Chapter One

In a little over two weeks, the country of Tigang will crown its new ruler. This means in three days’ time, people will start dying.

Young people not much older than I am already mass outside the gates of the glass fortress. I pass these bright-eyed, confident soon-to-be bodies. I dare not linger, because I am here for a different reason. They are simply in my way.

I stick my hands in my pockets and make myself small. I beg pardon and squeeze past jostling elbows, careful not to touch anyone with my bare skin. There are more volunteers than I expected. To enter the competition might once have been an honor, but my mother always scoffed at the idea.

“Leave it to the desperate and the foolish,” she often said. “You are neither of those things.”

But the last time I saw my mother, I promised her I would never come to Bato-Ko, and yet here I am.

The months since my mother disappeared melt into a lifetime of dusty roads and secrets.

I’m afraid I will forget my mother completely. It’s already getting harder to recall her face. I see nothing of her in my features but my dark brown eyes. My black hair is long and straight, while hers is a short wavy bob that she keeps away from her face with colorful cloth wraps. She is tall, like Kuran, and her skin is a darker shade of brown than mine. But while my sister has something to say to everyone, my mother and I would often sit together for hours in silence.

I don’t need silence now. Our aunt, Manay Halna, tells me nothing about my mother because she doesn’t care about me, but Kuran tells me nothing because she cares too much.

I need answers as much as I need my mother.

A massive fortress looms above the westernmost tip of the city. It was carved out of a natural stone hill, but you can’t tell by looking at it. Rippling glass walls built into the stone remind me of a frozen waterfall, and it gleams too brightly in the sunlight to stare at for long. Pretty would be the wrong word for it. It is blunt. It is unrefined power. No matter where I go in the city, the weight of its presence feels like it’s following me, and my skin crawls the closer I get to it.

But the archives are an addition built against one side of the fortress. The two buildings share one wall, but unlike the heavy stone and rippling glass of the fortress proper, it is a dome-shaped building fronted by large, clear glass panes that stretch from the ground to its rounded ceiling. It’s almost delicate. A thick green turf grows over the vast expanse of its roof, held up by a forest of wooden poles carved into the shape of branching trees.

I cross my arms and try not to appear impressed. Our family has crossed the continent twice, and I have never seen anything like this before. Through the glass, I spy more books than any one person could read in dozens of lifetimes. Archivists scramble to and fro, carrying books down the narrow corridors like ants busy at their work.

Breathe, Narra. I stop myself from fidgeting and steel my resolve. If I were any other person, I might have spent all day wandering those narrow aisles lined with towering shelves. But I am not. I shouldn’t even be here.

I walk through the towering glass doors, thrown open so that anyone may enter. Knowledge is meant to be shared, decreed the first Astar, a Diwata who became human and founded this country. Ever since, a supposed reincarnation of the Astar has lived in the glass fortress and occupied a ceremonial position in the government—an advisor to our Rajas and Reynas. Though there are unflattering stories about the first Astar, I can’t imagine anyone who built this library could be all bad. I only wish I had time to explore it.

I pace down long aisles of books and take a furtive glance around. All the shelves are arranged in neat rows and alphabetical order. Not a book looks out of place. And while the towering shelves are tightly packed, the sunlight that filters through the glass walls makes it feel less crowded. Up above, the ceiling is decorated with gilded constellations.

“Move!”

I flatten myself against a wall as an Archivist wheels a cart past me with a scowl. Archivists occupy one branch of our government. Their sect specializes in recording history, running our schools, and accounting our tithes. But they are still holy Baylan, trained in magic far beyond anything I could purchase in a market stall.

Manay Halna calls Archivists “Glorified pencil pushers!” behind their backs, but she’s all smiles and bows in person, because one simple spell could reveal she hasn’t paid her taxes in years.

I scurry along and look for a friendlier face.

My mother always warned me that the Baylan are not to be trusted, but I’m out of options now. I gather up my resolve to speak to someone and circle back toward a skinny old man seated at a wooden desk. He wears a gaudy-looking tapis skirt in orange and yellow over blue silk trousers, and an embroidered bato jacket trimmed with gold. It looks as though he picked his clothes for no other reason than because they were expensive, because everything clashes. But his skin is as dark brown as my own, and he sits dwarfed by the books stacked atop his workspace. Red streaks edge his eyes, and beads of sweat cling to his receding hairline.

I’ve encountered Archivists from time to time, recording taxes in city centers and delivering books to libraries, but I have never spoken to one. This Archivist looks too unwell to be dangerous, but a Baylan’s word is law, and I must not misspeak.

I roll back my shoulders, tighten the knot of the malong on my waist, and stand tall.

“Yes?” he asks. His fingers twitch as he holds them out. He waits for me to press his hand to my forehead and ask for his blessing, but I keep my hands clasped close to my threadbare tunic, too aware that this is an insult to an elder. It can’t be helped, but the guilt gnaws at me.

He drops his hand, and his eyes narrow at my rudeness.

“Do you have a list of everyone arrested this year and where they are being kept?” I bow my head to hide the redness of my cheeks.

“For whom are you looking, child?” he says and stares intently at my face as if trying to place me. “Only those who have committed the most heinous crimes and are awaiting trial in the fortress are listed here.”

“Shora Jal.” I bristle. I’m not a child.

“It sounds familiar…” His eyes widen a moment at my mother’s name. He points down an aisle of books. “Five rows down, then three rows left.” He jumps to his feet and wanders off into the endless stacks, muttering as if he’s lost his train of thought. I hurry off and find a chalkboard built into the rear wall of the archives. Endless curving script decorates its surface, broken only where names have been erased. If my mother is not listed here, I will go to every library in Bato-Ko to find out where she is being held.

The chalkboard is too dark to read by natural light, so I draw a simple orasyon for illumination in the chalk dust with the moist tip of my finger. As I blow upon the spell, my mother’s name illuminates. It confirms that she is still alive. She’s so close! Just beyond the wall that separates the archives from the fortress. But my stomach drops, because it means something has gone terribly wrong. All I know is that she’s been arrested, but not why.

I walk back past the sickly Archivist’s empty desk and jump as he suddenly appears in front of me. He thrusts a fat book toward me. A curious expression lights his eyes, and my skin crawls at his scrutiny. This close, I can see a red rash peeking out from beneath his tunic. I take a small step backward.

“What must I do to ensure her release? May I advocate on her behalf? How can I find out what she was arrested for?” I sputter.

“So many questions, child.” He slaps the great tome onto the desk and tears fragile pages as he thumbs carelessly through it. “First, tell Manong Alen who your grandmother is.”

It’s one of the genealogies. I am tempted to peek in it, because my mother never speaks about her family, but I worry he will take too much of my time and Kuran will be suspicious of my absence. My sister warned me against meddling in our mother’s affairs, but I can’t sit back and do nothing. Not now.

I’ve sworn to the Heavens that I will fix this, because even if my mother would never accuse me of it, I know that her arrest is my fault.

“Yirin Jal,” I say, because I cannot lie to him. He could compel the truth from me with a spell if he wished. He slams the book shut before I can read it and tucks it under an arm.

“I knew it! Which of Shora’s daughters are you?” He leans so close that I smell his rancid breath. It’s sweet, as if he’s rotting from the inside out. I glance left and right for an escape, but before I can stop him, he grabs my arm and yanks me toward him.

His eyes widen, and he springs away from me as if I am on fire. My silk scarf has come undone. He’s glimpsed the birthmarks upon my neck: flat black splotches that mark me as a cursed girl.

The whole world seems to pause, and all I feel is my heart hammering in my chest. The Archivist doesn’t need to say a word, but I know exactly what he is thinking. Cursed. Dirty. Unlucky girl. And there’s no one here to save me.

I run away and wrap the scarf around my neck as I go, scattering people left and right, not stopping to apologize as I careen through the streets.

I’m numb and sweaty by the time I reach the port where Kuran should be waiting, but my heart skips when I turn around. A gaunt shape darts behind a street stall.

I am being followed.