Dark eyes and dark skin shining in the moonlight. Lips pressed warm against hers. Fingers tangled in her hair.
Happiness.
The bite of a knife under her jaw.
He never wanted her.
It is too much for her. The sorrow has swallowed the Starlight.
There is a little left. Enough, I think, to save her.
Do not fear the sorrow.
It may yet save you.
It may yet save you.
In the dark before the mirrors, Eda lifted her head. Starlight pulsed still inside of her, a faint, tremulous spark. She reached for it, reached and reached, and when she had caught it, she held it tight, an ember burning. Hope.
Sorrow is powerful, Tuer had said. It can extinguish love and life, death and time.
And perhaps, perhaps—
It could free her.
She stretched her hands out toward the mirrors, holding on to the Starlight inside of her. She reached for the sorrow, calling it into her, into the Starlight.
The sorrow came and came. The Starlight ate it, swelling until it blazed out of her with the fury of the summer sun.
Still it ate, and still the sorrow came. The chains fell off, link by link. The mirrors shattered outward, shards of glass piercing her heart.
And then the Starlight could eat no more, but the sorrow wasn’t finished.
On it came, swelling inside of her, more and more and more, fusing together with the Starlight in her soul. She burned with pain and grief, with a strength her body could not contain.
Her bones stretched and cracked. Thorns pierced her knuckles.
All was a twisting, awful agony, and a rush of dark wings.
She burst upward, away from the mirrors and the chains, through the rock and earth of the mountain, up and up and up, hurtling through the dark, through a door in a tree.
The Circle of Time seethed before her, all color and glitter and show. The pools of memory wheeled by her, but she didn’t even turn her head. They couldn’t stop her. Couldn’t even slow her down.
She flew up and up, and burst through a door into a whistling dark emptiness that pulsed with hunger, with wanting. She could see definition in the darkness, feel the ache, ache, ache. But she had no pity to spare for Death. It had had its time, and it had had its fill, and it was just a stop along the journey, now.
She hurtled onward, the strength of sorrow searing every part of her.
On and on, through one last door into the darkness of the mountain, then up and up, her body boring through the very stones of the world.
She screamed with a voice that was not her own.
And then—
She broke through rock and earth.
Beyond was sky.
Stars.
Air.
But still the sorrow clung to her.
She was free of chains and mirrors. She was free of the Mountain. She was free of Death and Time.
But she was not free of Sorrow.
It twisted through every ounce of her, engraved on her very being.
She screamed at the sky.
It listened, and shrank from her.
Chapter Forty-Five
SHE HAD NEVER FELT SO STRONG, THOUGH the strength twisted through her with the bite of knives. She was pain and fury and rage.
She could brush the stars with the edges of her wings, and swallow the world with her power.
Her wings.
What was she?
She flew through a dark sky, the blur of trees beneath her.
She wanted, she ached.
Her body had stretched and grown and changed.
The sorrow had made her something else, something more.
Dark feathers.
A heart filled with fire.
She wanted to hurt everyone who had hurt her. She wanted to make the world bow at her feet. She wanted to pour her sorrow and rage into the stones of the earth.
Because she couldn’t hold it in. It was tearing her apart.
Wind rushed past her wings, and on the mountain below were two figures: a boy with a creature beside him, pressed up against his knee.
The sight of him sent fresh pain searing through her, though she didn’t understand why.
He must have wronged her. He must have sent her into the mountain to die.
She let out a shriek that rattled the sky and dove toward the boy.
She crashed into him, knocking him backward into the side of the mountain. She ripped at his shoulders with her talons, tearing into his flesh, watching his red blood pool on brown earth.
She felt his sorrow, a rush of intense horrific power that nearly overwhelmed her. She closed herself off; she could not contain his sorrow along with everything that already raged in her soul. She sent it back at him.
He screamed and fell to the ground, clawing at his skin like he was burning from the inside.
She’d forgotten his creature: a spotted cat. It lunged at her, snarling, and raked claws across her chest. Pain ripped hot into her body.
She screamed and scrabbled backward, almost falling from the cliff.
And then somehow the boy was there, though he still shuddered with pain, pulling her back onto level ground. He stroked her wings with gentle hands, and his voice, soft and certain, coiled around her like honey. “Eda. Eda. Be still, be still. You’re here, and you’re safe. Be still.”
His blood yet dripped into the dirt, his face twisted with the agony that convulsed through his body.
And yet he was so gentle.
The spotted cat crouched and snarled, but the boy held it at bay. “Tainir, hush.”
She shuddered and shook. Pain, in every part of her, tangled with the power of her sorrow.
But she didn’t want to feel it, not anymore.
Her body cracked. Burst apart.
Heat and pain and light.
Feathers falling round her like dark snow.
Huddling against the stone of the mountain, shuddering with terrible, terrible cold; her wings were gone and there was nothing to warm her.
Gradually, Eda became aware of herself and her surroundings.
She was naked, curled up in a ball, icy stone pressing against her shoulders, frigid air biting at her exposed skin. She was human again, or at least had resumed her human form, the huge dark feathers of whatever winged creature she had been scattered around her like ashes.
But the sorrow hadn’t left her; it raged still inside her soul, and power crackled through her like harnessed lightning, barely contained.
The snow leopard who was Tainir came toward her over the freezing ground. The leopard’s body straightened and changed, paws stretching out into legs and arms, feline head and ears shifting into dark hair and red-brown skin and sparkling eyes.
Tainir was naked, too, but only for a moment; Words poured glinting gold from her lips and she was clothed again, in a plain linen shirt and trousers that would do little to shelter her from the bitter cold.
Eda couldn’t clothe herself; she didn’t know what Words to say. She just shuddered against the mountain, the sorrow eating and eating and never getting its fill.
And then Morin was there, hesitant. Careful. He shrugged out of his own poncho and offered it to her, turning around so she could pull it on without him watching. When he turned back, his face was gray with pain.
A tremor went through her. Tears dripped down her cheeks. “What was I? What did I do to you?”
“You were a great black bird. Bigger than the ayrrah. Bursting with power.” His words were soft and slow, but they held no fear.
She bowed her head; she couldn’t look at him. “How did you know it was me? I could have been one of the winged spirits. I could have destroyed you—I nearly did.”
“I just knew.”
“The spirits are gone,” said Tainir softly, kneeling on Eda’s other side. From somewhere she produced a blanket, and Eda wrapped it gratefully around her frigid toes. “And I know it’s because of you. We saw our parents. We
bid them farewell, and then a woman with a star on her forehead came and took their hands. They faded away. I know they’ve gone to their rest.”
Eda couldn’t stop trembling. She stared at Morin’s hands, which were balled into fists, knuckles straining under tight skin. “You’re still in pain,” she whispered.
“I can bear it.”
“No.” She shook her head. “It will destroy you. When I touched you, I felt your sorrow. Every grief you’d ever endured in all your life, and it was strong, Morin. I didn’t mean to but I sent it back at you. I think—I think I almost killed you. And it’s still there, under your skin. It will eat at you and eat at you, until there’s nothing left.” She should know. Something had happened to her when she’d drawn all the sorrow inside, something that allowed her body to endure when she should be lying dead before the mirrors. But Morin had no such protection.
Tainir looked from her brother to Eda and back again. “Morin.”
“I’m fine. Really.”
But Tainir went to him, touched his shoulders, and tilted her forehead against his. She began to sing, glints of gold pouring from her lips and sinking into his skin. As she sang, Morin relaxed, his whole body sagging with relief, with release.
Eda wanted to claw her way into the mountain, let the rocks crush her, never come back out. She had never hated herself more.
At last Tainir finished singing, and sat back on her heels.
Morin gave Eda a wobbly smile. “Good as new, you see?”
But he made no move to come close to her again.
Tainir built a fire, and the three of them sat around it, sparks flying up into the new-fallen night.
Eda told them what had happened to her inside the mountain, piece by piece, as best as she could. But there were some things she didn’t know how to put into words: her vision of the One, drawing the sorrow into her heart. The power that even now surged through her.
Both Morin and Tainir listened intently, a crease in Morin’s forehead, faint gold sparks buzzing around Tainir’s fingers.
By the time Eda was finished talking, the night had deepened, the fire burned low. Neither Morin nor Tainir said anything, and anxiety formed a tight knot in Eda’s chest. She broke the silence, because her companions would not. “How long has it been since I left you outside the door?”
“A month,” said Tainir.
That was all? Eda couldn’t imagine the torment Tuer had endured, chained before those mirrors for untold centuries. The wind whipped through her hair, tangling it around her shoulders, biting icily down her spine. “What happened when I left you?”
“The spirits attacked,” said Morin. “We fought them before the door.”
Something haunted came into Tainir’s face. “The ghosts were screaming. The spirits were—”
“Eating them?” Eda shuddered.
“Yes.”
“And then?”
Morin fiddled with his knife, the blade glinting white in the embers of the dying fire. “The spirit who guarded the door leapt at the winged spirits, allowed itself to be eaten instead of the ghosts. We ran.”
“Out of the mountain,” Tainir continued, “back past the ice wall.”
Morin stared off into the distance. “There was a massive tear in the sky, splitting the world in two. The spirits came and came, until there were so many of them we couldn’t see the sun anymore. Tainir shifted into her leopard form and we huddled against the cliff. I’ll never forget the noise they made. But then the ground shook and we heard a sound like a great brass bell, and the crack sealed itself, the shadows dragged back into the void, screaming. The wind tasted sweet and there was a sense of—of—”
“Of release,” Tainir finished for him.
Morin nodded. “You did it, Eda.” His eyes met hers, and fixed there. “You saved us all.”
She shuddered and shuddered. “It wasn’t me. It was Tuer.”
“No.” Morin still didn’t look away. “I know it was you.”
The three of them bedded down for what was left of the night, Eda curled up against the cliff wall. There had been no discussion, but Morin and Tainir slept away from her, on the other side of the fire. She didn’t allow herself to feel that hurt, because the sorrow of all the world still pulsed inside of her. What had she become? What had Tuer and the One and the Starlight made her? Why was she sent back into the world if she was … broken? Perhaps this was her punishment for the lives she had taken. Her penance. To live once more among those she cared about, but to carry still their sorrow with her as if she yet knelt chained before Tuer’s mirrors.
Could she … could she never touch anyone again without causing them pain?
She listened to Morin and Tainir breathing. She watched the fire, the flames shrinking as the wood burned low.
She got up and paced along the edge of the cliff, letting the wind and the snow and the stars wrap around her like a cloak. She was so different. And the world was the same.
What was she supposed to do now? Where would she go? What was she even fit for?
She shut her eyes and saw Eddenahr, its gleaming spires and blue-tiled roofs; she felt the sun burning her skin, caught the scent of jasmine and honeysuckle, tasted fresh orange slices, tangy and sweet. She saw a pair of dark eyes that once were dear to her, a lanky form sprawled over the roof tiles. She felt soft lips pressed against hers under the inky sky. Why did she miss him, even now? Why did she miss something that had never been hers, had never been real?
Sorrow pulsed inside of her, and it was not the grief of the world but her own grief, sharp and bitter and piercing as a spearpoint.
She knelt on the side of the cliff, her shoulders shaking as she wept for the country and the family and the friend and the husband she had lost. She wanted to go home. She wanted to go home so badly it hurt.
But how could she?
She crouched there all the long night, watching as the dark turned to dawn, the stars fading in the greater light of the rising sun.
As light poured golden onto the cliff, the power stirred inside of her. She could feel the monstrous bird, just under her skin, ready to fly free at her bidding.
She didn’t turn when Morin came up beside her, but she was glad of his presence.
“Do you think I’m a monster?” she asked.
“No.” His answer was quick and fierce.
“But you’re afraid of me.”
“No.”
“Liar.”
“Eda.”
Her name on his lips made her gaze find his. There were tear stains on his face, as if he’d been crying unaware in his sleep.
“Come back to the village with us. Stay with Tainir and me. We discussed it at length—we want you to stay and make a home with us. To—to make a home with me, if you wish.”
A knot pulled tight in her throat. She knew what he was saying, without him actually saying it. “Morin, you hardly know me. And I—I almost killed you yesterday.”
“You can’t journey with someone for weeks without coming to know every piece of them. I do know you, Eda. I know you’ve been alone nearly your whole life. You don’t have to be, not anymore.”
Beneath her skin, the power surged and stretched, whispering her name. “I don’t think I can even touch you.” She hadn’t meant to say that, but the words had tumbled out anyway.
Something hard came into his face, and he held out his hand to her, palm up. His jaw was set, determined, but his fingers trembled.
She reached her own hand out, laid it on his.
His sorrow pulsed through her, staggering, strong, and she gasped and let go before she accidentally sent it back at him.
But even that brief touch was enough to make him crumple to his knees, his forehead creased in pain.
She bit back a sob.
“I’m all right.” He gulped air like a drowning man, and forced himself to his feet again. “Eda, I’m all right.”
The sorrow inside of her screamed to get out, and she stood shuddering on the cliff
side. “I can’t come with you. I’m a danger to you. To Tainir.”
“Maybe you can learn to control it. Maybe—”
“I can’t, Morin. I’m sorry.” Her voice cracked. “I’m going home. The gods have cursed me anew, but at least they gave me what I always wanted.”
He looked at her unhappily. “And what’s that?”
“The power of a goddess.” The words tasted bitter on her tongue.
Morin drew a deep breath. “There will always be a home for you, here in Halda. If you change your mind.”
She forced a smile for him. “Goodbye, Morin. Thank you for everything.”
“Eda—”
But she turned and launched herself from the cliff before he could see the tears pouring down her face, and gave herself over to the creature inside.
She welcomed the pain, and when the agony of her shift was over, she spread her wings wide, and flew east into the rising sun.
Chapter Forty-Six
SHE FLEW EAST AND SOUTH, THE SUN warm on her wings. She didn’t look back; she couldn’t bear it.
All day she flew, not stopping once to rest or eat. She didn’t feel hungry or tired. There was only the sorrow inside of her, compelling her on.
Night came and she flew on, stars sparking to life all around. Tuer’s Rise lay dark and distant below. She tried not to think of Morin standing on the cliff, looking after her. She tried not to think that he must be glad she had gone, he must be. She tried to tell herself that she was glad, too.
The days and nights slid into each other; her wings never faltered. After a time, she left the mountains behind her and came to the sea. Ships waited in the harbor, tall vessels with sails and riggings, stout iron steamers pouring choking smoke into the sky. She tried not to think back to that day, so long ago it seemed now, when she’d attempted to convince her council that steamers were the future—the way for them to conquer Denlahn.
But she did think about it, and everything that came after. Sorrow tugged at her. Her own, most of all, but the other sorrow too, that impossible, unshakable mass burning forever in her soul.
She was lonely. She longed for home. For a place that belonged to her.
She told herself, staring down at the ships, that what she most wanted in the world was to reclaim her throne, to drive every last Denlahn from her shore and all her worthless Barons too, while she was at it. She could do it so easily—send the full weight of sorrow into anyone she touched. It would break them. She didn’t need an army, only herself.
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