by Bree Barton
Chapter 30
No Mark
THE WEATHER WAS MARVELOUS. Balmy, never hot. Brisk, never cold. Every day on Prisma had a dreamlike quality—swaths of alabaster clouds pitched against cerulean skies, stately fish trees jangling lemon coconuts, air so crisp and sharp she wanted to frame it. In Ilwysion, those sorts of perfect days only happened when spring thawed into summer, or under the harvest moon.
On the Isle of Forgetting, they were eternal.
Mia found it odd. When she had gazed out at Prisma from her sfeera window, she’d seen everything from clear skies to snow flurries to raging thunderstorms. The climate rarely corresponded to the mainland. More often than not, the island was cloaked in a thick white fog. The night she crossed the Bridge, she had felt it reach hungrily for her body, warmer than she expected, an angel draped in white rising up to greet her.
But the moment she’d set foot on the Isle of Forgetting, the fog had evaporated.
In Prisma, there was always sun.
Would you like some shade?
She was accustomed to it now. The lingering voice, nibbling at the fringes of her mind. Pleasant, agreeable. Never anything but polite. It had arrived when she had, the second she’d stepped onto the soft white sand.
At least, she thought it had. She wasn’t entirely sure. Sometimes she thought the voice had been there longer. Other times she mistook it as her own.
At first she hadn’t engaged. The voice would fade to a mild hum in the back of her brain, as if it didn’t want to bother her and would rather return, amicably, whence it came. But it would soon resurface, posing another question in its hushed, dulcet tone.
Do you need a rest?
How about some fish ice?
Would you like there to be?
It took her a while to realize the questions came in direct response to her thoughts.
I’m tired.
My throat is parched.
Is anyone else here?
That last question was pivotal, because the one thing she had not expected when she came to Prisma, the one fact that seemed theoretically improbable, if not impossible, based on the sheer quantity of people who traveled across the Bridge every day to leave their worldly woes behind them, was that the island would be empty.
And yet, it was.
How many days had she spent on Prisma? Sometimes she thought one or two. Then she’d reconsider and come up with a quite different number. Two months, maybe. A year.
The fog had returned. She could see now that it wasn’t fog at all, but a kind of white mist. The mist seemed to pour in from some mysterious inland source, though whenever she wandered toward the island’s heart, she found herself miraculously back on the beach, staring out at the ocean. As if she’d been walking straight into her own reflection, ending back where she began.
She wasn’t sure when she’d started answering the voice. It couldn’t have been long after the moment she set foot on the Isle of Forgetting. It started simply enough: a tacit admission that, yes, she would like some fish ice—her throat was awfully dry.
And then the mist would clear as her foot struck something hard: a lemon coconut with the top hacked off. Inside she’d find a frosty yellow crème mixed with frothy milk.
So it went. When she was thirsty, the island brought forth fish ice, ginger mint juice, pulped papaya. When she was tired, the voice led her to a hammock strung between two trees, or a silken beachside pallet with an exquisite sunset view. When she was hungry, it produced spits of fish roasting over a crackling fire.
At the beginning, she remembered Nell, Pilar, Quin, the Shadowess, the animals in the Curatorium—all of them. When the thoughts came, they were rich, drenched in color, full of rough spots and sharp, painful edges.
But then the color would seep out of them. They grew harder to hold on to, like a painting held under a stream, colors swirling into the water, parchment weakening, until finally the whole thing dissolved.
The strangest part was not that the memories disappeared. It was that she didn’t mind.
Those early days, out of sheer curiosity, she’d conducted a series of experiments, in which she would attempt to etch a particular memory into the sand. She started with a simple shape, more straightforward than a human face: a bloodbloom tree. It was easy enough to draw—a thick trunk and tiny flowers nestled among the branches.
Only, once she’d drawn the trunk, she couldn’t quite remember how the branches looked. Were they graceful, supple limbs twisting around each other? No. She was thinking of the swyn trees in the Twisted Forest, where she’d walked with Quin. She could still remember the moon shining against the creamy white bark like candlelight on naked skin.
The memory peeled away. It wasn’t painful. Nothing was painful anymore. It simply sifted through her mind like grains of sand.
Or perhaps the branches of the bloodbloom were angular, weighed down by thick spruce needles? She’d seen trees like that outside her childhood home, in a forest she couldn’t quite recall the name of. She’d woken up in that forest once. Stared up into a lush green canopy of leaves as she climbed out of a wooden box.
Had she really climbed out of a wooden box?
That seemed a trifle histrionic. Surely she’d misremembered.
And then that memory was gone, too, along with the misremembering, because you couldn’t misremember a memory you no longer had.
The experiment always ended the same way: with her standing on the beach, staring blankly at the sand, the blank sand staring back.
The island was hers. She knew that now, knew that it was meant for her, and had been since forever. Her mother had told her so. She’d written the words in a brown leather book and drawn a map to this very place. The path to safe haven will reveal itself to she who seeks it.
She had sought, and she had found.
She watched the birds fly over the ocean. Her name was a kind of bird in the old language. Or her mother had called her a bird. Or perhaps her mother was the bird? Trust your heart, her mother had told her, and you will never die.
More and more memories rolled in by the hour, waves curling into shore. She remembered walking through a forest with a green-eyed boy who loved her, a boy she had married and grown old with. She remembered laying her hands on a woman dying, watching the color come back into her cheeks, until she rose from the snow, healed. She remembered dancing through a cottage on a bluff with her little sister, twirling in fancy lavender gowns.
She held each memory close to her heart, these precious jewels from her life before. The gifts she been given by the Isle of Remembering.
She began to hear other voices.
At first, they were distant. A woman laughing, a boy talking, a girl singing. Music floated through the mist. Words washed over her in languages she didn’t recognize, vowels weaving around consonants, consonants pressing into vowels. She found it soothing. And comforting, too, because the one thing the voice had not provided was other people.
She didn’t mind that, either. She didn’t mind much of anything. From the moment she set foot on the Isle of Remembering, she’d felt a bewitching lightness in her soul.
The voices were stronger now. One in particular—sweet, mellifluous. She followed it. Her feet left no mark on the sand as she moved deeper into the white mist, pushing toward the heart of the island. This time, the mist let her pass.
And that was how she found her sister.
Chapter 31
Completely Gone
PILAR AWOKE WITH AN arrow embedded in her forehead.
At least that was how it felt. Like someone had lodged a pointy chunk of fojuen between her eyes.
She sat up in bed, massaging her throbbing temples. The sun was already high in the sky. She’d forgotten how mornings went after a bottle of rai rouj. Even healing magic was useless. The only thing that helped was to sweat it out. A good spar should do the trick.
Then the memory of last night knocked into her. The letter from Quin. Her fight with Mia.
; Pilar let out a low moan. She’d been cruel. Now Rose was gone, and it was too late to say sorry. Was she sorry? She was too hurt and angry to tell.
She thought of her drunken slog through the Orkhestra. And of Stone.
She’d been cruel to him, too. That was one apology she could still deliver, before setting out for the river kingdom.
But first: this headache. She’d have to beat it back without sparring. The thought of going to the Gymnasia one last time hurt too much.
She hobbled over to the bath bucket and splashed water on her face. The room came slowly into focus.
How many weeks had she lived in this sfeera? Except for a few dirty clothes balled on the floor, it looked as barren as the day she’d moved in. Other than a few stacked plates—lightly crusted with food she’d snuck out of the Swallow—there was no evidence she’d ever been there.
She eyed Mia’s charm lying on the bed. Why had she kept it? It was broken anyway. She’d seen Rose turn it into a tree. Now it was just a sad wooden disc.
A rap on her door.
Pilar bristled. Then relaxed. Only Stone came to see her. At least now she wouldn’t have to track him down.
But when she swung open the door, she found not Stone, but his mother.
“I hope I didn’t wake you,” the Shadowess said.
“I was on my way out.”
They stared at each other. Pilar shifted her weight.
“I’m so sorry about Mia,” said Muri.
Stone must’ve spread the word. Good. That meant Pilar wouldn’t have to.
The Shadowess removed her wire-rimmed glasses, wiped the lenses on her sleeve. Pilar couldn’t help but think her brown eyes had lost some of their sparkle.
“We haven’t spent much time together since you arrived at the House, Pilar. I know my son is grateful for everything you’ve taught him. Your friendship has been a tremendous gift. I would welcome the opportunity to get to know you better myself.”
“Sorry. I’m headed for Glas Ddir.”
Muri looked surprised. Stone must not have told her that part.
“I’m sad to hear that. Is there anything we can do to persuade you to stay?”
Pilar cocked her head, curious in spite of herself. The Shadowess hadn’t taken much interest in her. She was always dealing with more important people—fancy guests and residents, fancy members of the Manuba Committee, fancy Mia Rose.
“What you can do,” Pilar said, “is stop ignoring what’s happening in the river kingdom.”
“I agree. I’ve spent the last few weeks organizing a caravan of ambassadors to journey east. The recent spike in Glasddiran refugees has been alarming. Truthfully, we’ve been troubled by news from the river kingdom for some time.”
Pilar blinked. This was unexpected.
“In general we try not to intervene in other kingdoms’ affairs. But when a tyrant threatens to commit war crimes and atrocities against his people, we pay attention. Now that Glas Ddir’s western borders are open—perhaps the one good thing the young queen did—we have more leeway. I assure you, you are not alone in your eagerness to bring King Quin to account.”
King Quin. Pilar wanted to laugh. Also throw up. The rai rouj was sloshing around her skull. Maybe she’d go to the Swallow. If she couldn’t sweat it out, a hot meal was the next best thing.
“Something else you could do”—she was making this up as she went along—“is spend less time on chanting and breathing, and more time giving people actual tools. Like, oh, I don’t know. Teaching them to protect themselves.”
Muri smiled.
“Again, I agree with you. My great desire for the House is to give people tools they can take with them out into the world. Those tools look different for everyone. We all find our own paths to healing. There are ways of protecting yourself that do not require your fists. And there are other times the work lies in learning to leave yourself unprotected.”
Pilar frowned.
“You disagree,” said the Shadowess.
“I think your beloved Keeper would disagree. Celeste seems to know an awful lot about how people should heal.”
Muri’s eyes narrowed. When she opened her mouth, Pilar interrupted.
“I really don’t have time. I’m eating. Then leaving.”
The Shadowess said nothing for a moment. Then she replaced her glasses, pushing them up the bridge of her nose.
“The caravan to Glas Ddir will be leaving soon. I wish I could go myself. Unfortunately, I am needed here” She paused, thoughtful. “Would you be interested in accompanying them? You would have companions on the journey, and I know they would appreciate your knowledge of both Kaer Killian and the river king.”
Pilar was taken aback. She had to admit, the offer was tempting. People from the House would have access to things she didn’t. Coins, for starters. Places to stay along the way. Animals for trekking through the harsh desert.
But if she went with them, she’d be dependent. Her words to Mia echoed through her head.
I’m better off alone.
If she learned anything from Mia’s sudden departure, let it be that.
“I don’t think so,” she said. “Thanks anyway.”
“The offer stands if you change your mind. And I do hope you’ll find Stone. I know he would want to say goodbye.”
Pilar braced herself as she walked into the Swallow. She liked to eat alone. But now that she had so many sparring students, someone from her brood always waved her over.
She didn’t want to say goodbye. Didn’t want to answer their questions about where she was going and why. She needed to be stealthy. Grab something quick to knock out this headache.
“Pilar!”
So much for stealthy.
“Pilar! Over here!”
Shay was sitting at a table, nervously fidgeting with her turquoise skirt. She was alone. Shay was never alone.
Pilar trudged over.
“I’m sorry about your sister,” Shay said.
“Half sister. And I went the last nineteen years without one. I’ll survive.”
It occurred to her that this wasn’t posturing. She would survive. And the thought that life would go on—that she’d go back to how she was before Mia—was surprisingly painful.
“Pilar.” Shay leaned in, eyes wide. “Have you seen Stone this morning?”
Ah. So this was the real reason Shay had called her over. Pilar shook her head—and regretted it. Any sudden movement above the neck was a mistake.
“He always comes by my sfeera,” Shay said, worried. “But today he missed breakfast. It isn’t like him.”
“Maybe he had a rough night.”
“I hope not! We went into Shabeeka yesterday for the Pearl Moon Festival. We had the most amazing time. At least I thought so. Now I’m scared he’s avoiding me.”
Pilar plucked a foggy memory from the haze of last night. Stone had wanted to ask her something. Was it about Shay?
“Great sands, I’m anxious. I can’t think clearly! I’m going to go to jougi, try and calm my mind. Do you want to come?”
Pilar had managed to avoid jougi, just like she’d avoided the circle and all the other “paths to healing” the House hawked. Why give up her crusade now?
“No.”
“You’re so stubborn, Pilar. I don’t know why you won’t just try it. You’re a physical person! You might really enjoy it. I promise you’ll work up a sweat.”
Sweat.
Pilar chewed her lip. If she wanted to lose this headache before she left, sweating wouldn’t be the worst thing.
But from the jougi she’d glimpsed through the Manjala’s glass doors, she wasn’t convinced.
“I really doubt I’m going to work up a sweat standing on one foot.”
Shay rolled her eyes. “It’s not like that’s all you do! You go through different movements, different poses. Some of them are impossibly hard.”
She folded her arms over her chest. Sized Pilar up.
“I dare you to come with
me,” she said.
Pilar grunted. She knew when she was beat.
“Fine. But if I don’t work up a good sweat, there’ll be hells to pay.”
She had never sweat so much in her life.
The hour started easily enough. Ten or so people gathered in the Manjala. Shay greeted several of her friends, then laid a thin wool blanket on the floor. Pilar followed her lead.
The teacher, a short blond man with a pointy beard, kaara-akuthaed everyone to today’s practice. He instructed them to lie on their backs and drop their knees to one side, then the other. They came to their hands and knees, arching and flattening their backs. Pilar’s spine felt nice and tingly, but it wasn’t exactly sweat-worthy.
After that, she changed her tune.
They lay on their stomachs, mashed their palms and toes into the blanket, and lifted their bodies off the floor in one straight line. The teacher reminded them to breathe. They pressed their thighs back and stuck their asses in the air. The teacher reminded them to breathe. They bent their knees, squatting for an unbearably long time. The teacher reminded them to breathe.
Pilar was so out of breath, for once she appreciated the reminder.
She had no idea what she was doing. She tried to force her body into the same shapes Shay was making, but Shay had a fifteen-year-old, bendy body. Pilar knew from their sparring sessions that her student was flexible, but she’d had no idea how much. When Pilar tried to balance on one leg and twist the other leg around it, she could not for the life of her stay upright.
At one point the teacher came to stand beside her.
“May I offer you an assist?” he said quietly.
Pilar stiffened. The thought of his hands on her body scared her. She shook her head.
He nodded respectfully. Smiled. And walked away.
A few minutes later, when everyone crouched, bent their elbows, crammed their knees into the backs of their arms, and levitated, bodies hovering a few inches off the floor, Pilar felt a surge of hope. She was both small and strong. This should be easy.
She crouched, pressed her knees into her arms, tilted forward—and fell flat on her face.
“Are you all right?” Shay whispered.
