Page 147 of The Cruel Dawn
I chuckle and slap at her hand.
“There’s a reason that you keep thinking about Fihel,” Elyn says, “and why you keep worrying about whether you destroyed that city. That’s because every single hamlet, town, or province that you razed mattered to you. They wereallFihel.”
I lower my head. “Which is why today—”
“Kai, they will not send you into this war ill-prepared. That is not in their interest, either.”
“They will permit me to be all of me, then?” I ask. “Despite all my wrongdoings?”
“And what about all therightyou’ve done? Does that not count?”
I consider all the bad things: I’ve destroyed provinces without permission from the Council of High Orders. I’ve allowed pride and impatience to lead me away from my true purpose. I’ve led others to ignore the Council’s directives, which led to chaos and rebellion.
Then I tally the good things, ignoring Elyn’s knowing gaze: I’ve been an exemplar of the power and grace of Supreme through my stewardship and protection of Vallendor. I’ve faced down tyrants who enslaved those they’ve conquered. I’ve blessed both believers and nonbelievers with coin, crops, and coupling. I’ve inspired arts, engineering, and cultivation among mortals, and I’ve celebrated and grieved with the mortals of this realm.
Is that not enough? Does the accounting not accrue in my favor?
I can’t answer Elyn’s question, and that failure brings tears to my eyes. I ask again, “Will I be all of me when this war begins?”
“Yes, but know that this fight won’t end until you vanquish the traitor.” Elyn sits up from the bluebells, a woman now, with strong hands and wisdom in her stern gaze.
“There are those on Vallendor and across the Aetherium, even, who don’t want us here,” she says. “They think we’re disrupting the natural order, but if we’re to survive, if we’re to remain in our space, we must continue to fight. If we’re to be good seeds in a land filled with brambles and thorns, we can’t just surrender and slip away into the night.” She touches my cheek and smiles. “Open your eyes, Kaivara. Welcome to your life.”
…
My father stands on the bluff that overlooks the field of bluebells, a sharp silhouette against the sky. The wind tugs at his crimson leather shirt. The hide of his breeches has been softened by ages of wear. His boots are scuffed from countless journeys across rough terrain. He stands tall and unmoving, his gaze fixed on Vallendor, searching for something only he can see.
Like the inkings on his skin that represent the realms he’s destroyed, Father’s dark hair has meaning. His maze of twists and braids is meticulously woven, each braid telling its own story, marking battles fought. The plaits over his left ear: the map used to surround the instigators on the realm Graviel. The curved braids at his crown: the freedom road created for those who’d been enslaved on Realm Idwah.
Taught by the Renrians, some mortal tribes across Vallendor learned to mimic Father’s braids of maps and memorials. Some have hidden rice, beans, and seeds within them, as a means of survival when they were torn away from their homelands.
I stand beside him in my bare feet, wearing a gown of light cotton. “Father?” My voice sounds strong but remains ragged around the edges. I’m not yet confident enough to look at my hands. Last time I did, they were swollen and bruised by Miasma. My face… I don’t even want to think about how my face must look.
He smiles and looks over at me, then turns back to the field of flowers. “This place…”
“Welcome to Vallendor. Excuse the dust.”
He takes a breath and touches his heart-spot before lifting my chin with his fingertips. “You look like your mother right now. That hair on your head… Do you still cry when someone else combs it?”
“Mmhmm.” I bite my lower lip and push my fingers through my curls. Free of braids and threads of luclite, my hair blows in the breeze like the bluebells covering the field.
The Vallendor my father knew, once upon a time, no longer exists. Beyond the still-pristine glen, sickly green clouds form above the Sea of Devour. Otherworldly—gerammocs, sunabi, aburan, and resurrectors—fight, die, and rise again all across the realm. Mortals—humans, Dashmala, Gorga, Jundum—die in their beds, set fire to the homes of their enemies, and raid towns, temples, and tracts of land not theirs. Children of every mortal race slash the throats of their playmates without mercy.
How are we still here?
Why hasn’t the world ended?
“The last time I visited a realm other than Mera or Linione…” He stops speaking and remains silent for a long time. Finally, he adds, “That last day with you and Lyra, at the beach on Ithlon. She’d enchanted a perfect wedge of seaside for that day.” He turns to me. “We were celebrating your third season.”
As I lay dying on the Rim of the Shadows that overlook Doom Desert, I revisited that day spent on the shores of Ithlon Realm. Ravens had hopped from the trees onto our quilt—a warning of the age to come. Mother had stood alone on that beach as Father and I…
Now, his face falls and his eyebrows knit together. He knows what I’ve seen, and whispers, “Ididlove her.”
“Then why did you abandon her?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I’d already rejected one rule and married a non-Mera woman. I couldn’t violate another without jeopardizing my role on the Council. Lyra couldn’t reside on Mera, and my first duty was to the Council and to our order.” He looks away from me. “You were the embodiment of my recklessness.”
“Recklessness,” I say, eyebrows raised.
