CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
It wasn’t just one or two dozen, but hundreds filling the square. I felt the Komizar’s eyes on me from somewhere afar, waiting to corrupt my thoughts. I began with hesitation, trying to find that place of trust he couldn’t control. The words came out awkward and self-conscious, a basic childhood prayer.
I tried again, closing my eyes, reaching, breath slow and deep, waiting and waiting, despair creeping in, and then I heard something. Music. The distant faint pluck of a zitarae. My aunts’ zitaraes. And then my mother’s hum rose above them, with its haunting echo that floated through the citadelle. The music that made even my busy father pause from his duties. I turned my head, listening, letting it strum through me as if it were the first time, and the rote words disappeared.
My remembrances began as utterances, a wordless tune that followed the music of the zitaraes, each note plucking out the beats of creation, swirling in my belly
, a song that belonged to no kingdom or man, only myself and the heavens. And then the words came, an acknowledgment of sacrifices and a girl’s long journey, and I kissed two fingers, lifting them to the heavens, one for the lost, and one for those yet to come.
The distant music still seemed to echo off the high stone walls that hemmed me in with the people below. Eventide. A time to be going home, but instead they stayed. A voice called out. “Tell us a story, Princess of Morrighan.”
Tell them a story, Jezelia.
There she was, only an arm’s length from me, an apparition sitting on the wall, but at the same time solid. Unwavering. Her long hair trailed along the stones, all the way back to another millennium. Tell them a story.
And so I did. I told them the story of two sisters.
Gather close, my brothers and sisters,
Listen well,
For there is one true history,
And one true future.
Once upon a time,
Long, long ago,
Seven stars were flung from the sky.
One to shake the mountains,
One to churn the seas,
One to choke the air,
And four to test the hearts of men.
I drew from the words of Morrighan, Gaudrel, and Venda. I drew from Dihara, the wind, and my own heart. I drew from the truth that shivered at my neck.
A thousand knives of light
Grew to an explosive rolling cloud,
Like a hungry monster.
A storm that made the ways of old meaningless.
A sharp knife, a careful aim, an iron will, and a listening heart,
Those were the only things that mattered.
Only a small remnant of the whole earth remained,
But two sisters found grace.…
I told the story of the worlds I had seen, whole cities mowed down, no matter how far and wide they spread, and of soaring cities of immense magic that could not withstand a furious storm. I told them of exalted temples that melted into the earth and valleys that wept with generations of blood. But through all this, two sisters remained side by side, strong and loyal, until a beast rose from the ashes and tore them from each other, because even stars thrown to earth could not destroy every last shadow of darkness.