Page 8

Unaided by the Goddesses

M y heart thuds in a double beat, so hard it steals my breath.

Snowflakes drift down from the pale sky, floating through the air to settle on my nose and lips.

Instinctively, I lick them away, the cold biting my tongue and spreading like blood through water.

The faint sound of snowflakes landing is the only noise around me, save for a crow’s caw beyond the clearing and the quiet sweep of eagle wings slicing through the air.

A single mountain leaf spirals slowly toward the crowd.

I don’t know what to say.

For once, I’m completely speechless.

“Are you sure you’ve turned twenty-one?” Panrielya continues.

“You think I’ve lost track of my own age?” I turned several lunar cycles ago.

She releases me, her expression shifting to one that’s close to regret, deepening the wrinkles on her forehead.

“Trust me, I don’t understand why. This…

hasn’t happened before.” She glances down at her palms, almost uncertain, questioning whether the fault lies within them.

Her eyebrows are drawn so tightly together they resemble a headband.

“Then do something! Try again! Don’t just stand there!” I grip her cold wrist and press her hand back to my forehead. “Give me my ability. Try!”

Around me, the women begin to whisper, and the crowd ripples with gasps, shifting restlessly. They murmur, gossip, and shake their dainty heads, pointing. They don’t understand what is happening. Stara lets out a mocking laugh.

I don’t care.

I’m not leaving without my ability.

Panrielya fixes me with a dark, simmering look, holding my gaze for a few fiery sparks. I realize she doesn’t appreciate decisions being made for her, and she likely doesn’t enjoy having her hands grabbed, either. Maybe I was too forceful. Perhaps she won’t help me now.

My emotions surge, rising and smoldering like a volcanic plume on the brink of eruption. Naeva’s calming influence is finally fading, fully this time. Good. I don’t want to pretend to be calm if I’m not.

Panrielya tries again. She pushes herself, once more chanting, eyes shut in deep concentration. Beads of sweat break across her forehead, bursting as snowflakes settle on them. Her thin, silver-and-mauve hair frames her face, dusted with soft, downy flakes.

This time, I don’t want to hide. This time, I want her to see into my very core, so she can find my magic.

She opens her eyes, lowers her hand, and steps back.

“You have no magic,” she hisses again, this time with cold finality. As if she’s ready to move on to the next candidate, leaving me behind, a failure, never to be spoken of again.

“Why?”

“Return next sun cycle. Perhaps something will have changed by then.”

“But how?” The words catch in my throat as my world begins to collapse. My heart races wildly, pounding as if it might tear free at any spark. My breaths come fast and ragged, scraping against the tightness in my chest. My mouth hangs open, parched, tasting of wood. “Please, there has to be a way!”

“Get up and leave.”

I find myself on my knees, snow drifting around my gown, blending with its pale fabric. My fingers are buried deep in the earth, flushed, stiff, and numb. I should’ve let Naeva keep calming me.

Arephna, grant me strength. Ehnerya, give me hope.

I rise, casting a fleeting glance at the crowd. They’re silent and uncertain, unsure whether to applaud, laugh, murmur, or remain quiet, smiling or weeping.

They don’t understand. No one does. Everyone’s stunned by what’s happened, but no one more than me.

Instead of turning left toward my family, I veer to the right.

I feel their eyes like flames searing the back of my neck.

Everyone’s eyes. I quicken my pace, nearly running.

I tear the steel crown from my head, gripping it so hard the sharp edges cut into my fingers.

My bare feet sink into the snow, pressing to meet the hard ground beneath.

Snow dust billows around me, swirling around my toes, heels, calves, and knees.

Flakes whip through the air, faster and faster, striking me in fierce, stinging gusts. The wind howls, sharp and unyielding.

I leave the crowd and Circle Valley behind.

I have no ability. Every woman in my family has had one. Every woman in Parae has or has had a gift. Every woman in Aarilion. In Sarador. In the world. Every sun elf.

I’m not a man. And there’s no mistaking that I’m an elf. Anyone can see that in my pointed ears. There’s nothing unusual about me. I’m like everyone else.

Except, no. You’re not.

I race through the bushes, ducking beneath twisted roots and charging forward into the eerie stillness of the Ereday breeze. Crack, crack, crack . My footsteps pound across the frozen ground.

I’m different. My skin and hair are as pale as snow, nearly colorless, as though drained of what others call warmth. My eyes are marked with hues that set me apart. I’m not timid or fragile like they are. While they huddle against the cold, I can swim in frozen rivers, my arms bare to the elements.

The cold and darkness don’t touch me the way they do them.

I rip everything off, letting piece after piece fall to the floor. I pull, tug, and tear, shredding the precious garment. It’s made of numerous parts, making it impossible to remove in one piece. I’m the youngest; no one else will need it anyway.

Finally, I step out of it and exhale, my fingers aching from the effort. Then I turn to my hair, yanking out the adornment, each crystal, stone, and silver thread. They tangle in my palms, catching between my fingers and clinging to the back of my hands like sticky burrs. Off, off, off!

I must hurry and finish before the others return. They’re most likely close behind.

Everything lies scattered across the floor. Every trace of Silver Day, every remnant of Circle Valley. It hurts to look at them. The cream-colored heap of fabric, evidence of my failure, proof that I’m not like the others.

I rush to Aeralon’s side of the room, the floorboards groaning under my steps. I dig through his drawers, rifling through shirts, books, stones, and strange yellow oils. And more stones. A jumble of rough diamonds and dull granite chunks.

What does he even keep in here?

I find a pair of breeches made from a supple material that resembles leather but is much thinner.

I pull out a pair of tall, black boots, clean ones, not the dusty, foul-smelling ones tossed on the floor.

I grab a long-sleeved torso garment and various straps and buckles.

Everything in ink-black. Everything in that glorious, tough, masculine material.

I dress, piece by piece.

And I think.

I’m not allowed to do what men do, such as fighting with swords, practicing archery, or being part of the defense. Nor am I permitted to do what women are allowed to do. To wield magic, to cook, to decorate. I have no gift. Cooking is a mystery to me, and I have no sense of decoration.

I’m hopeless at being a woman and have no chance of being a man. I have no opportunity to utilize my true skills. To fight.

Once dressed, I pull a cloak over myself. It’s as dark as everything else, thin and light. It covers my shoulders, back, hair, forehead, nose, and lips. Only my eyes remain exposed, large and mismatched.

Far from ideal.

I climb to the first floor, dash to the dining room cupboards, and yank them open, my cloak flaring behind me.

I dig through, sending things tumbling out, bouncing and clattering to the floor, scattering over my boots.

Crash. Something shatters. I find the jar, pull it out, and leave the cupboards wide open.

No time to close them. Mother mentioned the last batch of glue wasn’t as strong as usual.

Perfect. I’d rather not end up with an eye permanently glued shut.

As I twist off the lid, the jar lands with a thud on the table.

I smear the thick, freshly boiled paste over my right lashes, tracing it along the edge of my eyelid before pressing my hand firmly over my eye.

I won’t be able to see properly, but it’s the price I must pay to hide my eyes.

They’re unmistakable and unique. Anyone would recognize me in an instant.

The glue hardens, and I dart to my father’s drawer, retrieving Voenriel, Sea Soul.

His proud crown sword, one of the rare few forged by sea beings in Vasvinennian, in the legendary depths of Eir’Eksa, a city hidden far beneath the ocean’s waves.

Father speaks of this sword often, tracing his fingers over its scabbard when he thinks no one is watching, his face softening at the mention of its name.

But he’s never used it. Its true form remains a mystery; he only let us glimpse the scabbard, never the blade.

I’ve pleaded to see it countless times, but he’s always refused, saying it’s too rare, too precious, and that I might harm myself or, worse, damage it.

And so, it’s stayed hidden in that drawer, year after year.

But now, it’s time for it to breathe. Time to finally see the light, if only for a day.

Unlike Arenvíss, she will obey. Father says there’s something special about her, and that both Iolas and Ihreas wielded her without issue when she wasn’t confined to the drawer.

They believe it has to do with the waters of Vasvinennian or the sea beings’ mysterious spells.

Each weapon is unique, shaped by the magic of its origins and the creatures that forged it.

I secure the scabbard around my waist, tightening the straps. I push the steel peg into the innermost notch of the belt.

Everything’s in place. I’m ready. Pressing my palms against the pine wall, I close my eyes.

I can feel it. The fibers flowing beneath my skin, the fibers of the serpent pine, once alive, now still.

We never build with living trees. She grew old and died naturally, sometime after four hundred sun cycles had passed.

I can only sense it faintly. The tree elves are far more attuned to this.

But that doesn’t matter. I’m not here for enlightenment.

I stand here to draw close to nature and the goddesses.

“Afryea, grant me courage,” I whisper. “Orepta, grant me wisdom. Sakelia, grant me?—”

No.

They betrayed me. Left me. Abandoned me.

My whole life, I’ve prayed to them, the goddesses of Sauedia.

I’ve attended the dawn prayers, the moon dances, and the midnight baths in Nimaear.

Given offerings and sacrificed my most precious belongings to earn their favor, hoping that one day they would grant me a gift worthy of me.

That they would welcome me into Aewna, opening the gates to nature’s magic. That they would love me as I love them.

I wrench my hands from the wall and slam my fists against it.

I race across the creaking floorboards, knuckles swollen.

I climb to the third floor and push my way outside.

I’ll prove to Parae that I’m every bit as capable as the men at the Silver Day trials and ensure they choose me for the defense.

So I can claim one of the legendary weapons from the vault.

So I can leave Parae, not with a gift, but with something else.

So I can go after Akares.

And kill him.

Without the goddesses’ help.