But that was not what she wanted. The thought of truly using her newfound power in that way sickened her.
She went on, across the sea. Sometimes, she flew low enough that the ocean spray brushed her wings. She liked the sensation—it made her feel alive. It allowed her to pretend she was full when she knew she was profoundly, utterly empty.
Days became weeks, and still she flew, never tiring, never hungering. The sorrow ate her, and yet it sustained her, too.
And through the long nights and the longer days, all she could think of was Morin, standing on the cliff, the rising sun gilding his face with scarlet.
One day, the shore of Enduena glimmered into being on the horizon. She’d thought she’d feel triumph at the sight of her homeland, or at least a strong sense of relief.
But inside there was only a pit of ever-widening despair.
She flew past the seaport to her childhood estate in Evalla, landing in a rush of dark wings in the inner courtyard near the stable. She allowed her human form to envelop her, then pulled a shirt and a still wet pair of trousers down from the obliging clothesline and shrugged into them. She felt frail, small. The stones underneath her bare feet were hard and strange after so many weeks of endless, empty sky.
A banner flapped from the highest tower of the house, and Eda craned her neck up to peer at it: the symbol of a single Star shining from a red field. It was an old Enduenan flag, not the Imperial crest.
She considered it, uneasy.
A young female attendant stepped out into the courtyard, yelping with surprise when she saw Eda. She gave a hesitant, uncertain bow. “Your … Your Majesty?”
“What’s happened?” The words were cracked and dry from a throat that hadn’t spoken since the cliffside. Since Morin. “Why do you fly the Enduenan flag?”
The girl clutched the doorframe, clearly too frightened to come any closer. “There is no Empire anymore.”
Sorrow and rage burned behind her skin, ready to lash out at the girl, ready to consume her—she had a right to be frightened. But Eda forced herself to be still, to speak softly. “What do you mean?”
But the girl shook her head. “I don’t know. The steward took down the Imperial flag a month ago. He ordered it burned.”
“Burned?”
“That’s all I know, Your Majesty. He didn’t say anything else.”
Eda gave her a bewildered nod. “I’ll go to Eddenahr. Find out for myself.” For an instant, she almost let the dark bird burst through her skin, but then she held it back. She had had enough of the sky.
She took a horse from the stable, and the serving girl brought her sandals, a change of clothes, and a pack of provisions for the journey. Eda found herself suddenly ravenous, and wolfed down half the contents of the pack. She swung up onto the horse, a young dappled gray gelding, and thanked the serving girl.
The girl watched her with wide eyes. “What will you do when you get to the capital?”
Power raged inside of her, sorrow curling black around her heart. “I don’t know.” She put her heels to the gray’s flanks and he sprang away, down the road to Eddenahr.
The horse was young and swift, but he had to stop to rest and eat, which forced Eda to stop as well. She hated it, regretting her decision to keep the bird caged inside. In her human form, she tired and hungered as well, but not as much or as often as before the sorrow had grafted itself onto her soul.
She arrived in Eddenahr early in the morning, four days after leaving Evalla.
The city was quiet, the sun pouring onto the cobbled streets and refracting off the whitewashed buildings. Eda followed the winding road up to the palace, ducking her head in an attempt to keep her face hidden.
Unease washed over her like a brittle wind. The banners that snapped from the palace roof and from the shops that crowded the street all bore the Enduenan crest. There wasn’t a single Imperial flag anywhere in sight.
What had happened here, while she was lost in the world of gods and stories?
She passed through the gates into the lower palace courtyard, handing off her mount to a stable boy with hardly a thought or even a glance. Her heart roared within her.
What had happened?
She paced up to the grand palace entrance, where over a year ago she had made the envoy from Denlahn wait in the pouring rain.
A single guard stood there, a spear in his hand, but he didn’t move to block her way, just gave her a bored glance. “You’re a little early for petitioning, Miss, but you can wait inside. An attendant will show you.”
“Petitioning?” Eda echoed.
“Petitioning the council. That is why you’re here, isn’t it? Every third week the delegates hear petitions.”
“Oh, of course. Certainly that’s why I’m here.” Eda plastered on her falsest smile. How could he not recognize her?
The guard waved her inside.
A young Enduenan boy wearing a red sash sprang up from around a corner. His lips were wet, crumbs clinging to them, as if he’d been having a quick snack on the job. He smelled faintly of cinnamon and honey. “This way.” He trotted off down the corridor Eda knew so well.
She felt like a ghost, wandering the palace, unknown and unseen. There were more people occupying each room than she was used to: a handful in the music room, playing on various instruments, another handful in the parlors and receiving rooms. All seemed to be dressed plainly, no distinguishing marks of jewels or rings.
The boy led her into the ballroom, which had been vastly redecorated since that night Ileem’s soldiers burst in: ancient Enduenan tapestries covered the walls, and the dais at the back of the room had been carpeted over in velvet and arranged with two couches and an ornately carved ivory bookcase. Eda blinked at the figure on one of the couches, a young Denlahn woman, her dark head bent over a book, a tiger lounging at her feet, half asleep.
“It’ll be a while yet, Miss,” said the boy, “but there will be tea soon.” And then he vanished back into the corridor.
The Denlahn woman on the dais lifted her head, and Eda knew her even though the breadth of the room stretched between them: Liahstorion.
It seemed Liahstorion knew her, too. She laid down her book. “Hello, Eda.”
Eda crossed the ballroom, lingering at the base of the dais, where she had so often sat with a crown on her head, looking out into a crowd of dancers. Liahstorion was dressed in the Enduenan style, wearing a loose pair of violet silk trousers, a cropped beaded top, and an airy gold sash. But it was the resemblance Liahstorion bore to her brother that made Eda’s throat close: those same fierce eyes, those same stark brows.
Power surged through Eda, straining against her skin, but she kept it in check. “What happened?”
The question hung echoing between them. Liahstorion rose from her seat, and took the two steps down from the dais to stand on even footing with Eda. The tiger rose as well, pressing against Liahstorion’s knee. They paced together out onto the open balcony.
Eda followed.
“My brother held Eddenahr for ten days, until the Barons’ combined regiments arrived. They took the city back in six hours.”
Eda hated herself for asking, but she did anyway. “What about Ileem?”
“He called for his god in the midst of the battle, but Rudion did not come. They cut his throat. Left him to choke on his own blood in the dust.” Anger hardened Liahstorion’s frame.
Eda felt sick. No matter what he’d done to her—he didn’t deserve to die that way, abandoned by the Shadow he’d served as a god. “What then?”
“Then the Barons realized they could not agree on who ought to be Emperor. More fighting broke out. A resistance of commoners was raised. The Barons were united in fighting them, only they couldn’t extinguish the spark of rebellion against the idea of royalty at all. Agreements were struck. I was let out of my cell.” Liahstorion shot Eda a baleful glance, absently stroking the tiger’s head with one hand. “The Empire has been dissolved. We’re trying our hand at democracy.”
“‘We’?”
“The peace treaty between Enduena and Denlahn stands. I am here to ensure no vengeance is sought because of the things my brother did.”
Clearly there was more. Eda waited.
“I’m to marry Domin.”
Eda was surprised.
“He’s been elected Governor of Enduena, and I am to stand beside him.”
“Why call him Governor and not King?”
“The people don’t want a king, Eda. Or an Emperor. They want to be free.” Liahstorion leaned out on the railing, shutting her eyes into the warm embrace of the sun. The tiger rubbed against her leg.
“What do you want?” Eda asked her.
“What I’ve always wanted. Peace. Now I have it.”
Eda considered her, her strong shoulders and lithe frame, muscular arms used to holding a sword, and wielding it. And yet it would be so easy to overpower her. So easy to drive her down onto the floor and make her scream, make her suffer for all the things her brother did.
But Eda didn’t move to touch her. She just stood there, the sorrow eating her up from the inside. She had power now, power she had always wanted. But she was still that lost little girl, wanting to find a place to belong. She knew in her heart of hearts that Enduena was better off without her, that perhaps it always had been. And she realized that place she longed for, the belonging she had always craved, was no longer here.
“I am sorry about the temple,” Liahstorion said.
Sorrow burned. “What happened to the temple?”
The former Denlahn princess turned to look Eda in the eye. “They tore it down. Burned it to ashes. It was the one thing everyone agreed on.”
Chapter Forty-Seven
SWEAT PRICKLED EDA’S NECK AND SHOULDERS, DRIPPED down into her eyes. The temple steps remained, but the rest of the building had indeed been torn to pieces. A scorching wind swept through the empty shell of it, smelling incongruously of incense and honey.
Eda paced to the center of the temple’s floor, sitting cross-legged on the once-polished marble. It was strange, to be back where it all started, in the temple she’d built to appease the gods, to assuage her guilt for bargaining away the life of her sister. It would end here, too, and that seemed only right.
She shut her eyes and waited, as the sun beat down on her and the wind spat dust into her face.
She waited, as the day spun into evening and the scorching sun sank beyond the western rim of the world.
She waited, as the stars came out and the moon rose beyond the northern mountains.
And then at last she heard a step, and knew she was no longer alone.
She opened her eyes.
Niren stood there, silver skirts whispering about her knees, Starlight in her forehead blazing bright. She didn’t look like a shadow anymore. She brimmed with life.
And yet Eda knew her sister had not rejoined the land of the living.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” Eda said.
Niren smiled, and sank to the temple floor across from her. “I know. I came as fast as I could. The miles pass slowly when I am trying to reach my friend.”
“Then we are friends?”
Niren brushed her fingers against Eda’s shoulder. “Always.”
Eda smiled back. She hugged her knees to her chest and stared out beyond the ruined temple to the starry desert plain. “What happened to you?”
“Tuer and Raiva found me, wandering in the Mountain. Raiva poured the rest of her Starlight into me. Made me Bearer of Souls, as she meant to from the beginning. I have been busy, gathering the dead, leading them through the Circles to paradise beyond.”
“Are you happy?” Eda whispered. She shuddered at the memory of Death and Time and Sorrow. She still thought it cruel of the gods to bind anyone to such a fate.
“I have found my purpose,” said Niren. “I am content, Eda. I always knew I was meant for something more.”
It felt wrong to say it, selfish, childish, but Eda did anyway. “I don’t know who I am anymore. I don’t know what I want or what my purpose is.”
“Eda.”
She looked over at Niren’s gentle face.
“It’s over. You saved Endahr. You saved me. That’s who you are.”
“But where do I go? What am I to do?”
“You no longer wish to reclaim your crown?”
Eda thought about the city, glittering on the horizon. How fragile the Enduenans were. How easy it would be to destroy them. “I don’t want to sacrifice anyone else like I did you. I know that isn’t the point, that it was never the point, because the gods had other plans for you, but—but if I do, I will sacrifice others over and over again, until my soul is truly gone and I’m nothing but a cruel empty shell wielding the powers of a goddess. I don’t know what I want. But I don’t want that.”
Starlight pulsed from Niren’s brow. She nodded gravely.
“Can you forgive me? For what I did to you?”
“My dearest Eda. You didn’t do anything to me.”
“But I intended to. I traded your life away without a thought. It doesn’t matter that the gods meant for it to happen. I still did that. To you.”
Niren closed the distance between them, and folded Eda into a tight embrace. For an instant, Eda’s whole body tensed, anticipating the rush of pain that accompanied the feeling of someone else’s sorrow. But all she felt was Niren, solid and warm, her heart beating steadily.
“You can’t hurt me,” Niren explained, when she’d drawn back. “Just as I can’t hurt you. I’m not exactly living, you know, and you’re not exactly … you’re not exactly mortal anymore.”
Somehow, this didn’t come as a surprise. Eda had felt it, when the Starlight and the sorrow had woven themselves into her soul.
“But that isn’t all bad,” Niren went on, her tone over-bright. “It means that no matter where you go, I can find you. Speak with you. We can be friends, as we haven’t quite been since childhood.”
Eda didn’t miss the quirk of Niren’s lips. “Did you always know I was your sister?”
“I suspected for many years, and I knew for certain when I met our father in the Circle of the Dead. You frown the same way he used to frown, you know. You laugh like him, too. Although it has been a very long time since I heard you laugh.”
Eda wanted to laugh, but she didn’t know how. She found herself yearning to know the father she had known, and yet not known. “Tell me about him. Tell me everything.”
Niren did, as the moon rose and sank again, as the stars faded and the sun climbed bright into the sky. And for the first time in a long, long time, in the ruins of the temple she had tried so hard to build to save her friend’s life and quell her guilt—for the first time, Eda didn’t feel alone.
Epilogue
SHE ALWAYS FELT MORE ALIVE UP ON the cliff.
There was a certain ledge unreachable except by half an hour’s treacherous climb that she visited nearly every morning, tucking herself between the rocks, watching the ayrrah soar in the air currents as the sun poured over the mountain peaks and warmed her face like nothing else could.
This morning, clouds were gathering fast, and the sharp wind carried with it the promise of snow. She would have to climb back down before the weather hit in earnest, but she had a few minutes more of peace. Perhaps today was the day she would finally take the path to the village in the valley below the monastery, finally go and see Morin again, make her peace with him. She couldn’t deny he was part of the reason she’d chosen to settle here, a permanent pilgrim in Tal-Arohnd, weeding in the garden or gathering eggs, not speaking a word for weeks together if she didn’t wish to.
Life in the monastery suited her, and it was easier being close to Tuer’s Mountain, in case she was ever called upon to return. She was safe here, too. Secluded from most of the world, where she need not touch or be touched, where there was no danger of the sorrow inside of her killing anyone.
Two winters had spun away since she’d come back he
re, begging sanctuary from Torane. Two springs, two summers, too. Tainir had climbed up to see her several times since her return.
But not Morin. Never Morin.
She wanted to go down to him, wanted to accept the offer he’d made her so long ago. But there was so much grief burning up her soul, she didn’t know if there was room for anything else.
The wind bit colder, and the first few flakes of snow fell wet against her cheek. She turned her back to the staggering drop and began to inch her way down the cliff. She climbed slowly, the wind tugging at her body, the snow coming thick.
By the time she’d made it to level ground again, a thin layer of white already blanketed everything.
A path lay at her feet: to her left was the way back to the monastery, to her right, the road down to the village. She stood a moment, considering. She thought of the mug of tea she would brew as soon as she reached her tiny stone room, which she’d attempted to make more homey by plastering Morin’s map on the wall and stringing beads on bright yarn from one corner of the room to the other. She thought of Morin and Tainir’s little house, with the goats bleating in the pen just outside, and Tainir hanging a kettle over the fire.
Eda had healed, slowly, these last long months, but she was still uncertain of her steps. And though Niren came to talk with her often, even her sister could not ease her loneliness completely.
She looked up the path, and down the path: one way, a comfortable solitude. And the other?
She drew a slow breath, hugging her poncho around her in the thickly falling snow. She didn’t know, but she was ready to find out. She was ready to see if there was anything for her in Endahr beyond the sorrow that ate at her and was never full.
She took the downward path.
The snow fell, and the wind bit, but there was a fire burning in Morin and Tainir’s hearth. When Eda stepped in through the door, tea was ready and waiting. Morin looked up at her with a swift, fierce smile. She went to join him by the fire.
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