccented Adpri, “My name is Tayihe and I offer you my hospitality. Obviously we have some things to discuss.”
“My name is Ev. If possible, I prefer Laalvuri,” Ev said in that language. She hoped Thiyo’s mother was the source of his gift.
“Of course,” Tayihe said. “Come in.”
She walked into the house and Tayihe slid the screen shut behind her. In the center of the room, there was a mat scattered with pillows. Thiyo gestured to Ev to sit on one, then left for a moment. He came back with a tray of small ceramic cups. They looked like tea cups, but the liquid in them was red. When he offered her one, Ev shook her head. He shrugged and took one for himself.
Tayihe sat down with her legs crossed and addressed Ev directly. “I was told my son was dead.”
“I can see why that was an emotional moment, then,” Ev said and regretted it. That had been private and she shouldn’t have watched. She certainly shouldn’t bring it up again. “But who told you that? Why did you think Thiyo was dead?”
Tayihe ignored the first question. “Obviously I was lied to. What happened to Thiyo? Why can’t he speak?”
“It’s a long story, but we were thrown overboard and left for dead. Instead of dying, we killed—T
hiyo killed a medusa. But he was exposed to too much venom, and now he can’t understand or speak any language. Do you know any way to heal him?”
Tayihe clasped Thiyo’s shoulder, then rubbed his arm. “My baby.”
Thiyo had never given Ev the impression that he was close to his mother. This place was one surprise after another. Ev felt as though she should avert her eyes, but Tayihe didn’t seem to care what Ev witnessed. Thiyo’s expression was still etched with misery.
“Go see the memory-keeper,” Tayihe said, turning back to Ev. “She might know a way to help.”
“The ohokutho?” Ev asked.
Tayihe’s eyes widened. “Yes. He told you that? Who are you to my son?”
“A friend.”
Tayihe’s gaze bounced from Ev to Thiyo, but she said nothing more on the subject. “I am grateful to you for returning my son to me, but you should know your presence here will be trouble. You may stay under my roof for now, but you will have to leave soon.”
“I know,” Ev said, and her stomach dropped. Why had she assumed, all this time, that Thiyo would come with her? He was home now, with his family and with people who could help him heal better than Ev could. It made no sense for him to leave. She was a fool.
“There is one more thing you should know,” Tayihe said. “You are neither the only foreigner on this island, nor the only guest under my roof.”
“Who else is here?” Ev asked, suspicion coiling in her gut. Someone had told Tayihe her son was dead. In Nalitzva, just as Ev had left, someone had announced to the city that Lady Lan was dead.
“Ilyr.”
“What?” Ev glanced at Thiyo, panicked, but he showed no sign of understanding.
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