Chapter One
In a little over two weeks, the country of Tigang will crown its new ruler. This means in three days’ time, people will start dying.
Young people not much older than I am already mass outside the gates of the glass fortress. I pass these bright-eyed, confident soon-to-be bodies. I dare not linger, because I am here for a different reason. They are simply in my way.
I stick my hands in my pockets and make myself small. I beg pardon and squeeze past jostling elbows, careful not to touch anyone with my bare skin. There are more volunteers than I expected. To enter the competition might once have been an honor, but my mother always scoffed at the idea.
“Leave it to the desperate and the foolish,” she often said. “You are neither of those things.”
But the last time I saw my mother, I promised her I would never come to Bato-Ko, and yet here I am.
The months since my mother disappeared melt into a lifetime of dusty roads and secrets.
I’m afraid I will forget my mother completely. It’s already getting harder to recall her face. I see nothing of her in my features but my dark brown eyes. My black hair is long and straight, while hers is a short wavy bob that she keeps away from her face with colorful cloth wraps. She is tall, like Kuran, and her skin is a darker shade of brown than mine. But while my sister has something to say to everyone, my mother and I would often sit together for hours in silence.
I don’t need silence now. Our aunt, Manay Halna, tells me nothing about my mother because she doesn’t care about me, but Kuran tells me nothing because she cares too much.
I need answers as much as I need my mother.
A massive fortress looms above the westernmost tip of the city. It was carved out of a natural stone hill, but you can’t tell by looking at it. Rippling glass walls built into the stone remind me of a frozen waterfall, and it gleams too brightly in the sunlight to stare at for long. Pretty would be the wrong word for it. It is blunt. It is unrefined power. No matter where I go in the city, the weight of its presence feels like it’s following me, and my skin crawls the closer I get to it.
But the archives are an addition built against one side of the fortress. The two buildings share one wall, but unlike the heavy stone and rippling glass of the fortress proper, it is a dome-shaped building fronted by large, clear glass panes that stretch from the ground to its rounded ceiling. It’s almost delicate. A thick green turf grows over the vast expanse of its roof, held up by a forest of wooden poles carved into the shape of branching trees.
I cross my arms and try not to appear impressed. Our family has crossed the continent twice, and I have never seen anything like this before. Through the glass, I spy more books than any one person could read in dozens of lifetimes. Archivists scramble to and fro, carrying books down the narrow corridors like ants busy at their work.
Breathe, Narra. I stop myself from fidgeting and steel my resolve. If I were any other person, I might have spent all day wandering those narrow aisles lined with towering shelves. But I am not. I shouldn’t even be here.
I walk through the towering glass doors, thrown open so that anyone may enter. Knowledge is meant to be shared, decreed the first Astar, a Diwata who became human and founded this country. Ever since, a supposed reincarnation of the Astar has lived in the glass fortress and occupied a ceremonial position in the government—an advisor to our Rajas and Reynas. Though there are unflattering stories about the first Astar, I can’t imagine anyone who built this library could be all bad. I only wish I had time to explore it.
I pace down long aisles of books and take a furtive glance around. All the shelves are arranged in neat rows and alphabetical order. Not a book looks out of place. And while the towering shelves are tightly packed, the sunlight that filters through the glass walls makes it feel less crowded. Up above, the ceiling is decorated with gilded constellations.
“Move!”
I flatten myself against a wall as an Archivist wheels a cart past me with a scowl. Archivists occupy one branch of our government. Their sect specializes in recording history, running our schools, and accounting our tithes. But they are still holy Baylan, trained in magic far beyond anything I could purchase in a market stall.
Manay Halna calls Archivists “Glorified pencil pushers!” behind their backs, but she’s all smiles and bows in person, because one simple spell could reveal she hasn’t paid her taxes in years.
I scurry along and look for a friendlier face.
My mother always warned me that the Baylan are not to be trusted, but I’m out of options now. I gather up my resolve to speak to someone and circle back toward a skinny old man seated at a wooden desk. He wears a gaudy-looking tapis skirt in orange and yellow over blue silk trousers, and an embroidered bato jacket trimmed with gold. It looks as though he picked his clothes for no other reason than because they were expensive, because everything clashes. But his skin is as dark brown as my own, and he sits dwarfed by the books stacked atop his workspace. Red streaks edge his eyes, and beads of sweat
cling to his receding hairline.
I’ve encountered Archivists from time to time, recording taxes in city centers and delivering books to libraries, but I have never spoken to one. This Archivist looks too unwell to be dangerous, but a Baylan’s word is law, and I must not misspeak.
I roll back my shoulders, tighten the knot of the malong on my waist, and stand tall.
“Yes?” he asks. His fingers twitch as he holds them out. He waits for me to press his hand to my forehead and ask for his blessing, but I keep my hands clasped close to my threadbare tunic, too aware that this is an insult to an elder. It can’t be helped, but the guilt gnaws at me.
He drops his hand, and his eyes narrow at my rudeness.
“Do you have a list of everyone arrested this year and where they are being kept?” I bow my head to hide the redness of my cheeks.
“For whom are you looking, child?” he says and stares intently at my face as if trying to place me. “Only those who have committed the most heinous crimes and are awaiting trial in the fortress are listed here.”
“Shora Jal.” I bristle. I’m not a child.
“It sounds familiar…” His eyes widen a moment at my mother’s name. He points down an aisle of books. “Five rows down, then three rows left.” He jumps to his feet and wanders off into the endless stacks, muttering as if he’s lost his train of thought. I hurry off and find a chalkboard built into the rear wall of the archives. Endless curving script decorates its surface, broken only where names have been erased. If my mother is not listed here, I will go to every library in Bato-Ko to find out where she is being held.
The chalkboard is too dark to read by natural light, so I draw a simple orasyon for illumination in the chalk dust with the moist tip of my finger. As I blow upon the spell, my mother’s name illuminates. It confirms that she is still alive. She’s so close! Just beyond the wall that separates the archives from the fortress. But my stomach drops, because it means something has gone terribly wrong. All I know is that she’s been arrested, but not why.
I walk back past the sickly Archivist’s empty desk and jump as he suddenly appears in front of me. He thrusts a fat book toward me. A curious expression lights his eyes, and my skin crawls at his scrutiny. This close, I can
see a red rash peeking out from beneath his tunic. I take a small step backward.
“What must I do to ensure her release? May I advocate on her behalf? How can I find out what she was arrested for?” I sputter.
“So many questions, child.” He slaps the great tome onto the desk and tears fragile pages as he thumbs carelessly through it. “First, tell Manong Alen who your grandmother is.”
It’s one of the genealogies. I am tempted to peek in it, because my mother never speaks about her family, but I worry he will take too much of my time and Kuran will be suspicious of my absence. My sister warned me against meddling in our mother’s affairs, but I can’t sit back and do nothing. Not now.
I’ve sworn to the Heavens that I will fix this, because even if my mother would never accuse me of it, I know that her arrest is my fault.
“Yirin Jal,” I say, because I cannot lie to him. He could compel the truth from me with a spell if he wished. He slams the book shut before I can read it and tucks it under an arm.
“I knew it! Which of Shora’s daughters are you?” He leans so close that I smell his rancid breath. It’s sweet, as if he’s rotting from the inside out. I glance left and right for an escape, but before I can stop him, he grabs my arm and yanks me toward him.
His eyes widen, and he springs away from me as if I am on fire. My silk scarf has come undone. He’s glimpsed the birthmarks upon my neck: flat black splotches that mark me as a cursed girl.
The whole world seems to pause, and all I feel is my heart hammering in my chest. The Archivist doesn’t need to say a word, but I know exactly what he is thinking. Cursed. Dirty. Unlucky girl. And there’s no one here to save me.
I run away and wrap the scarf around my neck as I go, scattering people left and right, not stopping to apologize as I careen through the streets.
I’m numb and sweaty by the time I reach the port where Kuran should be waiting, but my heart skips when I turn around. A gaunt shape darts behind a street stall.
I am being followed.
Chapter Two
The smoke and noise of the market hits me like a wall. A mass of bodies swarms around covered stalls, and I dive into it. I weave between the packed lanes in a frantic nonsense pattern, hoping to lose the Archivist in the swell. I scan every direction for my sister and ignore the grumblings of my stomach.
These all feel like fool’s tasks. The air is fragrant with food sizzling in street stalls: sweet meat grilled on sticks, fresh fish served with wedges of precious lemons from the south, and imported bananas fried with liberal sprinklings of sugar. I dodge past merchants unloading their wares. I duck under outstretched arms as shoppers haggle over the price of rice. I dance out of the way as children weave past, chasing after rattan balls. I want to run, but instead, I wait until the way is clear, even though the Archivist might catch up to me, and squeeze through every small opening, afraid to touch anyone and spread my curse.
I don’t know how I’ll find my sister in this crowd, but I need to get to her. I don’t know what else to do. I burst into a small break in the crowd and run straight into a gaggle of street preachers. Each one wears a small golden sun disk that marks them as a cultist. I step back on instinct as they reach out to thrust pamphlets in my face.
“Omu is coming! Bow to Her great vision, and she shall bless you! Refuse and burn!”
Once, when I was young and not so wary, I was torn from my family and caned when a cultist spied my marks. They called me a plague as they kicked me and pulled at my hair. My mother saved me from Omu’s worshipers then, but there’s no one to save me now. I don’t know what they do to cursed girls in Bato-Ko, and I don’t plan on finding out. If there’s anyone I fear more than the Baylan, it is the cultists—they respect no law but Omu’s strict dictations.
They believe that Omu should be made first above all the Diwata, but the Diwata are not gods. They are forces of nature and of places. They are spirits that cannot be controlled or relied upon, either meant to be appeased or avoided. We may bargain with them in exchange for small magics, but we do not worship them. To grant one too much power might threaten the alignment of the cosmos.
The cultists say that Omu will descend from the heavens, but I pray it never comes true. Her aspect is control, perfection, and command. I am neither patient, perfect, nor obedient—if I was, I wouldn’t be in here right now.
I dodge their arms and quickly choose another avenue. I finally stop to catch my breath and peer over my shoulder for the thirtieth time. I do not glimpse Manong Alen behind me, but the trees that line the streets have branches twisted into wards of power. They seem to whisper as I pass. Pebbles twist into spirals when I scatter them with my sandals, as if aligning with a magnet buried deep underground. The stories say that even the rocks and the trees in Bato-Ko speak, and when they do, the Baylan listen. So, I keep my face tilted toward my dusty brown toes and worn-out slippers and hope that there is no truth to those tales.
“Clear the way! The Ivy Reyna comes!” Black-clad Guardians bark commands, and I’m pushed aside as the crowd contracts.
I hunch my shoulders
to make myself small, but elbows ram into my sides and people yell insults when I try to squeeze past them. I find myself cornered between a wooden fence and a garbage bin that reeks of piss and garlic peanuts gone rancid.
I hold my nose and look for an opening, but people press tight to the buildings that line the narrow road, blocking any escape. Twelve children cast chrysanthemums into the road behind the Guardians, dawdling here and there, so that the procession moves at a crawl. I grit my teeth. I do not see any familiar faces around me. Instead, I glimpse a flash of white and silver through the gap between jostling shoulders.
Silence descends upon the crowd. I forget my stalker and stare.
Our Reyna sits upon a lacquered palanquin carried by four women in white. Her snow-white hair drips with so many jeweled pins and beads that her head dips low from the weight. She wears a gold silk tunic tucked into a wrapped gold silk skirt, all fringed with gold embroidery so delicate it looks like lace. She could not be past her mid-thirties after a decade of service to our country, but her cheeks sag as if there is no muscle left between skull and skin.
Our eyes meet, and I feel the weight of them like a boulder upon my shoulders. Her gaze lingers so long that a Guardian turns from her task to look my way. I hunch into the piss-stained wall, but I glimpse a wry smile upon the Reyna’s lips as she looks away.
“What happened to her?” A sticky child gorging on a skewer of sweet pork stares at her, too.
“What happens if you use too much magic,” someone replies. “It’s why we must choose another.”
Two centuries ago, the Ash Raja destroyed an entire conquering army sent to subdue Tigang, but he died doing so. No other country has dared invade Tigang since. I don’t know what I would do if I were faced with the same choice. I wonder what hard choices this Reyna made and if they were worth it. Somehow the sight of her only makes me sad.
I shudder as the procession snakes toward the port and the crowd turns to follow her. I’m swept along toward a large ship—painted white, the color of death—even though I struggle against the press of people.
As our Reyna steps down from her throne, someone nearby shouts a blessing. A hail of blessings thunders through the crowd as the feeling catches like a spark.
Then, from everywhere and nowhere, Baylan from all seven sects appear. They slip through the crowd like water through splayed fingers as they follow the procession.
They are here for our Reyna and not for me, but each one can wield magic like a knife. I freeze, a mouse surrounded by cats.
Their skin is patterned with painted orasyon that peek out from beneath colorful clothing. They move as if they do not feel the cold air from the spiny mountains to the north, which sends my skin shuddering even at the end of June. Foreigners call them sorcerers or clerics, but neither word is quite accurate. The Baylan meddle in every part of our lives, and their seven holy sects make up our government: Archivists, Guardians, Makers, Cultivators, Seekers, Interpreters, and Healers.
I have never seen so many in my life. Larger towns might have one or two, but I count nearly a thousand on this street alone. The air fills with the smell of the magic they command: of musk, flowers, sweat, and iron.
The Baylan coalesce around our Reyna. Each one bears a candle lit with a flame that does not waver in the breeze. They snuff out their lights as the Reyna boards her ship in silence for the symbolic funeral, as a sendoff to the next part of her life.
I shudder. How sad that even should you rise so far, only pain awaits.
The white ship drifts out until it slowly fades into a dot upon the horizon. Our people once crossed this sea as they fled our homeland, Arawan. The crowd loosens its grip and disperses.
Some say the Sundo, the competition we use to select a new ruler every ten years, is cruel. I have always defended our customs as necessary, but now I wonder if they are right.
…
I slip into a side street to regain my bearings. Tall fences surround family compounds. I can’t see anyone in the darkened windows, but my skin prickles as if I’m b
eing watched.
The tree-lined street is quiet. The sound of hawkers pushing food and excited conversation still echoes around me, but there is a softer sound beneath it all, almost like music.
At first, I wonder if the trees are speaking, but the Archivist staggers around a corner.
Alen grasps a paper in one hand and reveals an orasyon. The magical spell is so fresh that the blood he used to paint the symbols drips down the page. My jaws clamp together so suddenly that my teeth crack as magic takes hold. I try to twist and turn, but my feet are glued in place.
The balding old man walks toward me in a zigzag drunken kind of dance, mouth moving in conversation as if he’s speaking with someone or something that I cannot see. I struggle to tear myself away, but he grasps the collar of my tunic with his two hands, and though his words are no dialect of Tigangi I have ever heard, I understand him perfectly.
“Impostor,” he hisses into my ear in that strange language, as if I am a coconspirator in a terrible crime.
“Please, I don’t understand what you’re saying.” The lie scrapes out of my mouth like a whisper. I flinch back and search for anyone who might help me, but the gates of nearby houses stay closed.
His teeth gleam bright white between peeled-back lips. “I know Shora’s secret. I know what she did!”
I snap to attention. “What?”
He dances away from me, laughing, and I reach out to grab him. My fingers meet his clammy flesh, but I draw back when I realize my error.
With such a simple gesture, I might have cursed him, but he doesn’t seem to care. He jumps up and down, teeth chittering together like an excited insect.
He stops abruptly and shoves me behind a hedge. I tumble to the ground, still bound by his spell, but before I can utter a single word, a woman’s voice fills the space as clearly as a ringing bell. “My little spiders have been l
ooking all over the city for you, Manong Alen.”
I peer between the leaves, frozen in place with fear. The air cools by several degrees, and the Archivist shudders like a shaken doll as a tall, young Tigangi woman comes into view. She wears a golden comb emblazoned with the sun tucked into her thick hair like a crown. She clasps her hands in front of a silken sky-blue tunic, and she wears a matching woven wrap skirt embroidered all over with delicate silver thread. It’s clothing fit for a Reyna. She wears no paint to mark her as a Baylan, but the air is thick with the smell of her magic.
Magic smells of life, and hers reminds me of peonies grown past their prime: sweet and rotting. I barely stop myself from retching. She stares at the cowering Archivist in front of me and cocks her head like a crow testing whether a scrap on the dirt is edible.
The woman grabs his wrist and clicks her tongue. She slides a fine-boned finger over the bumps of his rash.
“I’ve heard you’ve been meddling in politics, Manong.”
“Omu curse you, Arisa.” He spits, and Arisa digs her thumb into his wrist. He wails so loudly it does not sound human. I cannot look away.
“I rather doubt that.” She laughs, and a warm puff of breath escapes my lips in a small cloud. Her magic surrounds us both, and it’s as if I’ve been plunged into a freezing river still crusted with ice. Alen’s lips turn blue.
Tremors rack my body unbidden, and I cannot turn away even when Alen’s magic releases its grip. Arisa is all that I see. There are marks upon the woman’s neck, hot and red, as if a burning hand once picked her up by the throat. Her marks look violent. New. And so much like mine.
Who is this woman? Whoever she is, she has power beyond anything I have seen before.
“Sleep now, Manong,” Arisa says in a soft tone. “What I have made, I unmake.” The words ring in my ears like an echo from a past life, and they jostle something in me awake. Something turns over in the hollow of my chest, reminding me of its presence. The sensation frightens me more than the Archivist or the strange woman.
Alen drops into a cr
umpled heap, as if no more than an empty meat puppet, and I bow low to hide my terror. My body aches as if cold, prying fingers have dug into my flesh and squeezed.
I choke on my tongue, but Arisa does not glance in my direction.
When she walks away, a Guardian melts out of the shadows and fills the space with a different kind of danger: all lean muscles and sharp blades.
Without a word, he hefts Alen’s unconscious body over his shoulder. I do not see his face, only the back of his head and unruly black curls spilling from a short tail held back with a scrap of cloth. But Alen’s eyes remain open and loll toward me, unseeing. Accusing.
My mother’s secret fills the silence, and I crouch there trembling. Alen knew the truth just by looking at me. Why am I the only one who does not know what she’s been hiding all these years? Why am I the only one looking for answers and trying to save her?
The Guardian stops and turns back toward the bush. I go deathly still as the whole world seems to pause. In one eye, I see him standing there on the street before me: a tall black flame against the street. In the other eye, I see him pressed close enough to kiss. Somehow, I know how the stubble of his chin feels in my hands: a rough contrast to the softness of his cheeks. Somehow, I know that he has a dimple behind each shoulder. Somehow, I know the soft press of his lips against my skin.
My heart aches as if there is a monster inside, and it is starving.
“You,” he says.
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