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1. Amyrah

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I HAVE KNOWN DARKNESS ALL MY LIFE.

The valefolk say it isn’t sinister; it should not be feared. It is for our good. For seventeen years, I’ve pretended to accept it. But when my eyes are closed, I imagine I can see everything that lies around me for miles and miles. When sleep takes me, I dream of lights that burn unimaginably bright and banish every hint of shadow.

The tightness in my chest eases, and I know I was never meant to dwell in the night.

When I open my eyes, the brilliance fades, exchanged for the melancholic glow of bioluminescent bolétis. The stubby mushrooms huddle together in a woven branch cage, bathing our cottage in frigid blue light. Nothing can banish the unceasing blackness that defines our lives, but these humble bolétis push against the night in their small way.

I lie here a while, listening to the passerine birds chirping a racket in the treetops. They never bother with the ténesomni—the darkness. It doesn’t seem to inconvenience them. I brush a lock of wavy hair away from my face and rub my forehead, blinking up at the cottage’s roof as I admire their fearless refrains. It’s easy to imagine they sing to Elyon, the Highest.

My father’s snores from across the room provide a rumbling bass to their high melodies.

Careful to keep the woolen coverlet around my shoulders, I sit up and feel for the clothes I left draped over the end of my bed. A frosty chill still permeates the air even though the season of ice has passed. Shuddering as the blanket falls, I pull my linen frock over my undergarments. I don’t know why I put so much effort into dying it with bloodroot and onion skins. The color, an earthy red-orange, is only recognizable directly under the lights of the city. Even then, it is only a hint of a shade.

I swing on my cloak, then contemplate bringing some sort of order to my impossible hair. In the end, I give up and rub some oil into the ends with my fingertips, leaving it to hang, thick and loose, down my back. It always finds a way to escape. And who will even care?

Creeping across the room and holding my hands up, palms out, I feel for heat at the hearth. The ignati went out in the night, but a subtle warmth remains. Perhaps a few hot embers are ready to catch with a bit of encouragement. I stagger a few wedges of wood in the fireplace and use a thin branch to poke at the dregs of fire. A ruddy glow blooms as the coals spring to action. Not wanting to underestimate the reach of the flames in the gloom, I keep my distance.

When the logs have caught, I snatch up the lantern and crack open the door of the cottage. Even though I know every rock and root of our homestead, Father does not permit me to go anywhere without light. He insists any number of creatures could lurk in the shadows, but his need for caution feels arbitrary after seventeen years.

The air is heavy with the night’s frost, invading my lungs with its icy presence, awakening me fully. I like the stillness of the morning. Everything is watchful, expectant. Hopeful, even. Calmness pervades the atmosphere, and even the ténesomni that shifts all around me seems languid and less threatening. I like the thought of it sleeping too.

Beneath the fabric of my skirt, my bare legs tingle with cold. I pause to take in the sounds. Other than the brilliant avian symphony, all is still.

My feet find the smooth path that leads to the animal sheds. The trail is so familiar, seared into my mind as if by routine and memory, that even if there was no light in the world, I would know exactly where I was.

Calm but alert, the goats bleat their greetings. I scratch behind their ears, and they repay me with affectionate nudges. After breaking the ice that has formed over their drinking trough, I turn my attention to the neighboring coop where the chickens cluck at me ominously. I smile at their woeful tales as I free them to roam the edges of the trees. The abundant eggs suggest the girls can’t be as hard-pressed as they’d have me believe.

During the early hours of the morning, I tend to the rest of my chores. I milk the nanny goats and brush down their stiff coats, then shake out the frost from the rags left on the line the previous day. Soon, the shadowy skies will warm, and I won’t need to worry about battling the cold any longer. I can almost taste the enatuberries ripened by Zomré’s heat.

By the time I am finished, the swirling blackness all around me has lessened ever so slightly. During the day, you can almost identify the shapes around you, or at least be aware of where things are. Even though the valefolk are accustomed to it, I have never been able to make myself believe it is natural. For me, the feeling of being adrift never really goes away.

A mournful sound shatters the morning stillness. Its tone starts out low but climbs to a steady, high blast. I turn toward the noise but can’t make out anything in the dense blackness. The sound rings out again and again, louder and more fervent. It feels very near, but the cold air likes to play tricks that way.

At the same moment, a strange sensation crawls over my skin, starting at my core and radiating outwards. A heat that doesn’t scorch, yet burns all the same. Is it my imagination, or did the ténesomni shudder around me? I almost drop the basket of eggs in my scramble to reach for the lantern. I’ve never seen the shadows do that.

Holding the light close, I feel a bit calmer. It won’t do a thing to protect me, but I want it anyway. I need it.

Another sound rings out, causing me to spill half the goat milk all over my cloak. But it is only the bell that signifies that the day has begun. My cheeks warm at my childishness, but I manage to make it back to the cabin.

My father is awake, roused by the disturbance. I want him to explain away the eerie horn and chide me for my girlish fright, but he does neither. Instead, he blunders around the cabin, grabbing blindly, frantically, for his cloak, shoes, and weapons.

I freeze where I stand. The unknown sound unnerved me, but my father’s complete lack of composure terrifies me.

“What is it?” I say, once my tongue has unglued itself.

Father doesn’t even glance my way. “The call of Sola Vinari.”

My brow crinkles at the odd phrase. Pada doesn’t speak in the Atsunic tongue often anymore, although some words still trickle into conversation. Vinari means ‘hunt,’ but hunting is a necessity of survival in the Vale. I can’t recall a single instance where it has been heralded by such a strange instrument.

“Why have I never heard it before?” I ask, still clutching my bolétis lantern, eggs, and milk.

“You have, thirteen years ago.” His voice drops to a strained whisper. “Although I always hoped you would not remember it.”

He moves to the back of the room where the dry goods are stored on high shelves to keep them from spoiling. His fumbling hands send a whole basket of tree nuts crashing to the hard planks. It snaps me to my senses. I set down my haul and drop to my knees to help him gather the wayward nuts.