Skykeeper (The Drowning Empire Book 1) Page 5

  It’s not him. It is my brother and no one else, and that is my mother moving up the hill with slow, shaky steps, her hands held steady by the twins. I watch her without moving. Without breathing.

  She makes it almost to the top before she collapses, and falls to weeping beneath the broken sky.

  Chapter 7

  They are tradition, these little vessels made of palmetto leaf and twig, fashioned into a shape that will float on the water while bearing the weight of a single bás stone.

  More ridiculous tradition.

  The sky has been contained for now. It’s been two days since my brother’s death—a day too late, if we’re still talking in those superstitions and traditions; not giving a person a proper ceremony within thirty hours of them dying is supposedly bad luck. The longer you take, the more likely their soul is to linger, forever lost, amongst the breathing.

  But we didn’t have a choice but to postpone this; it took a full day and a half to finally get that rift under control. The flooding has been devastating, and there has been no time to worry about the dead. Not with the living still in danger of joining them.

  Maybe the fact that nearly the entire kingdom has shown up for his crossing ceremony will help counter our poor timing.

  The stones they carry have all been kissed, covered in prayer, decorated with symbols of eternity and love, with the insignias of each of the four Creators of our world. And they are secured in those tiny vessels now, ready to be set adrift alongside the larger one that will carry my brother’s ashes to the center of Anwyn—the burial lake. It’s the deepest body of water in Garda. Legends say that the center of Lake Anwyn is bottomless, or else that it goes so deep that it simply circles around and eventually breaks through to the strange, beautiful part of the Endlands that no one has ever seen. To be sunk to rest in its depths is an honor reserved for very few.

  For whatever comfort that is to the ones left behind.

  The lighting begins with a chorus of voices.

  What came through the sea,

  Returns to the sea

  Not ours to keep, but to free—

  Thin torches pass amongst the crowd, each person setting fire to the sticks of incense crossed over the bás stones. Before long, the air is chokingly thick with smoke and heavy perfume, and filled with the sound of leaves crackling as the fires reach them.

  The vessels burn slowly as they drift along, little trails of red-hot flame glowing spider-web paths across them, brighter and brighter until they burst into a final show of fire on the water before disintegrating into ash. And then the stones they carry sink, one by one, to the bottom of our world, carrying the farewells the mourners have whispered to them. A path of prayer and well-wishes laid out for my brother’s spirit to follow through to the depths.

  I am still holding the vessel I’ve constructed in my hands, resting in my upturned palms like a book filled with words that I used to know, but that I can’t seem to make sense of now.

  I stand up. Look around. My eyes are burning, head swimming with the perfumed smoke swirling around me. Someone passes me a torch. Without looking at them I take it, my gaze immediately drawn to the dancing flame.

  Then I drop it on the ground and I stamp it out with my foot. The vessel lands on top of it a moment later—all save for the stone. I tuck that securely into my pocket. And then I turn and walk away from the shore, away from the lights and songs of tradition.

  Away from everything.

  Chapter 8

  I make it all the way back to the palace, and no one attempts to stop me.

  No one attempts to speak to me, either.

  Not even as the day presses on and the funeral-goers begin to file back and refill the empty halls. For the most part, they just watch me. Stolen glances, lips pausing mid-conversation as they catch sight of me from across the room.

  I wonder what they’re thinking. I wonder what rumors are spreading. How many of them blame me for taking away their hero?

  If he hadn’t come to save me, would he still be alive?

  He would still be gone, on his way to the islands by now.

  But not gone like this.

  I never thought he could ever be gone like this.

  When it starts to get too crowded in the halls, I lock myself in my room. I don’t come out again until the deep silence of night has fallen. Then I shut my door with a delicate hand and steal silently through the corridors, still wearing my mourning dress. The swish of fine white cloth trailing over the floor behind me is the only sound covering my footsteps.

  Two days ago, I could have drawn a perfectly accurate map of the palace from my memory alone.

  But now?

  Now I am twisting and turning through an unfamiliar labyrinth that has no exits.

  I eventually make it to a room I recognize, at least: Brynn’s. I hesitate outside. Afraid to face her, because I should have been in there comforting my little sister before now.

  The hinges creak as I push my way inside. At the foot of the four-poster bed, one of Fane’s golden wolves—part of his treasured, extensive menagerie that romps around the palace and its grounds—is resting with its gigantic head atop crossed, shaggy paws. One of its feathered ears twitches. Its eyes shift toward me, and a lazy growl rumbles deep in its throat.

  “Settle, Leon,” Brynn says, and the creature obediently rolls over onto its side with a sleepy grunt. My sister seems wide awake compared to it. I go and crawl into the bed beside her.

  “Budge over.”

  She obeys silently. We sit with our shoulders just touching, and the space around us seems to expand, until it feels like we are sitting in a great black void that is swallowing up everything we could possibly say.

  When she finally speaks, her voice is startlingly small. “Tell me a story,” she says, staring out into that void. “Tell me why things are the way they are.”

  And I would, but the problem is that I don’t know anymore. I only know what I’ve been told, what I’ve practiced, and what I thought I believed—but none of that seems good enough now.

  But it’s all we have, so after a few minutes I begin to repeat one of those stories I was told.

  “In the beginning, there was chaos above,” I say numbly, “and so the Creators sought sanctuary below. Four of them. Our Sirona, of the south kingdom, Enyo of the north, Atea of the western lands, and Austri of the middle kingdom. The grandest of the old gods and goddesses, the few still left walking among men in the surface world. They built our empire to escape what that world above was becoming—to get away from that dark place, where faith and practice in the ancient ways had long been diminishing. And once their lands were shaped and formed far below, they organized an exodus. They gathered the few mortal magic users and believers who remained on the shore of the sea, and then marched into it. The ones who were truly faithful to the old gods kept going, even long after the waves crashed far and above their heads, and they eventually found the whole of this bright world, sapphire and sparkling and stretching as far as they could see.

  “Those mortals capable of the strongest magic became the original keepers of the Caspian Empire. Drops of their spilled blood finalized and fortified the sky-seal the gods had made, and the strength and existence of it was irrevocably tied to them, because the Creators wanted this world’s future to lie in their hands, thinking that would encourage them to take better care of it. Meanwhile, the gods themselves grew more distant, watching over all they’d created from afar—although the legend says they had many children with the mortals before they disappeared, and that the descendants of those powerful children still walk among us, and—”

  “Us,” my sister interrupts. “The Pure, the direct descendants of Sirona and the other Creators.”

  I nod, because my whole life, this is what they’ve told me.

  Aven Elise Fairchild, Pure Daughter of Sirona, Keeper of Her Southern Skies.

  And when I was born, they cut the center of my wrists and marked the altar at Sirona’s temple w
ith drops of my blood. Proof that her descendants were still alive and well and prepared to lead and serve. A promise to her, secured by that blood, and marked by scars never allowed to heal. Scars that I’ve never wanted to heal, or to get rid of, before now.

  I can feel my little sister still watching me, so I sigh gently, fold and unfold the edge of the sheets in my lap several times, and say, “Yes. Us.”

  Sometimes, I think it is easier to try to believe things for the sake of others than for yourself.

  Brynn nods eagerly, as if my word is law, and scoots further under the covers. But her hands stay on top of the embroidered quilt, fidgeting. After a few minutes of silence, she grows still again, easing closer to sleep. Her hand falls to her side with her palm turned upward. For a long time, I stare at what’s left of the scar she cut into the center of it, until that same rage that overtook me by the lake the other day is suddenly back. And suddenly it’s all I can do to keep my body from trembling.

  “What’s wrong?” Brynn’s eyes are drooped shut, her voice heavy.

  “Nothing,” I lie. “I’m just trying to think of another story to tell.”

  She mumbles something incomprehensible and tilts her head expectantly toward me. So I ramble into safer, gentler tales—silly bedtime stories that we’re really both too old for, but that at least keep away all the ugly things we’re afraid to talk about.

  By the time I’ve run out of legends and myths to tell, my little sister is asleep, and I have nothing for company except questions.

  But what if what we’re doing is wrong?

  What if there is more to all of this—something we’re not being told?

  Was my brother right?

  The only thing I know for certain right now is that I can’t stand another second in this bed, another second of being so close to that scar on my sister’s hand.

  So I leave.

  I have a vague thought of going back to my room, of praying to my statue of the ivy-goddess for some sort of guidance or comfort. But then I remember how that statue was one of the last things I thought of at the ceremony, before the sky broke and everything fell apart, and suddenly I don’t feel like praying at all.

  I couldn’t get to it, anyhow. Because when I round the corner into the corridor that leads to my room, I find a group of people gathered in my path. I try to stop before they see me, but I’m not quick enough.

  I hear a familiar voice call my name.

  Varick.

  I turn and start back the way I came, ducking into the first door I reach. It leads to a winding, seagrass-lined path out into the gardens. The grass sways as I rush by, rough blades catching the sheer outer layer of my skirt, then whipping back and disrupting the tiny stream running alongside them. I hear several splashes—startled marshfrogs leaping from their water lilies, most likely.

  I break into a circular clearing at almost the exact moment Varick emerges from another path on the opposite side of it.

  “I’ve spent a lot of time in these gardens since coming here,” he says, almost sheepishly. “I knew a shortcut.”

  I turn away before he can see my frown, and I move to one of the vine-wrapped walls and lean against it, studying the dirty beaded hem of my skirt.

  A squat little fowl with brilliant turquoise feathers waddles over to me. After a few cautious attempts, he starts to pick at the iridescent beads, pulling them out one by one and dropping them into a shiny pile at his clawed feet. I don’t bother shooing him away.

  “You’re still dressed to go to a funeral,” Varick says after a moment.

  “Have you been to the infirmary lately?” I ask without looking up.

  He doesn’t answer right away, which tells me I don’t need to elaborate. He knows as well as I do that my brother’s burial likely won’t be the last we perform because of what happened at Isce. I know of at least two more keepers who were carried away from its rising shores. One of them was the girl who had stood beside me, with her bloodied arms and terrified eyes. Not much older than me, and she may already be gone. So why bother changing? All this mourning dress is a terrible pain to get in and out of, anyway.

  And once all of the dead from this ceremony are taken care of, whose death will I be dressing for next, I wonder?

  My own?

  My sisters?

  “Do you have any siblings?” I ask Varick, because I have a sudden, desperate need to talk and not to think about my sisters, about their bodies cold and wrapped in linen sheets and lying still.

  “No,” he answers hesitantly. “My parents didn’t even want me.”

  There is no trace of sorrow or anger—or anything, really—in his voice, but the words still make me squirm uncomfortably.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “No, it’s not like that. I was close to my parents, actually.”

  “Was,” I repeat, “as in, you were close, before you had to come here?”

  “No; more as in, they have been dead for almost eight years now.”

  “Oh. I…I’m sorry.”

  “You’re very apologetic tonight,” he says with a small smile.

  “I’m—” I catch myself. “Were they both keepers?”

  He nods. “But that is not how they died.” I try, but I must not successfully keep the morbid curiosity from my gaze, because he reluctantly adds: “One of the servants found them dead in their room, poisoned tea still on their bed trays, half-drunk.”

  My lips part, and I just barely manage to prevent a gasp from escaping them. He doesn’t elaborate, only shifts back to the earlier point of our conversation before I can get up the nerve to ask any more questions.

  “Anyway, they simply didn’t want me because of all this.” He turns his arms over to better show me the Pure marking scars across his wrists, and the other, fresher sealing scars that have cut all the way up past the inside of his elbow. “Because they knew what would be expected of me,” he says, “because so much was expected of my father, my grandfather, because of their divine, Pure blood—you understand what I mean, I’m guessing?”

  “Yes.” The only difference is that I’m almost certain my mother never thought about the possibility of not bringing all of her children into this world.

  I kick angrily at the ground. The fowl squawks, startled, and then hisses at me, flapping its wings and stirring up salt and dust as it scurries away. The fine particles swirl in the air, and it’s a long time after they’ve settled before Varick says anything else.

  “Though it is a bit different where I come from,” he says, eyes lifting to the Sea-Above. “They don’t carry on quite like they do here before a ceremony, for example. It’s a much more solemn affair. I suppose because we always have the fear that we won’t have enough keepers to get the job done properly, so no one ever feels much like celebrating until it’s all said and done. My parents never thought it was worth celebrating.”

  “But Fane stations keepers there, right? Why would there not be enough?”

  I know there are even fewer Pures left in the northern kingdom than there are here. Still, I’d always been under the impression that those Pures—like in all the other kingdoms—were stationed strategically to feel out any rift threats, and that they had plenty of common keepers to make up for the lack of Pure magic when it came to actual sealings.

  But he still doesn’t look at me as he answers, in a grim voice: “It’s difficult to govern anything from half a world away. I don’t think he realizes that the rest of the empire doesn’t look like his own kingdom—most of our keepers aren’t as well trained, or as well paid. And certainly not as well organized, either, as thinly spread out as our Pure-bloods are. So it’s hard for people not to become disgruntled at times, particularly when the skies grow rougher than usual. Lately, we have as many deserters in my homeland as we do those loyal to the cause.”

  “Really?” I can hear the naivety in my own voice, and I despise it.

  “Just between the two of us,” Varick says, “part of the reason King Lucian sent me t
o Garda was to try and appeal to Fane, to find a way to improve conditions for our people up north. To get him to send more help.”

  “Have you had any luck with that?”

  He finally lifts his eyes to me. “Not especially, no.”

  An awkward silence settles over us, and I let my gaze focus on a bit of dirt underneath one of my fingernails until he clears his throat.

  “Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t actually chase after you so we could discuss politics. There is enough going on here, anyway; we don’t need to worry about my kingdom at the moment.”

  I’ve already started worrying.

  And from thoughts of the north, my mind jumps to everything my brother said about the west. Are politics responsible for what’s happening there, too? Maybe the sky is breaking and the waters are rising simply because there aren’t enough people there to stop it?

  Why would the emperor let something like that happen?

  How could he let it?

  And is it all somehow connected to that strange, monstrous rift we faced the other day?

  “I don’t want to talk about my kingdom,” I begin hesitantly, “I want you to tell me more about yours, and about the other places you’ve traveled. And I…I want to know what you’ve heard and seen of the things happening in the Westland skies.”

  He doesn’t answer right away, only watches me carefully, thoughtfully. I get the impression that he has things to say, but hasn’t yet decided if he trusts me enough to let me hear them.

  So I swallow hard, and in a bolder voice, I add: “It’s just that I feel terribly stupid and blind all of sudden. I think the emperor and his council are keeping things from us. Telling lies. And that perhaps they have been for a long time now.”

  His eyes shift to the dark places around us—searching for people, I assume, same as my brother and I did the other day.

  “You are not stupid,” he finally says. “Only a product of this city and the ones ruling it. You’ve never been outside of Garda, have you?”

  I cringe inwardly at how easily he’s guessed this truth about me. “I’ve been considering taking a trip to remedy this,” I say flatly.