“Her name was Lisha,” says Olvos quietly. “As the offspring of a Divinity, she was moderately powerful in her own right. But she was a sweet creature: softhearted, quiet, not too terribly bright but eager to help … and also very eager to help her father.” She sucks at her pipe. “Jukov’s priests wanted to shore up support among Saypur, for it was Saypur’s corn and grapes that kept Jukoshtan afloat. So he offered to rent”—the word makes her face wrinkle in disgust—“his daughter to the Saypuri who would best facilitate their needs, for a time. It was not meant to be anything sexual: it was meant to be purely servitude. But then, something happened that Jukov did not expect: she and the man who eventually won her servitude fell in love.
“They kept it a secret. She stayed on as his … his maid.” Shara senses a cold rage surfacing in Olvos. “And when she bore a child, the nature of its parentage was so dangerous and so terrible that even the child could not know.”
Shara feels ill. “The Kaj,” she whispers.
“Yes. His father died when he was young. He was never told that the Divine servant in the house was his mother. Because, I think, he grew up hating the Divine; and his mother—being sweet, softhearted, and not too bright—did not wish to upset him. Then Mahlideshi happened.” Something falls into the snow and hisses: Shara sees it was a hot teardrop falling from Olvos’s cheek. “And Avshakta si Komayd decided something must be done.”
Olvos tries to speak again, but cannot.
“So he tortured his own mother,” Shara says, “in order to find out what could kill the Divine.”
Olvos manages a nod.
“And though he didn’t know it, because he was Blessed, he was able to actually produce something, and with it, overthrow the Continent.”
“After killing his despicable little household servant, of course.”
Shara shuts her eyes. The awfulness of it all is almost too much for her.
“I have lived with this burden for so long,” Olvos says. “I could only ever hint and suggest it to Mr. Pangyui—I have never actually told anyone. But it’s good, I think, to speak it aloud. It’s good to tell someone what happened to my daughter.”
“Your daughter? You mean you and Jukov …”
“He could be a very charming man,” admits Olvos, “and though I could tell there was an awful madness in him, still I was drawn in.”
“I sympathize,” says Shara.
“Clever Jukov figured it all out when the Kaj invaded. He understood that he had, through his own pride and arrogance, fathered the death of the Continent and the other Divinities. Before he hid himself with Kolkan, his last bitter act was to use a familiar to tell this fearsome invader the truth of his parentage.”
“I see,” says Shara. “The Kaj fell into a deep depression after killing Jukov, and practically drank himself to death.”
“Bitterness begets bitterness,” Olvos says. “Shame begets shame.”
“ ‘What is reaped is what is sown,’ ” Shara says, “ ‘and what is sown is what is reaped.’ ”
Olvos smiles. “You flatter me with my own words.” The smile dissolves. “I have lived with this knowledge for so long. … And for all those years, I knew that the balance of power in this world, this brave new land of politics and machinery, was predicated purely on lies. Saypur and the Continent hate one another, completely oblivious that each is now the product of the other. They are not separate—they are intertwined. When Efrem came, I decided it was time this secret got out. But you do understand what this means … for you.”
Shara is terribly aware of her breathing. She can feel her pulse in her forehead and behind her ears. “Yes,” she says weakly. “It means me, and my … my family …”
The fire is so hot her eyes feel like they simmer.
“… We have a trace of the Divine in us.”
“Yes.”
“We are … We are the very things our country fears.”
“Yes.”
“And that’s why Kolkan and Jukov thought I was you.”
“Probably, yes.”
Shara is weeping: not in sorrow, but in rage. “And so … So is nothing I did true?”
“True?”
“The world shifts to accommodate the Blessed, doesn’t it? It helps them achieve great things, not because of how they are doing it, but because of who they are. Did nothing I did really … count?”
Olvos puffs at her pipe. “You forget, of course,” she says, “that the nature of the Blessed becomes diluted through the generations. Often very, very quickly.” She looks Shara up and down, her eyes glimmering. “Do you feel that you have had an easy life, Miss Komayd?”
Shara wipes her eyes. “N-no.”
“Have you gotten everything you wanted?”
She remembers Vo falling to the ground, pale and still. “No.”
“Do you think,” asks Olvos, “that this will change anytime soon?”
Shara shakes her head. If anything, she thinks, I am willing to bet my life is about to get much, much worse.
“You are not Blessed, Shara Komayd,” says Olvos. “Though you are distantly related to me, to Jukov, to the Divine, the world treats you as it does anyone else—with utter indifference. Consider yourself fortunate. Your other relatives, though … That might be different.”
A cold wind tickles Shara’s neck.
Another snap from the fire, and sparks go dancing.
“I see,” she says.