Chapter Seventeen

BUT BEFORE WE can all surge forward, Evelyn emerges from who-knows-where, and she’s at Richard’s side next to the cage, calling off his attack.

“And just what did you expect when I briefed you as to the nature of these celebrations? We trained for it. And we agreed to let the Grovians have their holiday unimpeded unless a greater threat was presented.”

He does not let down his bow, and somehow, though she’s talking softly, everyone in the Gathering is bristling, keenly aware of their conversation.

“With respect, ma’am, no one agreed, just you and that girl—”

“Iema outranks everyone here except you, and I outrank you tenfold, Richard. Now put down your weapon, or so help me—”

“What? You’ll tell your joiner on us?”

My stomach lurches and Evelyn’s eyes flash dangerously.

“I have no joiner,” she says, deathly soft. “Disarm. Now. This is not a suggestion.”

He hesitates for only one more moment and then releases the tension in his bow, slinging his arrow messily back into its quiver.

“Stand down!” Evelyn calls to the other Hands. “Let them come.” Her other soldiers obey her reluctantly.

Just in time too.

Because the dragons are casting shadows directly above the Gathering now, flying in traditional Lunamez formation, with the youngest dragons, like Zaylam and Semad, ensconced in the middle of an undulating wave of elder and grown dragons, like Archa, Harlenikal, and Gimla. They sweep patterns around each other, their tails unfurling into the fins they become in the Flowing, as the lower half of the dragons move their bodies like dolphins, swimming through the air, while the upper half swoop like hawks, cutting through the air with powerful wings and deep harmonies to the melodies of the lower dragons. They sift between each other seamlessly, so that each dragon takes on each role. I try to track Zaylam with my eyes, but keep losing her relatively tiny body in the midst of all the others.

Lerian nudges me and jerks her head towards Aon. His eyes are narrow and hard, watching faeries and their dragons spinning in their hatchling greetings. Without warning, he wrenches his hand from mine, leaving Lerian’s arms alone to support me. He flies up and away from the reverie, his arms locked tightly around his torso.

“Aon!” The effort of shouting after him makes my head throb.

“Let him go.” Lerian sighs. “Of course he’s gonna be jealous. Angry. He should be.”

Aon slips into the infirmary tent with Blaze, and judging from his glowering expression, it looks like it’s hit him that without Dreaming, he and Banion will never have their hatchling dragon.

He’s not the only one in our family who aren’t exactly thrilled to see the dragons. Even as Mom speeds toward her hatchling dragon, Gimla, and even as Zaylam sings down to me, I reach out for Mama’s hand, trying to catch her downcast eyes with mine. Her hatchling dragon, Xamamlee, was killed in the first massacre. Mama doesn’t look at me, and I swipe my thumb across the back of her hand. She squeezes slightly.

Then a single, solemn deer call erupts from the southwest edge of the Gathering. The dancing, the singing, and the hatchling greetings all fade to a stop. The dragons, of course, are the last to quiet their songs, gradually tapering out into low hums in the bases of their throats.

When the last of their humming finally peters out, I open my eyes—I didn’t realize I’d closed them—and find Lerian’s hand still in mine, and Mama’s. They both help me move as everyone in the Gathering flutters, trots, slithers, crawls, and wheels into formation. We never coordinate this part of our Lunamez celebration, but even the Forest creatures come out for it, and it always seems to come together. Sure enough, Osley leaps up to rub against my ankle. Together.

The threading.

When we account for all we’ve grown and lost since the last Lunamez celebration.

Zaylam and the other dragons fly so high above the Gathering that I wonder if the nons can distinguish who is who. An assortment of other winged creatures are swarming out of the Forest, so many that the Hands again try to raise their bows before the Controller gestures for them to stay their shots. The air is thick with the rustling of wings of all stripes: leathery, feathery, thin and translucent, wide and narrow and everything in between. We faeries wait for the Forest birds to settle into endless formations between the dragons and the treetops surrounding the Gathering—then we follow. Mom has cajoled Aon out of the infirmary, and Lerian gives Mom my hand so she and Mama can help fly me up with the others. Below, groundlings like Lerian and Osley shuffle into their own positions on the Gathering grounds. I don’t have to look down to know that Os will arrange querself below me, but I do check to see where Lerian is. She’s below me too, giving me an irritated look that says, “Whatever, it’s Lunamez. You’re still a traitor.”

My heart rises and sinks at the same time.

An anticipatory humming fills the air. I look up at a winged friend of mine, Zaem, who sometimes plays lookout for me on my spy missions. Her little wings are keeping her steady near my right wingtip. She offers a chirp, and I raise the side of my mouth at her. We wait.

It’s too dangerous for the dragons to extend the thin, ropelike, sunup colored threads of Energies directly into the Plains, as they would in Lunamezes past. Now, the nons would surely try to trace the connections to locate their hidden home, to dismantle the Barrier. So they send their threads, emanating from the tips of their wings and their furry underbellies, down to the canopies of local Forest trees, who extend them back through their roots across the entire Forest and Underland, through into the Plains.

Already, there are gaps in the Energies that the threading bends, trees we’ve been forced to chop down since last Lunamez, those who have evacuated their souls from their bodies preemptively, to avoid the torture of the axe. We wait for the threads to pass through us.

Undulating soundlessly through the air, an Energy thread that tastes like Zaylam’s songs swims into my chest. I welcome it. I’m both warm and freezing in my core where it joins me, as it makes its way through my wings before spreading out of the tips into those I love best. More pass through me and more are spread. I keenly feel Mama and Aon connecting to my threads, and the sharp, bitter taste of my current connection with Lerian. Osley’s thread slips up through my left foot and I grin.

The entire air above the Gathering is crisscrossed with golds and reds and fire oranges as threads made of woven ropes of the Energies pass through more and more of us, in more and more combinations. When mine connects with P’Tal, I almost fall out of the sky from the depth of his sadness. Mom and Mama increase their grip on me. When I connect with Blaze, it feels almost too weak to notice, too faint to exist. Que is fading. I push more effort into my thread with quer.

We all hold each other through the connections. The threading part of Lunamez makes physical the connections we’ve forged with each other since last Lunamez, and I’m reminded uncomfortably of that now as E’rix extends an orange thread my way. It reminds us—makes sure we don’t forget—those lost by anger, by death, by betrayal. Because those we hate send threads through us too; my tug on Tacon is pretty strong and tastes like decay. But it also tastes like sorrow; I wonder if he’s sending that to me.

Because that’s the other thing the threading does. It allows us to communicate feelings unspoken, connections otherwise forgotten, otherwise sidelined, otherwise dismissed as uncomplicated.

All of us are bathed in the glow of the threads we’ve made; they extend way out into the rest of the Grove and into the Flowing, I know, but I’m not flying high enough to see them dip into the waves. I know Zaylam is, and I am eager for her to tell me what it looks like. I glance over at Kashat, hovering near the nestling; his eyes are fixed on the breakages in the threads, the places where death has left them with no soul to latch on to. His face is made of steel. I tug on the thread I have running through his chest, and he looks at me and winks. I grimace and wonder why he’s so nervous about the Accounting.

When the dragons sing again, we let go of the threads. They become thinner and thinner, dimmer and dimmer, until they are restored to the usual translucence of the Energies. The threading doesn’t create things that weren’t already there; it just makes visible things we tend to forget in our daily lives.

As most of the birds and insects, and all manner of groundlings, flit and scamper back to their goings on. They usually don’t share our traditions, but the threading draws them in because we are all, after all, creatures of Lunav. Watching them scatter, Mom and Mama fly with Aon and me, back to the infirmary, where I can lie with Blaze and get a good, head-safe view of the nestling.

Centaurs and faeries across the Gathering settle in for Kashat and the others’ accounting performance. The dragons have slipped back to the Plains under the cover of the swarms of creatures returning to the Forest and Underland.

Jax puts a gentle hand behind my head as my growns lay me down on my cot, positioning me so that I, like Blaze—who seems to be awake now, but barely—can look out in the Gathering and have a good view of the nestling. We can’t actually see the performers from our spots; the bucket-like edges just allow us to see what they want us to. As the anticipatory hush rises across the Gathering, I get a glimpse of Kashat’s wings, fluttering their tips up above the nestling as he helps the younger faeries and centaurs manage their magic and puppets. I settle back and feel Mom’s hand running through my hair. Blaze coughs and Aon sniffs.

Kashat’s voice, booming with the help of whatever spell he’s twisted the Energies into, makes me jump slightly.

The accounting has begun.

“The beginnings of Lunav,” he proclaims. A large puppet of a Lunavad tree rises from the nestling—I can’t tell which centaur is controlling the puppet, but I don’t have time to think about it because one of the faeries then conjures up a misty, green map of Lunav’s connected lands, above and around the tree puppet. More whispy images overlay the map and interact with the puppets the centaurs are operating, weaving the origin story the Accounting always gives. Kashat’s voice settles in over the tale they’re painting in the air.

“It is said that on the eve of the birth of Lunav, a single tree—a Dragon Spawn sapling, a sapling of who we today call Lunavad trees—burst forth from the first tear of rain, emerging so excitedly that the tree’s roots split the ground of Lunav into the many regions that now make up our cracked land.” A roar like thunder booms from the nestling as the misted map of Lunav is ripped asunder, one round landmass breaking out into a few smaller ones.

“This tree towered over all of Lunav, so high that the vast expanse of its flattened canopy covered all of the land in dark, impenetrable shadow, covering the entire land, even beyond the edges of Lunav itself.” A deep gloom settles over the entire Gathering, and I meet Jax’s eye and grin. Kashat’s outdoing himself.

“The tree, known by the name of our land itself—Lunav, Lunav, Lunav—absorbed all the sun and rain que needed, but the land remained parched and lifeless underneath quer.” A new narrator, an elder whose voice I vaguely recognize but can’t place, carries on the story.

“Lunav wanted companionship, for the richness of many lives, but knew the permanently sheltered land could not bear more life. From quer spindly, tactile leaves, que wove and breathed life into a single, giant spider—Lunara—and explained to her quer idea.”

From the leaves of the vast tree puppet itself weaves a smoky figure, jet-black with orange tips on each of her eight spindly legs. Her eight unblinking eyes glisten through the shadows the performers have created. She flexes her sharply bent, tall legs experimentally like she’s a real being just emerged from the depths of pre-life. As vast as Lunav’s circular canopy, their puppet version of Lunara looks uncannily alive. A small swarm of flies and bees who’ve stayed for the performance fly backward, away from the nestling. Blaze raises a shaky hand toward the outside, inviting the flies and bees to play.

“Born knowing of webs and of weaving, Lunara contemplated Lunav’s request. As Lunav asked, Lunara took the tree’s soul into her own body. The first soul keeper.” Aon and Blaze exchange an excited look at that, and for a moment, it’s like que’s not sick at all. Like que’s not dying.

I remember pleading for my growns to call a soul keeper after Idrisim died. I wonder if Aon will do the same when Blaze’s rattled breath stops. It won’t be long now.

Jax catches me staring at the two of them and shakes his head slightly at me. Mom’s rhythmic fingers continue massaging my head. I swivel my gaze back to the performance.

“The spider glowed”—sure enough, an intense golden glow emanates from the nestling—“with the essence of two lives inside her, her own and the tree’s, as she unwound the intricate connections of what had been Lunav’s body into millions and millions of life-giving tendrils.” The tree puppet is being unspun, like unweaving a length of rope, splitting into smaller threads as the elder speaks. I think about Jorbam’s trunk being unwoven like that and shudder.

“These tendrils, Lunara scattered about the various lands of Lunav, and made sure to sow the tree’s tender leaves and strong trunk branches into the trenches that are now rivers across the lands. A strong wind blew—” And, right on cue, a mighty gust rushes through the Gathering, ticking my face with the scent of the grasses beneath us—“and most of the leaves were carried to the northwest, where today lies the impenetrable wall of soft, lush greenery that borders all of Lunav’s limits.” The Borderland’s unapproachable moss of forestry whisps into being on the map of Lunav above the nestling. “Blown herself by this wind, Lunara overbalanced, letting the biggest, strongest threat of Lunav’s trunk fall to the south, cracking open several lands, expanding the trenches that have become today’s ocean—the Flowing—and all its provinces.” Salty water rains down on the Gathering in a soft mist as the wispy map of Lunav splits according to the narration. Murmurs and shouts of approval flutter through the Gathering. I glance at the Controller, and she looks equal parts bewildered and absorbed. I grin in spite of myself.

Kashat picks up the tale. “The tree no longer standing, but scattered in pieces across the land, Lunav the tree had given life to Lunav the land. The rivers and oceans began to fill. Lunara laughed heartily as the earth below warmed and seemed to glow with pleasure, anticipating what would happen next. Lunara, the first soul keeper, tenderly breathed out, the luminescence that was Lunav’s soul inside her leaving her body.” The enchanted spider figure flexes her jointed, arched legs as Lunara’s earth-colored soul undulates out of her pincers, mixed intimately with the golden tendrils of her soul keeping magic.

“Lunav’s soul spread across Lunav’s land, touching every piece of quer body that Lunara had unspun. At each touch, new life arose; from the smallest insects to the largest dragons, and groundlings of all kinds, life sparkled across Lunav, from Lunav. Lunara watched Lunav’s soul giving life to all on, above, and below ground. The world as we know it had begun.”

The chiming of faerie wings gently meeting another person’s wings starts ringing out immediately, along with centauric whinnies and whoops, signaling our appreciation of the Accounting, of the work and artistry put in by those in this harvest’s Lunamez learning pod. But the noises simmer down when the realization sweeps across the Gathering that the performers are not finished. Mom’s hand stills on my head, and her body tenses. Mama’s head lifts from P’Tal’s shoulder, and Aora rises from Zeel’s lap. Blaze and Aon exchange a look, and Jax wheels all the way to the edge of the platform to see outside better. A confused buzz rises up throughout the entire Gathering, but quickly subdues as it becomes clear that Kashat isn’t done speaking, the enchanted, wispy images still forming above the nestling basket.

My eyes seek out Evelyn in the crowd below us and her lips are open slightly as her eyes take in the confusion around her. Her body, though, remains calm, remains dignified, like nothing can ruffle her, like nothing surprises her.

“And so it was that the trees made their first sacrifice to animal forms, and so it was that began the dominance of animal creatures. So it was that we began the legacy of the terrors we inflict today, and so it is that we still reenact Lunara’s birth. But so it must be that we do not celebrate her birth to reinforce our dominance, but to recognize our origins as treely peoples, as planted-based peoples.” There’s a stirring across the Gathering from the Hands, from Tacon and his King’s Registry cronies. Mom’s fingers have migrated from my head to my shoulder, and she squeezes. The Controller lifts two fingers gently by her side, but it’s enough. Richard looks furious, but he does not raise his weapon. If Kashat notices the Hands gripping their weapons tightly from his place in the nestling, his voice remains steady, and he doesn’t let on.

“So we pray today, on this day of days, that we will not be uncritical of the places we come from.”

A young one’s voice rises to replace Kashat’s, speaking in Underlandic centaur. “Lunav asked Lunara to sacrifice quer for the good of the land, but today we ask—should Lunara have acquiesced? Yes, Lunav’s soul is now within us all, but what is the cost of our lives? To be born of deadly sacrifice, even willingly made—was it willingly?—is to be borne of blood.”

“Blood.” It’s Kashat’s voice again, but he, too, uses the centauric tongue. The map of Lunav fades and is replaced by flashing smoky images, wisps of color and chaotic patterns, forming images of Dreams, of Slicings, of the palace’s injustices. Of a beautiful young non woman in soft blue riding gear bonding with a young spotted horse. Of that non dying of the plague.

Of the massacres. Of Lerian getting shot. Of Leece and Mara being dragged away. Of Rada.

Gasps jump through the Gathering and I tear my eyes away from Kashat and the others’ display to watch Evelyn. Something hard has settled into her eyes and she, now, is gripping her bow, her arm extended back toward her quiver. Her chin is raised, her healed hand steady. Iema is at her side, whispering urgently in her ear.

Kashat does not stop. He and the others weave intricate portraits of our souls through the sky. As he weaves, people—not in the Lunamez learning pod, just people, faeries and centaurs from the crowd, begin shouting out.

“How are we supposed to live without our hatchling dragons?”

“Or hatchling trees?”

“The young ones don’t know what it’s like to connect to the rest of Lunavic life anymore– ”

“They don’t understand why we don’t eat flesh, they don’t want grown food anymore!”

“And they’re not thinking of labor as murder!”

“Murder!”

“Settle down, Grovians,” a Hand interjects.

“And what about the dragons? They’ll be extinct if we can’t Dream any more hatchlings!”

“That’s enough, you’ve had enough warning!” Richard is clearly losing patience, but Evelyn has yet to give any attack signals.

The whisp images continue as Kashat’s voice cuts back into the chaos. “We are treely peoples, and we are being killed. Like Lunav before us. Consider this, people of the Grove, when you next take up your axes and scythes for labor. But if Lunav, the tree, could find a reason to celebrate—could find a reason for quer soul to glow that golden glow just as que was about to die—we, too, must celebrate, this day. Celebrate, because Lunav’s soul contains that kind of strength. Lunav’s soul contains that kind of power. And so do we all. Good season, good Lunamez.”

Kashat ends the accounting just as Evelyn is loading her bow, looking both reluctant and steady. Iema keeps whispering. The wisps, the images, fade, and all that remains is the descending nestling, the mutterings and gasps of the faeries and the centaurs, the eager buzzing of the surrounding insects.

As slowly as she raised it, Evelyn lowers her bow. Some of her men start toward the nestling, and she holds up a hand to stop them, her head still tilted toward Iema’s lips.

“Good season, good Lunamez.” The murmur starts with those standing near Tamzel, and spreads through the Gathering, through the lips of all the faeries and centaurs. Through my own lips, through Aon’s, even Blaze’s, though softly and bloodily. Whinnies and sparks and faerie wing chiming spread throughout the Gathering as the shocked crowd recovers itself. The sounds build and build, until the cheers and the chiming far outweigh the disgruntled complaints of Tacon, the angry arguments of Richard. Evelyn looks like she issues a short series of orders and slips away from the center of the Gathering, out of my range of vision.

Mom and Mama squeeze my shoulders as they hover up and out of the infirmary tent. “Your friend sure has some courage,” Mom says mildly.

“Mmmm.”

“Is it time for Lunamez stew?” Blaze coughs softly, quer voice choked with the chunks of blood lining quer throat.

Her growns laugh until tears leak out of their eyes.

“Yes, sherba, Hazal and I are going to bring back enough for everyone,” Mom tells quer in Underlandic centaur.

“Even Aon?” que asks. I grin and Aon nudges quer gently, like Lerian does—used to do—to me.

“Yes, even enough for Aon’s fifteen stomachs,” Mama assures quer. Jax grimaces a smile as they fly out into the throngs of Grovians waiting to be served Lunamez stew from the various bubbling pots that the Growers have conjured around the edges of the Gathering.

Shouts of good seasons and whispers of Kashat’s bold performance drift up to the platform on the breeze of the growing evening, the growing celebration.