“I’m sure I have no idea what you are talking about,” Xan said. “She’s just a regular girl. Even if she wasn’t before, she certainly is now. My own magic is replenished—and I hardly ever use it in any case. There is no need to upset her. Why would we speak of impending loss? Why would we introduce her to that kind of sorrow? It’s dangerous, Glerk. Remember?”
Glerk wrinkled his brow. “Why do we think that?” he asked.
Xan shook her head. “I have no idea.” And she didn’t. She knew, once, but the memory had vanished.
It was easier to forget.
And so Luna grew.
And she didn’t know about the starlight or the moonlight or the tight knot behind her forehead. And she didn’t remember about the enrabbiting of Glerk or the flowers in her footsteps or the power that was, even now, clicking through its gears, pulsing, pulsing, pulsing inexorably toward its end point. She didn’t know about the hard, tight seed of magic readying to crack open inside her.
She had absolutely no idea.
15.
In Which Antain Tells a Lie
The scars from the paper birds never healed. Not properly, anyway.
“They were just paper,” Antain’s mother wailed. “How is it possible that they cut so deep?”
It wasn’t just the cuts. The infections after the cuts were far worse. Not to mention the considerable loss of blood. Antain had lain on the floor for a long time while the madwoman attempted to stop his bleeding with paper—and not very well. The medicines the Sisters gave her made her woozy and weak. She drifted in and out of consciousness. When the guards finally came in to check on him, both he and the madwoman lay in a puddle of so much blood, it took them a moment to find out who, exactly, it belonged to.
“And why,” his mother fumed, “did they not come for you when you cried out? Why did they abandon you?”
No one knew the answer to that one. The Sisters claimed they had no idea. They hadn’t heard him. And later, one look at the whiteness of their faces and their bloodshot eyes led everyone to believe that it was true.
People whispered that Antain had cut himself.
People whispered that his story of the paper birds was just a fantasy. After all, no one found any birds. Just bloody wads of paper on the ground. And, anyway, who had ever heard of an attacking paper bird?
People whispered that a boy like that had no business being an Elder-in-Training. And on that point, Antain couldn’t have agreed more. By the time his wounds were healed, he had announced to the Council that he was resigning. Effective immediately. Freed from school, from the Council, and from the constant needling of his mother, Antain became a carpenter. And he was very good at it.
The Council, owing to its members’ profound discomfort whenever they had to look at the deep scars covering the poor boy’s face—not to mention his mother’s insistence—had given the boy a tidy sum of money with which he was able to secure rare woods and fine tools from the traders who did their business via the Road. (And oh! Those scars! And oh! How handsome he used to be! And oh! That lost potential. Such a pity it was. What a great and terrible pity.)
Antain got to work.
Very quickly, as word of his skill and artistry spread on both ends of the Road, Antain made a good enough living to keep his mother and brothers happy and content. He built a separate home for himself—smaller, simpler, and infinitely more humble, but comfortable all the same.
Still. His mother did not approve of his departure from the Council, and told him as much. His brother Rook didn’t understand, either, though his disapproval came much later, after he had been dismissed from the Tower and returned home in shame. (Rook’s note, unlike his brother’s, did not contain the preface, “We had high hopes,” and instead simply said, “This one has disappointed us.” Their mother blamed Antain.)
Antain hardly noticed. He spent his days away from everyone else—working with wood and metal and oil. The itch of sawdust. The slip of the grain under the fingers. The making of something beautiful and whole and real was all he cared about. Months passed. Years. Still his mother fussed at him.
“What kind of person leaves the Council?” she howled one day after she had insisted that he accompany her to the Market. She needled and complained as she perused the different stalls, with their various selections of medicinal and beautifying flowers, as well as Zirin honey and Zirin jam and dried Zirin petals, which could be reconstituted with milk and slathered over the face to prevent wrinkles. Not everyone could afford to shop in the Market; most people bartered with their neighbors to keep their cupboards slightly less bare. And even those who could manage a visit to the Market could not afford the heaps of goods that Antain’s mother piled into her basket. Being the only sister of the Grand Elder had its advantages.
She narrowed her eyes at the dried Zirin petals. She gave the woman standing in the stall a hard look. “How long ago were these harvested? And don’t you dare lie to me!” The flower woman turned pale.
“I cannot say, madam,” she mumbled.
Antain’s mother gave her an imperious look. “If you cannot say, then I shall not pay.” And she moved on to the next stall.
Antain did not comment, and instead let his gaze drift upward to the Tower, running his fingers over the deep gouges and gorges and troughs that marred his face, following the rivers of scars like a map.
“Well,” his mother said as she browsed through bolts of cloth that had been brought from the other end of the Road, “we can only hope that when this ridiculous carpentry enterprise winds itself toward its inevitable end, your Honorable Uncle will take you back—if not as a Council member, then at least as a member of his staff. And then, one day, your little brother’s staff. At least he has the good sense to listen to his mother!”
Antain nodded and grunted and said nothing. He found himself wandering toward the paper vendor’s stall. He hardly ever touched paper anymore. Not if he could help it. Still. These Zirin papers were lovely. He let his fingers drift across the reams and let his mind drift to the rustly sounds of paper wings flying across the face of the mountain and disappearing from sight.
Antain’s mother was wrong about his coming failure, though. The carpentry shop remained a success—not only among the small, moneyed enclave of the Protectorate and the famously tightfisted Traders Association. His carvings and furniture and clever constructions were in high demand on the other side of the Road, as well. Every month the traders arrived with a list of orders, and every month, Antain had to turn some of them away, explaining kindly that he was only one person with two hands, and his time was naturally limited.
On hearing such refusals, the traders offered Antain more and more money for his handiwork.
And as Antain honed his skills and as his eye became clear and cunning and as his designs became more and more clever, so too did his renown increase. Within five years, his name was known in towns he had never heard of, let alone thought to visit. Mayors of far-off places requested the honor of his company. Antain considered it; of course he did. He had never left the Protectorate. He didn’t know anyone who had, though his family could certainly afford to. But even the thought of doing anything but work and sleep, the occasional book read by the fire, was more than he could manage. Sometimes it felt to him that the world was heavy, that the air, thick with sorrow, draped over his mind and body and vision, like a fog.
Still. Knowing that his handiwork found good homes satisfied Antain to the core. It felt good to be good at something. And when he slept, he was mostly content.
His mother now insisted that she always knew her son would be a great success, and how fortunate, she said again and again, he had been to escape a life of drudgery with those doddering old bores on the Council, and how much better it was to follow your talents and bliss and whatnot, and hadn’t she always said so.
“Yes, mother,” Antain said, suppressing a smile. “You truly always said so.”
And in this way, the years passed: a lonely workshop; solid, beautiful things; customers who praised his work but winced at the sight of his face. It wasn’t a bad life, actually.