Page 28 of They Call Me Blue

“Elves exist on many planets, and on each one is a Korring-Marr. Most Great Trees are normal in color and match the world around them. Those like ours give birth to gods. One day, the Korring-Marr will gift us a champion, and they will free us from the elgrew.”

—Elder Risha of the Drift, High Priestess Supreme.

T he Korring-Marr here looks nothing like the Korring-Marr topside.

It’s gnarly and thick with twisting vines that resemble veins.

Nine trunks rise from nine pools of steaming, murky green water, braiding together into this massive thing.

But it’s not the shape of the Tree or even its leafless branches that make it so strange.

It’s the color. The Korring-Marr’s bark is opalescent—as clear as glass near the edges and roots, with a prismatic rainbow in the center.

Even in the near-total darkness, the Tree gleams brighter than anything I’ve ever seen.

Geodesic spheres that are twice as tall as I am dangle from the Korring-Marr’s jagged branches on thick metal ropes, their glass panes dyed rainbow to match the bark.

At night, our high priests and priestesses sleep inside them.

Supposedly, it’s a great honor, but it seems even more uncomfortable and impractical than the bunks.

“This place is incredible,” Chest Wound breathes, taking in our most prized, most hidden possession.

A gentle, soothing buzz emanates from the Tree, draining all the tension from my body and filling me with a familiar weightlessness that only comes from being down here.

I know without asking that Chest Wound feels it too.

When I glance back at him, his gray eyes are glassy with tears; most are the first time they see the Great Tree.

The elgrew think our Korring-Marr is just a plant, but it’s so much more than that.

It’s the physical manifestation of our all-knowing, all-seeing god through which all other gods—all other life—is made.

Though I’ve seen it a hundred times before, like Chest Wound, I still struggle to turn away.

In a daze, the recruit shuffles closer to our Tree, passing by at least a dozen hot springs and twice as many holy leaders, dressed in hooded black robes.

The Deep is massive. The floor is a solid sheet of glassy obsidian and volcanic pools that stretch as far as the eye can see. Up above us, glowfly orbs hang from the ceiling, casting flecks of pale green light over everything, reflecting it off the black floor. Still, I have to squint to see.

Grabbing Chest Wound’s shoulder, I guide him away from one of the springs before he can stumble in. He doesn’t notice. His gaze is singularly focused.

The closer we get to the Korring-Marr, the more crowded it is.

Nearly a hundred holy leaders and their apprentices gather in circles around the pools, some meditating in prayer, others collecting water samples into glass vials.

I catch a few dumping cartons of white powder around the Korring-Marr’s roots, where it forms a chunky paste near the water’s surface.

Chest Wound forces his way through a group of priestesses, and I groan in frustration.

“Sorry about that. He’s new.”

“Arri?” Nirissa pulls her hood down. “What are you doing here?”

Stepping away from the others, she wraps her arms around me and squeezes tight.

I can’t stop the smile from tugging at my lips.

Bug has been tutoring under Elder Risha, High Priestess Supreme, for the last two years, and while it’s not exactly a surprise to see her here, I wasn’t expecting it either.

Risha keeps my sister busy with her studies and rarely lets her do fieldwork with the other apprentices.

Most days, she’s cooped up in private chambers that I’m not allowed to visit.

I return the hug and ruffle her hair. “I’m giving the new guy a tour today. Pretty sure I mentioned that this morning.”

“I forgot.” Nirissa bites her bottom lip and fidgets with the ends of her long sleeves. Tucked beneath her robe is the twiggy doll Mom and Dad gave her. “Can I come along?” she asks. “I promise I’ll be good.”

“I don’t think Elder Risha would like that.”

“Nonsense.” Striding toward us, the High Priestess Supreme lowers her hood.

Risha looks no older than any other adult, but her voice has this ancient, scratchy quality to it.

Curly silver hair frames a face that’s too thin.

Too austere. Her cheekbones and nose are so sharp, they could probably cut a man.

“Perhaps Nirissa could lead the tour to show us what she’s learned? ”

“Really?” Bug squeals, her body practically vibrating with excitement.

Elder Risha quirks a brow at me, and I relent.

“Go for it. I could use the break.”

Clasping her hands together, the High Priestess Supreme smiles in approval.

On the surface, her expression seems genuine—friendly even.

But the two of us have never gotten along.

When I first arrived at Starra’lee, she ignored me, telling Julian, and I quote, “I have no use for her. You can do with her as you please.”

For whatever reason, though, all the things Risha found lacking in me, she found present in my baby sister—just like our parents. Even here, they all prefer Nirissa.

The thought rankles me, but I push it to the back of my mind, locking it up tight. It doesn’t matter. I don’t need Risha’s approval. I don’t need anyone.

The bite mark on my hand begins to throb, and I clench my fist tight.

Not now.

Not here, dammit.

I can’t allow Lyrick to see the Tree, nor hear our militia’s most tightly kept secrets. I need to get the fuck out of here before I ruin everything. But what can I tell them? It’s not as if I can admit to the bond—they’d kill me for keeping it a secret for so long.

“Arden, are you coming?” Elder Risha’s voice cuts through my thoughts. When I look up, she, Nirissa, and Chest Wound are nearly to the Korring-Marr.

Unease churns my stomach. Guilt weighs me down. I shouldn’t follow them—it’ll put everything at risk—but then again, I shouldn’t do a lot of things.

Self-preservation wins out.

Shoving my hand into my pocket, I scramble to catch back up, my socked feet slippery on the glossy stone. Please go away. Please, please, please, go away.

I practically shout the words in my head, praying to the Korring Marr, to any god who might be listening, to sever our connection.

Laughter reverberates in my ears—this velvety dark sound that slithers through me turning my veins to ice.

But I force myself to keep walking, to not draw attention to myself.

“I found one of your letters,” Lyrick whispers. “You’ve made quite a mess for me.”

“Good,” I hiss the word down our mental bond, not sure how this works, if he’ll even be able to hear me. “Then you know what’ll happen when I find you.”

The cocky bastard snorts. “We’ll see about that. By the way, my number is two hundred and eleven.”

The connection goes blessedly dark. Starra’lee’s secrets remain safe . . . for now.

I should feel relief, but instead there’s this aching hollowness in his absence. As if he took a piece of me with him. What the fuck is wrong with me?

I shake the feeling off in time to see Chest Wound place his palm atop the Great Tree.

His face ripples and a look of absolute serenity washes over him.

Eyes closed, tears stream down his cheeks and he mouths something I can’t hear.

For a long moment, Nirissa, Elder Risha, and I watch him in silence, giving him the privacy he so desperately needs.

My fingers itch with the desire to touch the Korring-Marr too, but I refrain, afraid that doing so might somehow summon Lyrick once more.

After a long while, Chest Wound opens his eyes and dabs the moisture from them. But he doesn’t remove his hand. “How is this possible?” he asks, staring at the dimly lit space, the lack of sunlight and soil.

Nirissa answers before I can. “See that powder over there?” She points to the apprentices and their cartons. “Our scientists use it to grow plants in the dark. And the green glowflies”—she gestures to the ceiling—“those help, too.”

“And what about the glass vials?” Elder Risha prods, directing Nirissa toward the robed figures who are taking water samples.

Once the vials are full, they place them onto wooden racks, labeling them in a language I can’t read—the same one Selik spoke all those years ago. “What are those things used for?”

Afraid to disappoint her mentor, Nirissa nervously twirls her hair. Her words come out more as a question than a definitive statement. “The priests and priestesses are testing for salt, acidity, calcium, nitrogen—the stuff plants need to grow that they usually get from the soil.”

As she speaks, one of the figures swings a go-bag from their shoulder and lowers themselves to the ground.

Unhooking buckles and dumping out external pockets, they withdraw dozens of glass dropper bottles and distribute them to the rest of the group.

Notebooks in hand, each robed figure begins dripping the solutions into their water samples and furiously jotting down the results.

Some vials change colors—yellow, pink, red. Others remain the same.

“They test the water at night to see what stuff needs to be added,” Nirissa explains. “In the morning, they go topside to remove it from the soil with the army.”

“How long has this been here?” Chest Wound asks.

“Almost a thousand years,” Elder Risha says. “Though the Korring-Marr hasn’t always been this large. It’s grown rapidly in the last decade or so.”

A crease line forms between Chest Wound’s brows. “And you’ve kept it secret all this time? How? Why?”