Darkness is but a concept
Of blindness
In reverse
So close your eyes
And see.
—Poet Labul
The next morning Anoor slipped out of her bed without waking Sylah. It was the second night in a row Sylah had fallen asleep in her bed. Sylah convinced her to turn off the runelamp beside her bed and sleep through the night in the dark as preparation.
But as soon as darkness enveloped them, Anoor began to shiver uncontrollably. Her bowels loosened, and she worried she might soil herself as she had done every time her mother locked her away. Sylah slipped soundlessly into her bed and held her hand. Anoor got used to Sylah’s snoring, and the gentle wheezing was now like a sleeping draft to her. Before long Sylah fell into a dreamless sleep.
Anoor smiled at her sleeping form, a strip of morning light running down her face from the tidewind shutters that rattled all night. Her thighs clutched the blankets, which she refused to share in her sleep. Her hair was longer than any servant’s Anoor had seen, but she didn’t have the heart to tell her to shave it. Even Gorn hadn’t raised the issue of late, and Anoor wondered if she had softened on Sylah. With a final glance at her peaceful face, Anoor left her chambers for the cool morning breeze outside.
The dawn light clawed its way through clouds and the haze left over from the tidewind. The air was thick with dust and humidity, but instead of the sticky heat of summer the breeze was cool.
Servants dusted the blue sand off the joba tree in the courtyard. It rose like a white marbled statue, chiseled by nature. Standing beneath its immense boughs, Anoor could believe that Anyme had climbed a joba tree into the sky.
Anoor had never been overtly religious, and she wondered if she’d inherited that from her grandmother. Though as the warden’s daughter—and warden’s granddaughter when Yona was in power—she was forced to engage with the traditional rites like Ardae, and the blessings of the harvest.
As she stood beneath the joba tree she found herself wanting to pray but not knowing how to. Though she knew the words and the prayer stance, the action seemed false without the faith to guide her. She waved at one of the Ghostings who was dusting in the branches. He was lightly freckled, his hair a very light brown, shaven like all the other servants in the Keep.
As he saw her greet him, he paused as if struck by a runebullet, his cuffed wrist holding the attached feather duster very still. So still, the feathers seemed to defy the breeze.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you.” Anoor turned away from his wide stare, the Ghosting’s unease shifting to her.
Sylah had told Anoor that Ghostings prayed to Anyme differently. They believed that Anyme was not one being, but an existence that was layered on top of life like another world, and when you died you moved into the next realm. You became Anyme to guide your descendants on the other side.
Anoor tilted her head against the bark of the joba tree until she felt the bark making indents in her skin. She wondered who her ancestors were and if they would guide her. She knew it was unlikely she would succeed in the trial. The darkness and her mother, two things, one and the same, fed the creature of fear that lived in the recess of her mind.
“Ancestors, I don’t know who you are, and I don’t know how to pray to you, but bring me light. Please bring me light,” she whispered the words against the joba tree.
She turned to leave and tripped over a loose cobblestone pushed from the earth by the roots of the tree. Arms held her up. It was the Ghosting man she had waved at.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said, stabilizing herself.
He inclined his head and handed Anoor a white handkerchief.
“Thank you.” Anoor hadn’t realized she’d been crying. “Your kindness is much appreciated.” Anoor put as much warmth into the words as she could muster.
The man twitched his elbow and rotated his shoulder back once. Anoor wondered what he had said.
“I can have this laundered and returned to you?”
The man shook his head and smiled a little sadly, Anoor thought.
“Oh, okay. Thank you again.”
Anoor turned and left the courtyard, finding solace in clutching the bright white handkerchief in her fist.
—
Sylah was awake when Anoor returned. She had made the bed and was sitting sternly on the edge of it.
“Not long,” Sylah said by way of greeting.