Kai stared at that inky blackness Rasia had disappeared off into. Movement caught the corner of his eye, when Kenji returned from his imposed stroll and climbed up the windship steps. He assessed the emptiness of the deck and didn’t need much but the shadowed outlines of the ship to piece the story together. Kai pushed himself off the railing and threw himself toward the steer. His hand tightened around the bone grip, with shoulders hunched against the impending judgment.
“You’re making a mistake.”
He glared at the face who had the gall to talk to him about mistakes. Kenji raised his hands, and his next words were slow and deliberate. “From the perspective of someone who has outlived their kulani, I think you’re making a mistake. You’ll come back to this moment and regret it for the rest of your life.”
“Then I’ll fucking regret it. I’m staying.” His grip tightened around the steer, and he stared at it harshly. “Rasia thinks it’s so stupid that I care what the Grankull thinks, but I want them to see my face and know tah didn’t die for nothing. I want to officially succeed in my Forging. I want to try out for the kulls. I want to be a windeka. I want to no longer be a curse. I want . . . I don’t want to be afraid anymore.” He shook his head. “Rasia and I are sailing two different paths.”
Kenji was quiet for a moment, considering his response. “Your tah cared for you, but she wasn’t perfect either, and although I was wrong about most things . . . kulani’s fight against the Grankull wasn’t always about you, sometimes it was about her pride and her ego and her entitlement. With Rasia-po, you could be happy. But this road here? This road toward the adoration and acceptance of the Grandkull—it’s long and it’s hard and leads only to bitterness and disillusionment. Remember, you’re the one at the steer, and you can always change direction.”
Kai finally looked up to face his tah and said derisively, “You could never understand.”
“I was born out the shit-end of the Grankull. I fucking understand everything. I come from a family where we only had enough for one to make it, and it wasn’t me. I never thought I’d live long enough to reach my Forging, much less show my face, but I got lucky—because I happened to have some talent and met the right people. But so many kids I ran the streets with didn’t survive. You can spend your whole life fighting for just a brick of dignity and respect and still die faceless. Somehow, I made it. I got out. I climbed that mountain, but guess what? You get to the top and all there is another fucking mountain. This shit doesn’t end. It’s just one nightmare after another, and I-” He dropped his head and sucked in a breath. “The only thing that matters are those standing beside you. The rest means nothing. Don’t make my mistakes.”
“I am not you,” he hissed out. He glared at his tah, bare-faced, unwavering. He had lived his entire life in Kenji’s shadow. “I will not crumble as you have. I will not fold. I will not surrender. I will always get back up. I have endured your anger and your blows. I have slayed the dragon you couldn’t. I have always been, and will always be, stronger than you.”
He frowned when his declaration didn’t have the intended reaction, for Kenji threw his head back with a strained cutting laugh. Kenji shook his head and said, “It’s like looking in a fucking dragonglass mirror. Yeah, I practically said the same thing to my tah back in the day. You are as stubborn and as hard-headed as I ever was. This fight you have chosen is never-ending. It will always be a struggle.”
“Struggle is all I know.”
“You deserve peace.” Kenji sighed and raised his eyes to the stars. He tilted his head in a pained expression and admitted, in a haunting tenor. “I’m cursed too, in a different way. It’s considered a weakness . . . so you don’t talk about it. You keep quiet, even when it’s loud in your ears. I know what happened to you yesterday on that street. I know what it is like to freeze. I know what it is like to drown on air. Like you, I have seen Death’s face.”
On some subconscious level, Kai had known. He had always known. They always had a kinship he could never explain. He asked, softly. “Is it my face?”
“No,” Kenji said. “It happened way before you. Before you were ever conceived.”
Kenji turned his face into the wind, and his grip turned pale around the windship railing. Kai saw the weight. In that moment, his anger and self-righteousness blew away. What was the point of fighting a person already lost?
He crossed the deck and leaned against the railing at Kenji’s shoulder. He gazed at the stars and said more gently, “I, more than anyone, know you aren’t perfect. You don’t have to hide anything from me. I won’t tell Nico-ji.”
Kenji’s grip on the railing grew paler. “A lot of people assume Shamai-kull and I met during the Forging, but we weren’t on the same Forging team. We met before, out in the Tents, and there’s only one reason why a kid in need of money crosses the border. I’m not ashamed of it. Most don’t talk about it, but many on my edge of the Hindlegs did it. I reckon Nico-po has guessed at it, but what she doesn’t know is all that came before.”
“I . . . only Anji-ji knows. Tah used to sell me to pay some of his debts when I was younger. I think he grew ashamed of it, and of me, what he made me do. Started justifying it by calling me a whore, that I was born to it, and as if to prove it he’d . . . sometimes he’d . . .”
Kai wound tight at the haunted blankness in Kenji’s eyes—a blankness he had seen first-hand in the eyes of the no-faces at the scavenger camp. He almost retched at the thought, horrified, and dared to somehow wrestle that horror into words. A triarch was supposed to protect the family. He never considered the worst that could happen with an abusive one. “Your tah raped you.”
“Until the day his kulani stabbed a needle through his eye. For all the sacrifices we’d made because of his gambling, the debts got worse and worse, and she had grown tired of it. His death was a relief, but when tah died, his debts didn’t. We were still expected to pay, and we knew our best hope was a good job with a good salary. That part was up to jih, but we still had to pay for his schooling and the debts we owed. So, I went into the Tents and did the only thing I thought I’d ever be good for.”
“I got lucky. I met Shamai-kull who looked out for me. I met Heron who taught me how to play the ilhan. And I got good at it, and I started getting contracts for ceremonies and pourings before I ever had a face. You begin to think you could be somebody. You begin to think you could be more than the dumb-twin, more than the one everyone wrote off. I passed my Forging, I earned my face, and I thought I made it—that I left all the monsters behind under the bed.”
“Then,” he snapped his fingers, “you have a panic attack in the middle of the fucking bodika. The monsters don’t go away. They aren’t a dragon in a story you can slay and are suddenly free of. No. It’s a fucking fight every single day. When you become an adult, you’re suddenly thrust into a society that sexualizes you at every turn. I knew how to go through the motions to make money, but it was never an act of pleasure for me, and I envied those who took that for granted. As an adult, you’re expected to enjoy sex, or else something is wrong with you. I kept freezing. I kept leaving partners unsatisfied, and I became so afraid of being labeled a skink, I stopped altogether.”
“That day, when I first met kulani, I told her no because I was afraid. And then, when we did get together, her fucking tah spoke to me like I was a pile of donkey shit in the middle of the road. And of course, he investigated my family history and found out I used to whore myself, and that was it. I’d never be good enough for his bloodline. I’d never be anything other than a tent whore. But I was determined to prove him wrong. I joined Shamai-kull in the hunting kulls, and we slayed a dragon. A fucking dragon, and it still didn’t matter.” He shook his head. “No matter what you do, sometimes it will never be enough. So, lani and I said fuck it and we had you anyway. You know the rest. You know how that turned out. And when they placed you in my arms, I knew at that moment, tah was right. I wasn’t good enough. You embodied everything wrong and broken about me. And I hated it. I hated myself. I hated you. I know better now that it wasn’t some physical inferiority on my part, but the awful truth is that the twins came from me, from my bloodline. That’s what messed the magic up, right? Too much of it? It’s still all my fucking fault.”
Kenji took a deep breath, eyes sallow, and continued, dark and bitter. “And in the end, I became no better than my fucking piece of shit tah.”
Then he crumbled and wept, hard sobs that Kai could do nothing to ease, except to give witness to. Their experiences weren’t identical. He had never experienced such sexual abuse, but he related to so many of the same emotions.
The bitterness. The anger. The inadequacy. The helplessness. The fear. The self-doubt.
It was like looking in a dragonglass mirror.
He had feared Kenji most of his life, but Kai had also admired him. It unsettled Kai to hear such insecurities. He wondered at his own words, said such a short while ago—was Kai truly stronger? If not . . . if not . . . was Kenji right? Was Kai falling into cycles he’d never escape from? Was he doomed to become the person standing before him? Or was Kai being unfair? The world could crush even the strongest of bones.
Even Rasia, at times.
Kai loosened the shroud he had tied around his waist and offered it, tentatively touching Kenji’s shoulder to get his attention. He stared at the shroud, surprised, and then reached for it to wipe his face.
“None of this—none of what I’ve told you is an excuse for my actions and what I’ve done to you, but I understand, better than anyone, this path you have chosen.” He looked Kai straight in the eyes. “I’m nothing but a piece of shit. I’m sorry I’m not strong enough for you. I’m sorry I can’t get my fucking shit together. I’m a mess. And I’m trying. I’m trying. But Kai, I am not worth staying for.”
Kai stared down at the bumpy grooves of the deck, uncomfortable at the outright accusation.
“This is your chance to get out,” Kenji said. “If I can’t do anything else for you as your tah, the least I can do is show you my monsters and convince you all this pain is not worth it.”
But it was, Kai thought, because they were here together. For so long, they’d been drowning, right next to each other, alone. Fighting a fight that no one else understood. For so long, all Kai had ever wanted was to reach out and hold each other up.
“I’m staying,” he said—unshaken, resolved, determined. He was unconvinced that leaving would solve all his problems. He had run from them for too long, and if he must face monsters every day, whether they be of his or the Grankull’s making, then so be it. He reached out a hand, like the hand Rasia had reached out to him not that long ago with the offer of a lifetime.
“This is the fight I have chosen,” Kai said. “The choice you need to make is whether you’ll help me fight it. I truly believe there are better peaks ahead. I believe the good days are worth the climb. There will be falls, and setbacks, and bad fucking days. It might all seem insurmountable, but it can be endured together. You and I are survivors. Will you slay dragons with me?”
A difficult expression crossed Kenji’s face—then appeared a tired bruised smile, one that was both bitter and proud, both resigned and renewed, both broken and stitched back together.
“Okay, Kailjnn. Okay.”
Kai stuck his legs between the windship’s railing and watched the wind shift dunes of sand. Rasia was out there somewhere, and he didn’t want to turn back until she had either returned to the ship, or he sensed she had returned to the Grankull.
“I’m sick,” Kenji said suddenly, beside him, legs also stuck through the railing. Kenji looked nervously over at Kai at the admission and then turned back toward the Desert. “I can’t explain it, and it’s happened once before, after you were born. Anji-ji wants me to go to the healers because he remembers what I tried to do last time, but I’m so afraid the healers will deem me unfit for work. That’s less money, and fewer rations, and I can’t put anything more on Nico-po. The hunting kulls . . . they covered for me. They kept my secret even when I barely had the energy to do anything. As a hunter, your relationship with Death changes. There is a certain . . . recognition of those who have been death-touched. The hunting kulls understood. They took care of their own.”
“But this new job terrifies me. What if I mess up? I can barely keep track of the drums on a good day. The only thing getting me out of bed is the fear of disappointing Nico-po but . . . I don’t have the energy for the things I once did. It’s harder without the alcohol. She believes it’s so easy to move on, and I want to for her, but it’s hard. Something is wrong with me.”
Kai recognized the courage it took for Kenji to admit this. He tapped his fingers along the poles. “What about an apprentice?” he suggested. “Most jobs allow them. You’ve taken on one before. An apprentice could help to keep you accountable and on track.”
Kenji stared at Kai, and Kai’s eyes widened at the unspoken question.
“Oh.”
“I didn’t want to ask because I thought you were leaving with Rasia-po. I didn’t want it to change your mind. But I need the help, and I don’t know if anyone else will understand. But I also feel that I don’t deserve to ask for your help. It should be the other way around. I should be the one making amends but . . . I can’t afford to lose this job.”
“The family got to eat,” Kai said, knowingly.
He nodded.
Kai looked down at his hands and sucked in a breath. “The story of my Forging that Rasia told you, I might never be that person again. Jih and I are working on my magic, but the reality is that I might never be that powerful again. I might . . . never be completely healthy on such limited Grankull rations, and I’ve come to terms with that. I’ll try. I’ll certainly try. But someone else might be better able to help you.” He mumbled, more self-consciously. “I’ll never be as strong or as capable as Nico-ji.”
He looked up when Kenji placed a hand on his shoulder. “I demanded unfair expectations of you when you were born. Sick or not, you’re still mine. It’s certainly not fair that I can hide my illness, while everyone knows yours. You don’t have a choice but to walk with your face. You’re far braver than I ever could be, and I’ll never again doubt the strength of your bones. Think on my offer and let me know.”
He nodded.
Kenji turned back to stare out toward the Desert. “You think Rasia is coming back?”
“She still hasn’t come this way. I want to make sure she gets home.”
“You really care for her.”
“She’s the hunter’s cloak to my elderfire,” Kai paused, “if you don’t mind me borrowing your words.”
Kenji huffed a soft smile and motioned over to the ilhan leaning against the railing. “That is yours to borrow as well, at least until you make your own. All musicians worth their strings make their own instruments. Though they’re not usually namesakes. I am sorry I broke yours. Rasia-po says you play pretty well.”
“Rasia has a big mouth,” Kai grumbled, without much heat. He looked over at the ilhan and reminded himself of the promise he made to stop running away. He slapped his hands on the deck and walked over to grab it. He sat back against the railing and placed it between his legs. “You’ve already tuned it?” he asked. The instrument was notoriously hard to tune, and Kai couldn’t get it right.
Kenji nodded and pressed his cheek to the railing as Kai placed the instrument between his legs. His sudden burst of confidence faltered. It was a little nerve-wracking to have Kenji watching him, whose Last Name was literally Ilhani. He glanced over at Kenji. “I can’t sing. I don’t have your voice.”
“Between you and me, I don’t either. Very much out of practice.”
He curled his forefingers around the pegs and laid his thumb on the strings. Confidence failing him, he asked, “How do you write songs? How do you create something out of nothing?”
He found that his fingers always went back to the familiar chords, unable to veer off from well-known lanes.
“I don’t,” Kenji answered. He flung himself back and sprawled across the deck. “I hear the songs in my head long before I put them to strings. I hear melodies in the rain and beats from the dragonsail. I’ve created chords to the way Shamai-kull stalks a hunt and I’ve harmonized to the vibrations of gonda in the sand. I listen, and the Desert plays her songs for me. But it’s quiet now. I haven’t heard anything in a long time.”
“Were you and Shamai-shi truly a thing?” he asked curiously. He doubted it now, after hearing Kenji’s backstory.
Kenji huffed. “Why do people always assume that? Adults can be platonic friends without the sex, you know. He was like a jih to me. It was us against the Grankull for so long. Then the whole courtship dance began, and everything got complicated. I remember the day he laid eyes on Kiba-kull, declared right then and there she was his kulani, and spent the next three years chasing after her. After we slayed a dragon, he saved his portion of the heart and gifted it to her when we got back. She shrugged her shoulders and said, these exact words, ‘You’ll do.’”
“I was so jealous of him sometimes. Everything always seemed to work out for him, but there was no doubt he was the greatest friend anyone could have ever asked for. He was always there when I needed him, and now he’s gone, and I’m still here.” Kenji shook his head and said with such disbelief, “I’m still here.”
“How did you two meet?”
Kenji’s eyes brightened, and Kai leaned over the ilhan as he launched into their hilarious first meeting. He reminisced, “I had never met someone with so much ambition and cunning. He was the one who wanted the world. I just wanted to sing my songs.”
Kai smiled soft, bittersweet. “I get that.”
He looked down at the ilhan, grabbed a stranglehold around his courage, and began to play. He missed a few notes in his nervousness, but he tried the opening again and flowed easily into the rest.
He faltered when he noticed how Kenji had sat up, frowning and withdrawn. Kai stumbled over his fingers and ended the song abruptly. Kenji shrugged his shoulder. “Yeah, I deserve that.”
“I didn’t play it to punish you. It’s my favorite song.”
Kenji gave him an odd disbelieving look. “Why? I composed that song a few days after you were born. It’s dark as fuck. I get asked to play it at deathpours.”
“Doesn’t change the fact that it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever composed,” he said. “It taught me that sometimes you’ve got to wade through all the darkness to experience that last note of hope at the end. That last note would be meaningless without everything that comes before it.”
Kenji harrumphed. Then he rolled his head and offered his hand. Kai’s eyes widened, and, with tentative hope, handed over the ilhan. Kenji glared at the instrument as if it would come alive to bite him, and then with all the caution of approaching an unknown animal, he carefully familiarized his fingers with the gut-strings. And then without any warning, the Desert swelled with music.
Kenji continued from the exact spot of the song that Kai had left off. He didn’t just play the song. Kenji-ta painted grief across the moon and seasoned heartbreak on his stars. He wove new experiences into the old tapestry, creating a constellation of sound Kai had both heard and never heard before. He serenaded the Hunter’s Cloak as if Death was his sole audience. There was no chorus, no chords that repeated, just a breathless symphony of notes that painted a transcendent mural of an imperfect life.
The final effervescent note marked not an end, but a beginning.
A sunrise.