by Jodi Meadows
“Anahera.”
I nodded. “You can’t build something without first destroying something else; you can’t sustain life without death. The rule is that it must be purposeful. Meaningful. That’s why they call it benevolent destruction.”
“Benevolent destruction,” he murmured. “Strange.”
I tapped my fingernail on the edge of my plate. ::Strength through silence is strange to others.::
He bowed his head in acceptance, and in the aching sobriety of that motion, guilt needled me again. He shouldn’t have to be here, enduring this, talking about other islands’ beliefs. He’d just lost his home. His family. His everything.
While I nibbled on a cracker, I pretended to watch the dancers. Aaru and I weren’t the only people standing on the outskirts of the floor, looking around at the other guests. Across the room, I caught Mother’s eye—and quickly looked away before anyone noticed an energy between us. Still, I wished I could speak with her. Ask her questions about what happened in Crescent Prominence. Hug her.
Maybe there was a way to free her.
I pulled myself up straight, putting on the expression of this Bophan woman who Chenda had painted onto me, not letting it slide for even a heartbeat as I looked for other familiar faces.
There was Dara Soun and several senators, the matriarchs, and the tribunal. Everyone who’d been brought here by ship was standing together, eating and talking among themselves. Not dancing. The only officials who were dancing belonged to the Fire Ministry. But the “guests” all looked healthy. Fed, clothed, and probably given everything they could want. That was the high magistrate’s way: flattery and bribery.
Notably absent: Elbena and Tirta.
I had no doubts that Paorah had taken them from Altan’s safe house the other night, but if he’d wanted to use them, shouldn’t they be here? Maybe they’d make an entrance later, although no one would believe that the Hopebearer would have voluntarily missed the memorial earlier.
I put that worry aside, scanning the room for Ilina’s father. He wasn’t here, but that wasn’t a surprise. I did spot the twenty-five Anaheran guards who stood along the perimeter of the room, but if I hadn’t been looking for them, I probably wouldn’t have noticed. Not with all the surrounding splendor, meant to dazzle and distract.
“Do you see our friend?” I leaned toward Aaru so that my elbow brushed his sleeve.
He shook his head. “I don’t know what to look for.”
That was the problem, wasn’t it? Nine might be willing to talk to me, but they didn’t know we were looking for them. And we didn’t know what they looked like—besides like a normal person—so we would have to do this the hard way. Mother always said that people made room for beautiful ladies, and if there was one thing I knew about myself, it was that even scarred, even sharp, even haunted, I was beautiful.
Aaru and I finished our food and handed the plates to a passing servant. Then, with my hand on Aaru’s arm again, I guided him toward the nearest cluster of people I didn’t know. By their dress, most were Daminan, which felt a little dangerous. But when one of the women looked up and waved Aaru and me toward them, no recognition sparked in her eyes, just interest. Introductions went around, and the conversation—about the state of trade now that Idris was gone—resumed with ease.
“Cotton and sugar are what you want to watch.” Thoman was a Daminan businessman, the kind who owned a fleet of cargo ships and sent his captains to command better and better deals for him. “Without Idris, demands on those crops will go up. It’s rare now. Impossible to get more of the Idrisi quality we’re all used to. In Golden Cove”—that was a city on the western side of Damyan—“seamstresses and tailors are already buying all the cotton they can afford. I raised my prices three hundred percent, and I’ve made a small fortune in the last decan.”
Aaru’s breath caught, but he said nothing.
“Of course, without Idris and the farmers there, once your supply is out, that’s it. No more fortune.” The woman—Lilana, if I remembered correctly—shrugged. “If you ask me, the smartest bet is to keep your remaining stock hidden. Sell it in ten years: the last of the Idrisi cotton. There’s your profit.”
Thoman bowed his head. “Fine advice. I may have taken it already. The challenge, at that point, will be convincing anyone of its authenticity, but I’m working on that.”
A second man spoke up: “I was just in Val fa Merce, where I heard they’ve started planting new fields on Harta to make up for the loss. With their gifts, the crops could be ready within a month. It won’t be the Idrisi quality, but with cotton in such a demand, I doubt anyone will mind.”
“Do you think it will matter?” I tilted my head, making sure the false tattoos caught the light of a nearby noorestone. “The Great Abandonment has already begun. In these uncertain times, shouldn’t we focus on ensuring the continuation of the Fallen Isles, rather than our bank accounts?”
“In these uncertain times,” said Thoman, “we must prepare for all possibilities. We don’t know when another island will rise up, or if another one will. Perhaps only Idris will rise, and the rest of us are safe.”
The muscles in Aaru’s arm tensed.
A third man—Balmer—leaned in conspiratorially. “Some say they earned it. Did it to themselves.”
“What do you mean?” Lilana stepped closer toward the group, a gleam of scandal in her eye.
“I mean,” he said, “that a few people on Idris got loud.”
Aaru stiffened. I squeezed him and fought to keep my voice even. “The Great Abandonment isn’t the fault of a few—”
But I wasn’t the Hopebearer today, so Balmer spoke over me. “This may not be the Great Abandonment at all. It’s just as likely that Idris’s people rebelled against his ways, and he decided to have no more of it. Truly, it’s a shame, but our world is what we make it.”
Disgust ripped through me, but before I could say anything, Thoman spoke up again:
“Idris always refused to work with the rest of us. The tariffs were too high, they abhorred travel on and off the island, and the Silent Brothers drove the entire society into abject poverty. It was a sorry state of affairs, and if you ask me, they were punished for it.”
“All the people?” Darkness clouded Aaru’s voice. “For the sins of their leaders?”
Thoman nodded. “They were complicit in the system of corruption, allowing it to continue like that. And, as my father used to say, sin in moderation from the government—well, that leads to sin in excess from the masses. If the Silent Brothers did all those things—making rules against girls working, stealing boys from their families, forbidding marriage between two men or two women—then imagine what their community leaders and men did. All that, but in excess.” He shook his head, as though he had actual pity for the people he’d just condemned.
Aaru was as still as a held breath, or the wind before a storm. “Have you ever been to Idris?” He spoke softly, carefully, but no one could ignore him. Not with the fierce look on his face, and the way his fingers curled toward fists.
“Of course not.” Thoman shrugged, as if to ask how travel to Idris would even have been possible. “I hear the weather there was horrible before, and it’s worse now.” He chuckled, and the others joined in, ugly titters and covered mouths, like they all understood it was inappropriate to laugh, but they couldn’t help themselves.
And then.
It happened so fast.
Aaru pushed Thoman.
Not hard, but the businessman staggered back a couple of steps. Others caught him. And then Balmer shoved Aaru.
It could have stopped there—Aaru didn’t act again—but by that time, Thoman was in front of Aaru, and he shoved Aaru, too. “What’s wrong with you?” The businessman’s shout drew eyes. Around us, the dancing stopped and even the musicians seemed uncertain whether to continue playing. “We were having a laugh.”
“At the expense of the dead.” Aaru’s fists shook, but he didn’t move as several things happen
ed at once:
A pair of guards rushed toward us.
Thoman and Balmer lurched forward to push Aaru.
Seventy-three noorestones flared white hot, gleaming off the mirrors so brightly that people covered their eyes and cried out in alarm.
The men stopped short of Aaru, their hands over their faces. I grabbed Aaru’s arm, dragged him toward me—out of the way of the men—and let all the noorestones go back to normal.
By the time the light eased and everyone was blinking their vision clear, the guards had arrived. Though they, too, seemed disoriented by the sudden glare, they listened while the group of Daminan men and women explained it had all been a misunderstanding.
“Are you all right?” I asked Aaru.
He nodded. “Fine. Not hurt.” And then, against my hand, ::Sorry. That was stupid.::
I squeezed his hand as the guards came toward us—a man and a small woman, both with tight grips on their daggers.
“Tell us what happened,” said the female guard.
“Misunderstanding.” Aaru’s voice was monotone. “We disagreed and overreacted.”
The guard raised an eyebrow, glanced at me, but didn’t give me time to offer my version of events. I wasn’t the Hopebearer here; no one cared what I thought. “All right,” she said. “We’ll call it a disagreement for now. But if I see the two of you causing disagreements again, you’ll both spend the night in jail.”
Aaru swallowed hard and nodded. “I’m very sorry.”
She scoffed, delivered the same warning to Thoman and Balmer, and then walked back to her station on the edge of the room. Her eyes—and those of her partner—never left us.
As the music began again, and people shifted like they might resume dancing, Thoman, Balmer, and the others came toward Aaru and me. “Sorry if you were upset,” Thoman said, like it wasn’t obvious that Aaru was upset. “We were just joking around. People do that when something horrible happens.”
My stomach turned over with revulsion. “You’re a disgrace,” I hissed. “Cruel. Careless. You show none of Damyan’s love. None of Darina’s compassion.”
Thoman sneered. “How would you know anything about love, Bophan? You care more for shadows.”
“People died on Idris.” My voice hitched. “We were just at the memorial for the hundreds of thousands of people who perished when Idris rose. You say they deserved it, but you don’t know the people of Idris—and now you never will. They did not deserve to die. Even if their leaders were corrupt, they were no more corrupt than the people of any other island. Look at the Luminary Council. Worshiping the god and goddess of love didn’t prevent them from hurting the Daminan people, and now they’re dead. Murdered. Answer this: Since you think it’s right to punish people for the actions of their leaders, do you think you deserve the same fate, Daminan?”
The businessman and his friends were quiet a moment, and then Lilana sneered. “You think you know so much about the world, but you’re a child. A naïve child.”
Her words hit me with fears I’d only recently begun to understand—that I didn’t know enough about the world, that I couldn’t possibly make a difference, that my experiences didn’t matter—but she was wrong. I knew, even if I didn’t always feel it, that she was wrong. “Maybe I don’t know exactly how the world works, but I know how it should work, and I know that people like you are the reason it’s broken. Enjoy trading on the works of our dead brothers and sisters. It’s the only thing you have left.”
I turned and strode away, Aaru at my side, and we went straight through the dancers as we made our way to the main door, but an older woman stopped me. “Please don’t leave,” she said. “This ball was just getting interesting, thanks to you and your friend.”
Aaru and I glanced at each other, and finally I nodded. I hadn’t intended to be quite so interesting, but we still had to find Nine. We still needed to get into the summit in the morning.
And I still needed to know more about the empire. The eclipse. The bones.
“Good,” said the woman. “My name is Valmae. Let’s introduce you to some people who aren’t complete dolts.”
Moments later, I came face-to-face with Mother.
CHAPTER TEN
“ALLOW ME TO INTRODUCE MY NEW FRIEND,” VALMAE said to my mother. “This is Caseye—”
I couldn’t stop staring. My mother. Right in front of me.
Part of me was so happy to see her as we clasped hands in greeting, but I couldn’t help but notice the way she glanced at my scar, like she couldn’t believe it hadn’t worn off yet. Even as Paorah’s captive, she still had the energy to judge me.
Valmae kept talking, completely oblivious to the uncomfortable way Mother and I looked at each other. “And this, I’m sure you know,” Valmae said, “is Mira Minkoba’s own mother. The Hopebearer’s mother.”
Was it possible to break in half from cringing so hard?
“Caseye,” Mother said, my false name strange on her tongue. “It’s so lovely to meet you.”
For the first time ever, because this certainly wasn’t an awkward reunion between two people who rarely got along.
“Of course.” My voice turned rough, and Aaru’s hand pressed harder against the small of my back. “And where is your daughter tonight? I’m surprised she wasn’t invited to speak at the memorial earlier, or the summit in the morning.”
Mother’s eyebrows rose, but she shouldn’t have been surprised. No doubt she’d already been asked that question three or four times within the last hour. If I didn’t ask, I would risk compromising my disguise.
Then, Mother’s expression settled and she said, “My daughter is traveling with Elbena Krasteba. Safe, thank Damyan and Darina. I’m just glad she wasn’t home when the council house was attacked. The entire ordeal was horrendous enough without worrying about her.”
So the Hopebearer—fake Hopebearer—would not be making an appearance tonight or tomorrow. Paorah was hiding her, either because she was too injured to be seen in public, or because he had other plans.
My heart thundered so loudly I could barely hear myself speak. “There have been so many stories about what happened that day. I’m curious to know the truth. How did you come to Anahera?”
Her expression twisted into grief. Real grief, not the careful mask she wore when she knew predators were about. “My husband had gone to the council house in the morning, but came home shortly after because he’d forgotten something. I’m afraid our younger daughter had a small meltdown—school or clothes or something—and he stayed to help her, and that’s when we heard the explosion.”
A sour taste clogged my throat, and I fought to keep my expression a careful blend of sympathy, concern, and warm support.
“After that, we all made our way down the escape route, but warriors had broken through. The line of people was moving too slowly, and I needed to make sure my daughter reached safety, so I tried to distract them.” Mother’s voice cracked, and at once I wished I hadn’t asked. The others standing around us shifted uncomfortably, unused to this reveal of true emotion, but Mother continued the story. “The warriors spared my life, but not my husband’s. He was killed right in front of me. So was the rest of my staff; they were practically family.”
Grief surged up from the deepest parts of me, making me sway. My father—
I forced it back down. This was the worst place of all to expose feelings. “I’m so sorry.” I should have stayed. I should have found a way to help them. There were noorestones all around the cliffs; if I’d thought about it, I could have done something instead of flee down the stairs to safety.
“I don’t know why they let me live,” she said. “They’d already slaughtered so many people in Crescent Prominence. They’d already destroyed the council house. But they allowed me to live.”
“Oh, my dear.” Valmae took Mother’s hands and squeezed. “You were so brave.”
I had to agree, but I knew why they’d let her live. It was her charm. On the spectrum of strength of d
ivine gifts, she was among the most powerful. Even from the line to go down the cliff stairs, I’d nearly been lured toward her like a dragon to noorestones. Doctor Chilikoba had stopped me, though, and ushered me down the stairs.
Doctor Chilikoba. Another casualty of that fight.
“A few days later,” Mother went on, “after the earthquake, the Anaheran ship appeared. Their soldiers killed the warriors, freed me, and said that High Magistrate Paorah had summoned the collective governments of the Fallen Isles to Flamecrest for a summit. In the absence of the Luminary Council or any other Daminan authority, they declared I’d join them here. I’ve been the high magistrate’s guest ever since.”
“You’re being treated well?” The question was tight in my throat.
She nodded. “He’s been keeping all of us very secure. With the explosions the night of our arrival, it hasn’t been safe for us to leave the Red Hall, but we’ve been assured the culprits for that crime are nearly in custody. Then we’ll be able to safely move around.”
I doubted that. “So you’re here as a representative of Damyan and Darina?”
Again, she nodded. “With the Luminary Council gone, and Elbena and my daughter away, I’m afraid I’m the only one who’s even somewhat qualified to represent Damina, although I must admit I don’t feel up to the task. My husband was the political mind; he would have been of more use.”
“I’m very sorry for all your losses. Please, if there’s anything I can do for you—if there’s anything you need—don’t hesitate to ask. I’d like to help, if I can.” The words didn’t feel adequate, but I was supposed to have just met her. Already, Valmae and the others standing with us were watching our exchange with eyebrows quirked.
“That’s so kind of you,” Mother said. “But no. I’d rather hear about you. Have you tried the cloudfish?”
With the subject shifted to the ball—to the dancing and the food—everyone found it easier to join in, and I tapped a grateful thanks to Aaru when he spoke about the music and the carvings along the walls.
