Page 222 of The Priory of the Orange Tree

“Thank you, Elder Vara.”

Tané dressed warmly for the journey. A padded coat over her uniform, a wrap around her head and face, and the fur-lined boots she had been given for winter. Along with a scroll addressed to the High Scholar of Windward Hall, Elder Vara also gave her a satchel of food.

It would be a long trek, especially in the cold. She would have to climb down to the Path of the Elder, scale the rocks on the other side, and walk the warmth of Windward Hall. Tufts of snow began to fall as she set off.

The only way down from this side was to use the craggy rocks beside the Falls of Kwiriki. As she descended, her heart thumped so hard she felt sick. At this very moment, Nayimathun might be fighting for her life in the belly of a butcher-ship.

And surely a celestial jewel—if thatwaswhat had been stitched into Tané, like a pattern into cloth . . .

Surely that could set a dragon free.

It was almost noon by the time she reached the foot of the ravine, where a driftwood gateway marked the entrance to the most sacred place in the East. Tané washed her hands in the salt water and stepped through, on to a stone-paved path.

On the Path of the Elder, the fog was so thick that it blotted out the sky. Tané could not even see the tops of the cedars that towered into the gray.

It was not quite silent. Every few moments, the leaves rustled, as if unsettled by breath.

Lanterns guided her past the graves of scholars, elders, and leaders of the dragon-fearing East, who had asked for their remains to rest with those of the Great Elder. Some of the stone blocks were so old that the inscriptions had worn away, leaving their occupants unnamed.

Elder Vara had told her not to think of the past. Walking here, however, she could not help but think of Susa. The bodies of the executed were left to rot, the bones discarded.

A head in a ditch, a body uncorked. Darkness stained the edges of her vision.

It took much of the day to cross the burial ground and climb the rock face at its end. By the time she glimpsed Cape Quill—the outstretched arm of the island—the sky had deepened to purple, and the only light was a gold seam on the horizon.

Date-plums hung like tiny suns in the front courtyard of Windward Hall, which overlooked the cape. Tané was greeted at the threshold by a Lacustrine man with a shaven head, proclaiming his role as a bonesinger. These scholars would spend most of their days on the Path of the Elder, tending to the graves of the faithful and singing praise to the bones of the great Kwiriki.

“Honorable scholar.” He bowed, and so did Tané. “Welcome to Windward Hall.”

“Thank you, learnèd bonesinger.”

She removed her boots and stowed them. The bonesinger ushered her into the dimly lit interior of the hermitage, where a charcoal stove kept the cold at bay.

“Now,” he said, “what may we do for you?”

“I have a message from the learnèd Elder Vara.” She held it out. “He asks that you permit me access to your repository.”

With raised eyebrows, the young man took it. “We must respect the wishes of the learnèd Elder Vara,” he said, “but you must be tired after your journey. Would you like to visit the repository now, or wait in the guest quarters until morning?”

“Now,” Tané said. “If you would be willing to take me.”

“To our knowledge, Feather Island was the only place in the East to remain untouched during the Great Sorrow,” the bonesinger told her as they walked. “Many ancient documents have been sent here to protect them from misfortune. Unfortunately, since the fire-breathers have woken and discovered our whereabouts, those documents are now in danger.”

“Were any lost in the attack?”

“A handful,” he said. “We organize our archives by reigns. Do you know whose you seek?”

“The long-honored Empress Mokwo.”

“Ah, yes. A mysterious figure. It was said she had ambitions to bring the whole East under the rule of the Rainbow Throne. That her face was so lovely that every butterfly wept in envy.” His smile dimpled his cheeks. “When history fails to shed light on the truth, myth creates its own.”

Tané followed him down a staircase, into a tunnel.

The wheel repository stood like a sentinel in a cave behind the hermitage. Statues of past High Scholars filled alcoves in the walls, and countless teardrops of blue light hung, like wisps of spidersilk, from the ceiling.

“We do not risk flame down here,” the bonesinger said. “Fortunately, the cave has its own lamps.”

Tané was fascinated. “What are they?”

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