Chapter Fifteen

My limbs ache as though I’ve climbed a mountain. Everything feels too hot and too tight: my tunic, my malong, my scarf. I push a crust of sweet bread around my plate, unable to work up an appetite.

“Are you sick?” Dayen asks, pushing his floppy hair to one side. “I know an orasyon that—”

“I’m fine, I think.” I flush, embarrassed. Being fussed over is something too new and strange for me to accept.

My mother did not fuss, but she showed her love in other ways. If I was sick, she would bring me soup without a word. Fresh fruit, cut and peeled, would appear at my bedside. She still had to drive our wagon, but she would sing as we traveled to put me at ease. “Rest, baby girl,” she would whisper when she thought I was asleep. “I cannot lose you, too.” And when I opened my eyes, I’d find her curled up on the floor beside my cot in case I needed anything. Perhaps fussing was not her way, but I never doubted she cared.

Still, Dayen and Virian make me think that if I ever had a home away from Tigang, I might have had a decent life. I might’ve made friends. I might’ve been happy. Though Dayen’s fear hasn’t gone, he seems to be trying, so I resolve to try, too. I offer a weak smile, and the grin he returns is crumb-filled.

Dayen stuffs sweet bread topped with a mountain of salty carabao cheese into his mouth. “I’m just glad to be alive and whole. So far so good, right?”

I nod. He seems to be leaning less on his crutch today. He’s lucky that the fortress Healers are competent, but I still don’t believe he should have been allowed to be hurt at all.

“What do you think you scored?” he asks.

Virian makes a face. She’s wearing her pouch of scrap paper and writing tools at her hip again, the most sensible of us all. “My cousin told me that Kormar passed everyone who took the test with us, because what happened with the tree made it impossible to judge. We set off some kind of magical trap that brought the tree to life, but whoever set it wasn’t Kormar. No one seems to know who made it.”

I shiver, because who would create such a thing, and why?

“But you want to know something else?” Virian slides her breakfast plate next to mine and huddles close. “Those two boys who died? Their bodies aren’t in the infirmary where they should be kept until the end of the Sundo. A few other candidates are missing. Some people think that Guardians tossed them out last night, because we aren’t the only ones who’ve been targeted with pranks. One of the older girls collapsed this morning. Her roommates think she was poisoned.”

I wonder who her cousin amongst the Baylan is, if she can get gossip this quickly. Still, I’m glad she’s on my side.

No one else sits at our long table today. We all huddle in fractured groups. Everyone speaks in hushed tones except for Nen, the pinched-mouthed boy. He sits with Ingo, whose gold earrings and chains flash in the light. Nen laughs as if he has no cares in the world. I quickly scan the room and wonder who else Arisa might have interrogated in private.

Senil, the head Archivist, totters into the room. The old man reminds me of a gnarled, leafless tree that clings stubbornly to life. He clasps Arisa’s arm to steady himself, and the Astar helps him along, but he seems more irritated than pleased by her attentiveness. I think he would rather use a cane.

Virian’s posture goes rigid at the old man’s appearance, but as usual, Dayen doesn’t notice. I brace for whatever cruelty must surely follow.

“You know, Ingo’s great aunt was Reyna once, and his great great grandfather was Raja, too. His family sends an applicant every time they can, and they groom their children for it.” Dayen still gazes at the rich boy with something akin to admiration, but Ingo’s got a poor taste for friends if Nen is one of them.

“It makes no difference. The Sundo is never the same, or we would have a dynasty instead of a competition,” Virian says, but her attention is on the Archivist. The bald old man still has sharp eyes, and he gazes back at her with a frown.

A dozen steps behind, Teloh walks in with his head bowed.

I try not to look at Teloh, but I cannot resist the temptation to glance his way. His eyes are unfocused, his jaw clenched. Something is wrong. I see it in Arisa’s feigned concern for Senil. He acts as if her touch is poison, and I worry it might be.

Then I notice the bruises. They are faded, but they peek out from under Teloh’s sleeveless tunic, on display for all to see. It has the look of a public shaming, but our dear Astar only smiles smugly to herself. I clench my fists. No matter how much he confuses me, seeing him hurt makes me yearn to comfort him.

The head Archivist pulls free of Arisa, and they hiss at each other in tones too soft to hear before the old man barks for an initiate to help him totter away. For a moment, Arisa’s expression is a storm, but when she turns back to us, she’s all catlike innocence.

“My apologies, children. Datu Senil is not feeling well today and needs his rest, but the test will proceed as planned. Guardian?” She turns to Teloh, who refuses to meet her gaze. “You are knowledgeable in the histories. Let us conduct the test on behalf of the Archivists sect.”

Teloh uncoils like a snake in the sun. He winces as though every simple motion causes him pain, and I’m surprised that he does not murder her with his bare hands. Instead, he inclines his head, a perfect picture of politeness.

“Of course, Arisa.” The lack of an honorific feels spiteful, but if this needles Arisa, she doesn’t show it. I don’t understand their arrangement at all. “Candidates, follow us.”

Arisa and Teloh led us through the halls, and though I take note of the twists and turns of gently sloping ramps, the only direction I can truly discern is down. An open doorway leads into what looks like a massive cavern, and as we enter, an unnatural chill prickles at my skin. It looks like the inside of a beehive. Rounded stone alcoves are carved into the cavern’s curving walls, and each houses the bones of the dead.

“This is the final resting place of all the Rajas, Reynas, Datus, and Astars of Tigang.” Arisa waves her hands around her. “Though their souls have passed on, their remains still hold memories of the past. Today you will each be given a memory spell. You may choose any of our ancestors here. You must meditate and describe the vision shown to you. You will be judged on what lesson you can take from the vision, for the ruler of Tigang is not separate from the history of our country but a continuation of it.”

Teloh clears his throat, and his eyes lock on mine. “Choose well, for some of our ancestors died cruel deaths. Do not get trapped in a vision you cannot escape.”

It feels like a warning, and I flinch away.

An initiate hands each of us a paper scrawled with an orasyon, and I give one last nod to Virian and Dayen before we go off in separate directions. I look up a wall that recedes into darkness.

I don’t know the details of each ruler of Tigang, for we have had many. Fewer yet are the Datus who are known outside of the fortress by anything other than their position. And Astar? I dare not attempt to revive a Diwata’s memories. I shiver again and walk briskly around the circular room. I need to do this quickly so that I can track down my mother, but I also know that my choice of the dead matters. Skulls and bones peek out of their alcoves, gone yellowish with time, beside offerings of fruit, flowers, and drinks.

Most tombs climb up the walls, but the oldest are set into the middle of the floor. Unlike the open alcoves in the walls, they are covered with thick slabs of silver-veined marble. I walk past one carved into the shape of an old woman. It is so realistic that in the dim light I almost mistook it for someone asleep on the floor. What arrests me is her expression. Though she is lying peacefully, there’s something pained in the furrow of her brow and how tightly her eyes are squeezed shut.

I don’t realize I’ve walked toward her until it’s too late. The marble woman’s eyes open, and she blinks once, twice. She murmurs something in a low tone that I can barely hear.

It’s a spell, I realize as her mouth begins to glow. My head pounds like it is being squeezed in a vice, and I scream.

…

Darkness shrouds me like a wet blanket. I reach out and touch nothing but air. I take two steps back and find there is no door where there should be a door. The cavern of the dead is gone, and the heel of Holy Omu’s constellation shines bright red like a ruby in a dark sky where there should be a roof.

The deck is warm under my bare feet as I slowly rise and fall with the waves, and I listen to the song our people sang on our way across the ocean, in a language so old we Tigangi know it only in our dreams. I touch a finger to my chest and find my ghosts sway to its tune.

A striped sail manifests from the darkness, and when it rustles, it makes a noise like the flapping wings of a great bird. I’m on a boat. I taste brine on my lips, smell the salt air, and hear the gulls crying, though I cannot see them.

It is beautiful magic. Like my visions, this feels like it is something true.

Black ash coats my skin, and charred holes mar the fine fabric of my clothing. Everything on the boat glows red, illuminated by distant flames. I run to the side of my boat, past Kuran. Though she does not look the same, I know it’s her with the certainty you can only have in a dream. She winds a rope tight to secure our sail, and I look back at Arawan.

All seven islands are on fire, and the great volcanoes that bore them spew clouds of smoke into the sky. A storm swirls above it all, fanning flames on the wind and forking lightning across our forests. A small fleet of boats races against the wind around us, fleeing the dark shores of our homeland.

And behind me, someone is laughing or crying. I cannot tell which, only that it is a pathetic sound. When I turn to look, there Teloh sits. His arms are bound to the wooden mast, so he cannot wipe the tears streaming down his face.

He turns his dark, grieving eyes to me. “What have you done?” he asks.

And Arawan burns.