Page 48 of The Art of Exiley

Book 1: Testament 1

Seventy souls lived in the village beyond the river. On a day when the rapids of the river were fierce, a girl—only recently granted her Sight—was sent to collect wildflowers.

When the sky began to dim, the girl returned and found the village silent. No other souls roamed the streets, and each door that she opened led to another vacant home. She was not concerned, for strangeness was not strange to the village.

But when she reached the temple and found it abandoned, fear took her hand in a slow dance. There was no one seated in meditation under the palm trees, no one playing the harps to aid in concentration, no one lounging in the purifying baths.

No one guarding the stones and scrolls of prophecy.

The fear became a knife, sharp and urgent, but the girl kept it at bay in clenched fists as she walked into the vestibule.

At the altar, the gemstones had been set and the scrolls unrolled. Everything was arranged for the prophets to puzzle out the meaning within the prophecy. But there were no prophets, only echoes.

The girl disrobed and immersed in the purifying baths to prepare her body before ascending to the altar. There was no one to play the harp or the bowl, but she conjured the memory of the music.

A prophecy is a finicky thing, often misinterpreted, but the meaning of this one was as clear as if it were written on her skin.

Strangers were coming. Men who would steal blood to steal the future.

The girl knew how the prophets would react to such a message,and she knew what she must do. With heart and mind numb, the girl gathered the gemstones and the scrolls and the wildflowers she had picked. She walked to a cave outside the village where she knew everyone else must be.

The cave was fragrant with the scent of foxglove flowers and as silent and lifeless as the village. Hers was the only heart that beat, and hers were the only lungs that drew breath, but they were all there—her family, and almost everyone she had ever known—lying still as if in peaceful slumber, their blood forever safe from those who would misuse it.

She fell to her knees and dug her hands into the ground, pulling out fistfuls of earth. Stones and rubble ripped through her skin and twisted her fingers, but she kept digging.

Outside the cave, a prince—only a man for a few years, but already powerful—dropped out of a shadow in the sky. He could not be in the presence of bodies whose spirits were departed, but he had not cut his hair or imbibed drink, so he lent the girl his strength. He braced his hands on the entrance of the cave and sang. He stood there all through the night while she used his strength to dig until the sun came and hid the stars. But the sun could not chase away the darkness on that day.

On each lump of newly turned earth, the girl placed a stone. Sixty-seven stones. Sixty-seven graves. She scattered the wildflowers outside the cave, and their seeds took root and grew to cover the entrance.

The girl returned to the village and soaked in a purifying bath until it ran black with dirt.

Her grief caused the temple walls to shake as she Saw that there was hope. A child of her blood that she would teach to honethe Sight, who would also cultivate Life and Sing strength, and who would reunite all those who had been lost.

Then the prince picked up the girl and held her against his heart, where he swore he would keep her for the rest of their days, and the shadow in the sky flew them both to paradise.

Later that day, the waters of the river ran still, and strangers crossed its banks. They found the village empty. The streets were silent, and the temple was barren. All the roads and houses were deserted.

They pondered over the enigma of the black pool in the temple, and they bathed in it, thinking it might grant them blessing. They scouted the area between the river and the spine of the mountains but did not find the cave.

And so they left.

The strangers and their offspring often return on days when the river runs still. They try to decipher the mystery of the village, and they continue to bathe in the black water, hoping for a miracle.

But all the miracles of the village are gone.

A shiver runs through me as I finish reading. I flip through the rest of the pages, but they’re all blank, waiting for new prophecies not yet recorded. When we’d discussed this Testament in class, the young apprentices had a lot to say.

“It didn’t actually happen like that. You’re not meant to understand it literally.”

“How could you say that? Everything written in the Testaments is true!”

“No way it really happened. Have you seen Chorus? She’s so scrawny. She couldn’t dig even a single grave on her own.”

“But Prince Alex amplified her strength.”

“They are the most romantic couple ever.”

It has not escaped my notice that Prince Alexander and Chorus are a common topic of gossip and the closest thing to celebrities that the Makers have. But at the time I thought they were mythical or historical. Not currently living actual people. Understanding this lends new meaning to the rest of the apprentices’ discussion.

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