The pale letters of the first page were difficult to make out in the dark cottage, especially with Brantley leaning over me.

“Do you have a torch or some candles?” I asked Varney. I didn’t dare sit near the fireplace with this rare parchment.

Varney scurried to a rough-hewn box in the corner and returned with an uneven stub. After lighting the candle and dripping wax onto the table, he secured it in place and stepped back. “’Tis yours now. All yours. Understand?”

He didn’t wait for a response. Instead, he reached for his tattered net and removed it from the wall.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Brantley asked. “Night’s fallen.”

Varney gathered the tangle of fiber into an awkward bundle. “Gonna do some fishin’.” A new lightness colored his voice.

“Now? It’s dark.”

“Rain’s passed, and I have better luck at night, seein’ as how I work from the shore, unlike some lazy people who let stenella do their work.” His banter was a stark contrast to the weight of anxiety and guilt he’d worn earlier.

He hurried outside and slammed the door behind him. I turned again to the first page, wondering: what heavy burden could these pages impart that their mere transfer to another’s hands could bring such a change? Perhaps I should close the cover now and turn away.

“What’s it say?” Brantley’s muscled arms surrounded me as he leaned in to look more closely. His breath warmed my ear. “I can read some, but that’s hard to make out.”

I wasn’t surprised he struggled with the text. The villages along the rim had little need for reading. The skill was useful for the occasional deed or title, but parchment was precious, so books were rare, and few people wrote letters. The Order required everyone on Meriel to achieve a basic comprehension, in order to read the frequent proclamations sent from Middlemost. However, few advanced to the level of skill we novitiates achieved.

Finally, something I could do better than Brantley.

I pushed aside any hint of smugness and concentrated on the page. The script was ornate, with added curlicues, making it even more challenging to decipher. I had only read a few sentences when I gasped and straightened, my head almost hitting Brantley’s chin.

“This was written by a dancer.”

Brantley stepped away and grimaced. “Lies from the Order?”

“No. Not a dancer from the Order. It says, ‘One day as I danced to the music of the waves, the voice of the Maker spoke. He called me to record His words so that future generations would remember His great love.’” I scooted the stool closer and turned the page. “If she danced near waves, she wasn’t in the Order. Besides, no novitiate would be allowed to speak of a Maker.”

Brantley gave a noncommittal grunt, but didn’t come back to the table. He settled on a log near the fireplace, poking at potatoes in the stew. “I’ll let you read in peace. You can tell me about it later.”

I read slowly, soaking in each sentence. One by one, each paragraph tore down everything I’d been taught in the history books of the saltars. For years I’d dutifully recited, “The power of the Order is sufficient to shape the world.” Yet this letter revealed a Maker who had formed our land with His own hands, and fashioned each plant and animal with intent and design.

The Order taught, “Only the worthy may direct our course.” But who determined the worthy? Tiarel? The other saltars? The letter described the Maker as the only worthy One. One who gave each person worth because He cared for us. Warmth stirred in my chest. The saltars’ sparing approval had been a cold pursuit, and never kindled the glow of loving arms wrapped around me as the words of this letter did.

My hand shook as I turned the page, my fingers speeding to trace the next line of revelation. My mind reeled, yet even though the words opposed everything I’d been taught, there was a deep drumbeat of truth to them, and I breathed them in.

If this letter was to be believed, the Maker had designed our world to ride the currents of a mighty ocean. He gifted the people He made with an echo of His creative power.

“Listen to this!” I couldn’t resist sharing with Brantley. “‘I gave some among you the gift of dance—a way to join with me in the caring for creation, and also a means to know me.’ That’s what the Maker told her. Imagine!”

Brantley blew on a spoonful of hot broth, then sipped it. “So this is just some long-lost manual for dancers?”

Already, I knew it was far more, but I didn’t spare an answer. I kept reading.

Brantley offered a bowl of stew, but I waved it away, too enthralled. Time vanished and the cottage disappeared as the story unfolded . . . of a Maker whose one command to His people was that they remember Him. The love and longing, joy and promise, sorrow and hope poured from the pages with the same heart I had sensed in the center ground. His existence now stirred less fear in me. His letter made it clear that although He was far beyond my understanding, He invited His little creatures to know Him. I longed to rush straight to the center ground and meet Him there . . . to tell Him I was sorry I hadn’t realized who He was . . . to thank Him for the dance, for the star rain, for flowers and bresh and breezes and all the things that had flooded me with a desire to thank Someone.

I carefully turned another page and read the next section twice. I glanced toward the fireplace. Brantley sprawled near the hearth, long lashes resting against his cheeks, and deep steady sighs rumbling from his chest. I hated to wake him, but I couldn’t wait until morning to share this.

“Brantley?”

He opened bleary eyes, then shot upright, fumbling for his longknife. “What happened?”

“Nothing. You have to hear this.”

He sank back against the wall, drew up one knee, and folded his arms over it. With a groan, he rested his head on his arms.

His lack of enthusiasm didn’t trouble me. My knees bounced, and I drummed my fingers on the table’s edge. “According to the letter, the Maker created the island to float in set currents. As it traveled over various areas, the roots of plants that reached to the sweet water drank from nutrients in each place to keep them healthy. And the world avoided major storms that stirred the ocean, because of the path it followed. And fish were bountiful as the island passed through their breeding grounds.”

He rubbed his eyes. “That’s nice.”

I rested one hand on the page and turned to him. “It makes sense. You’ve said that fishing has gotten harder every year. The storms have only grown worse since we were children. This could explain why everything has changed. The Order keeps the world turning in one place.”

He stifled a yawn and worked his jaw side to side. “You mean the Order is the cause of all our problems? Now that I can believe.”

I bit my lip and returned to the letter. “I don’t know. There are more pages . . .” Soon I was immersed again.

Truth, truth, and more truth. The words crackled like star rain, flaring with brilliance and color and beauty. Varney hadn’t needed to warn me that I must keep the letter. Nothing would make me relinquish it now. There was much I didn’t understand, and I had enough questions to fill as many pages as the letter. Yet what I could comprehend brought new light to my understanding of my world, and my life, and the dance. The candle shrank, and I read as fast as I could.

When I finished the last page, I closed the covers over the parchment, but my yearning continued to build. I longed to speak to the Maker who had poured out His heart in these long-forgotten pages. Brantley was asleep again, face boyish and peaceful at rest. I smiled, and drew his cloak over him. Then I tucked the letter beside him, where I knew it would be protected.

Kicking off my shoes, I ran outside onto the bare earth. Varney was nowhere in sight. He must have traveled to a favorite fishing spot. In the dark of middle night, only the stars guided my steps toward the shore. Damp earth squished between my toes, as if embracing me. Now that I had read the letter and heeded His call, shyness paralyzed me. I glanced back at the faint light in the hut’s window, but then took a few more timid steps toward the shore. A fragile breeze swirled past, cooling my cheeks. How could I approach Him? Would His beauty and power destroy me?

As I thought of the words of deep love that I’d read, I struggled for words. “To hear Your voice may undo me. But I will die loving You.”

Should I dance? I shook my head. I’d learned to use dance to assert my control over the world. He had intended dance to be very different. To be a joyful response to knowing Him. I couldn’t use patterns to conjure His presence as if He were as malleable as a cloud or wave that could be steered.

So I waited. The last of the clouds had passed, and no hint of wind stirred the sea. I’d never seen the water so still. The mirrored surface reflected millions of stars, tiny pinpoints glimmering like gems above and below. Star rain would be a fitting celebration of all I’d discovered, but the stars weren’t swelling and changing color.

Except for one.

From amid the stars, a glow of light lengthened out on the horizon—a human shape clothed in the glow of a million stars. Like a herder riding his mount, the brilliant column approached, but no stenella supported this figure. His feet traveled over the water.

My breath sped to rapid gasps. Collapse to my knees? Bury my face? Run? But I didn’t want to look away.

“Come,” He said in a voice like wind stirring in the pines.

Knees buckling, I stumbled toward the edge, balancing on the tangleroot underfoot. Every fiber of my being longed to hide, yet also craved His closeness.

“Draw near.”

Quaking, my arms reached forward. Another inch and I’d tumble into the dark water.

“Who are You?” I asked, my voice trembling.

“You’ve heard my voice before.”

This couldn’t be the same voice I’d heard in the center ground, so large and fierce and terrifying. His words now were gentle as a lullaby.

His eyes sparkled from the midst of the light, and He smiled. “I am the Thunder and the Whisper. I am your Warrior and your Tender. I am your Maker, your Keeper, your Dancer. And you are Carya of Undertow.”

“Carya?” I gasped. The stray word I had scratched onto a corner of parchment, not knowing what it meant. The long-forgotten name exploded into my heart.

“Your true name, given in love by your mother.”

How could the Maker of our entire world care about one small dancer? My voice fractured. “You know my name?”

“I know you.” The figure of light glowed even brighter, warm hues wavering outward. “You are mine. Draw near.”

There was no stenella to ride out to where He waited. I couldn’t swim. I had nothing to help me float. Surely He didn’t expect me to plunge into the sea?

Bathed in the warmth that came from His light, those arguments fled.

I pressed through my foot, stepping forward onto the water that shimmered like polished marble. As my weight came down, the surface softened slightly, and rebounded, supporting me step after step, like the buoyant daygrass on the edges of the center ground. I ran forward the last few paces, throwing myself into His arms.

His arms caught me and lifted me, lifted us both. We soared upward. Deep, joyous laughter surrounded me. Beneath us, Varney’s shack became a tiny smudge among the night-coated trees, and still we rose. The coastline spread out below us, and villages we had visited in past days. It should have been impossible to see much with only the stars for illumination, but the Maker’s glow helped me see clearly. The island grew smaller beneath us. Paths that had taken us weeks to travel wound inland. Then the Order came into view, a dark stain in the center of the lush world. Even from this distance, even safe in the arms of the Maker, a shiver rippled through me, along with relief that I’d left that tortuous place far behind.

As if I were riding the primary sun, I saw the entire island, our world turning stagnantly in a vast ocean. Far out to sea, stenella glided, unfurling their fins before disappearing into the depths. Other strange and larger creatures swam languidly. Swirls of clouds gathered and parted, revealing what might have been another island thousands of miles from our world. The Maker’s heart beat with love so powerful, I felt it throb through my veins. Now I loved the world too. Each plant, each creature, and each amazing and difficult and suffering person.

In a blink, we stood on the shore again.

“I showed you the vastness of the world; now I give you a new name. You are Carya of Meriel. No longer of one village or form or designation. You will share Me with all.”

The outline of the figure beside me wavered. I could see Him, but even with trying, couldn’t take Him all in. I must be dreaming. Perhaps I was sleeping at Varney’s scuffed table, head in my arms, exhausted from reading deep into the night.

The Maker reached out, and I placed my hand in His. His grip was tangible and ethereal at the same time, in a way I couldn’t comprehend. “My little dancer, will you carry my love to all the people of Meriel?”

I beamed. How could I do anything else? The joy flooding me would make me burst if I didn’t share the news. All those years of thinking we were alone . . . struggling to control the world through our perfection. The truth was glorious. I would tell everyone I knew.

“Of course! Parisa of Whitecap will be so thrilled. And I can find Nolana when we reach Windswell tomorrow. And I must wake Brantley. He needs to see You for himself. And then when we reach Undertow—”

“Child, you will indeed travel the rim to remind people of what they’ve forgotten.” The voice that pulsed like dance drums but also seemed to well up from inside me now held a tinge of sorrow. “Then you must take the truth to the center of Meriel. To the Order.”

All my warmth and joy rushed away, and like a landed fish, I struggled to breathe. I sank to my knees, cold with dread. “Not there. Please. I can’t go back there.” Didn’t He understand? The Order commanded obedience and fear throughout the world. They gloried in holding our island in place. If I questioned them, Tiarel would have me tossed into one of her wells to perish in the dark sea beneath the Order.

“In time long past, the dancers who formed the Order sought to be a blessing, to unite and equip those with the gift,” He said.

I shivered. “But they are causing harm. Breaking the world.”

“Because they are broken. They need the truth to make them whole.”

My heart trembled. “I can’t. Not me.”

The world around me blurred into the background and the figure of light pervaded my vision. His words saturated my hearing like the swish of my own pulse in my ears as He spoke. “Don’t be afraid.”

That was the hardest command to embrace. I tried to tighten my back muscles, to stand strong, but still I shook my head. “They won’t listen. Besides, I couldn’t even find my way back to Middlemost alone.”

“You won’t travel alone.”

“You mean Brantley? He won’t have any interest in helping with this.”

I could barely make out a patient smile on the face that glowed so brightly. “I will be with you.”

A little of my faith and joy returned. Hand in hand with this glorious and powerful Maker, everyone would be quick to hear. One glimpse of Him, and they would believe. “Will You carry me as You just did, or will we walk? Or run along the sea?”

His hand touched my face, soothing as Ginerva’s balm. “I will guide you. What was hidden will be revealed.”

Even as the words floated in the air and repeated in my mind, the figure of the Maker glided away, across the water and toward the horizon. An early arc of the primary sun sent glowing hues skyward, and then dimmed as His brightness slipped past it.

“Don’t go!” I scrambled to the edge, ready to run across the water after Him. The toes of one foot pierced the surface of the sea and sank beneath. The water no longer offered support.

I staggered back, barely preventing myself from tumbling into the depths.