A desecration has been done, he thinks. And I am touched by it.
Then he reaches into what’s left of the pile of organs and plucks out the charred remains of the fawn’s heart. He holds it in his hands, brushing off the ash. It queerly reminds him of the feeling of a child’s hand in his palm.
Weeping, he takes a bite of the fawn’s heart.
And I shall do more desecrations yet, he thinks. Until justice is done, or I am spent.
Of the six original Continental Divinities, only four ever bore children—Taalhavras, the Divinity of order and knowledge; Jukov, the Divinity of merriment; Olvos, the Divinity of hope; and Ahanas, the Divinity of fecundity. Despite this limited number, they had quite the constant mess of interactions and relationships, producing dozens if not hundreds of Divine offspring: Divine sprites, spirits, and beings that peppered the whole of the Continent. These offspring were produced in a manner that mortals cannot truly understand—the genders of the Divine parents did not particularly matter, nor did inbreeding seem to have an effect—but we must consider them, for all intents and purposes, to be the children of the Divine.
One of the favorite questions historians toy with in modern times is exactly what happened to all of those offspring. Did they vanish when the Kaj invaded the Continent and killed the Divinities? Divine creatures—beings created by a singular Divinity, much as a Divinity would create a miracle—definitely did not survive the death of their creator. But some Divine children seemed to survive the deaths of their parents, though those who were found were promptly executed.
Did they have some Divine agency of their own, like miniature versions of their parents? Did the Kaj succeed in executing them all? Or did they find some way to hide themselves? We are not sure. But if they persist within this world, they have not announced themselves yet.
—DR. EFREM PANGYUI, “ON THE LIVES OF THE DIVINE”
The boy’s feet pound on the pavement, his breath burning in his lungs. He ducks under an awning, swings around a lamppost, skids across a cobblestoned street. An old woman carrying her groceries glares at him as he sprints past a display of apples. A shopkeep cries, “Watch it!” But the boy ignores them, paying mind only to the next turn, the next street ahead, his face dripping sweat as the sun beats down on him.
Faster and faster, as fast as he can go. He’s got to lose him, got to.
And he should be losing him: the streets of the city of Bulikov are so tangled and labyrinthine that one could get lost just walking home. Yet so far it’s proven shockingly difficult to lose this particular pursuer.
A turn, a turn again. Then down the stairs, across the vacant lots, and down another side street…
The boy stops, gasping, and staggers into the mouth of an alley. He waits, breathing hard, and pokes his head around the corner.
Nothing. The street is empty.
Perhaps he’s lost him. Perhaps he’s really gone.
“Finally,” he says.
Then the light…shifts. Twists. Changes.
The shadows begin to twirl at his feet.
“Oh, no,” whispers the boy.
He looks up to see an odd sight, but it’s one that he was expecting, even dreading: the clear summer skies directly above him are flooding with darkness, as if evening is being injected into the atmosphere, hues of indigo and dark purple and black swirling amidst the pale blue. He watches, wide-eyed, as the darkness curls around the face of the sun, choking it out and painting over it until it’s as if the sun had never been there at all.
There are stars in the new darkness, which hangs directly above him: cold, distant, glimmering white stars. The boy knows if he waits longer the skies above him will turn pitch-black, and those glinting stars will be the only luminescence remaining.
The boy turns and sprints down the alley. The skies above him clear up as if he were directly under a thundercloud: the sun returns, and the bright blue sky is visible once more.
But too close, thinks the boy. Much too close, much too close…
He’s getting desperate. He knows he has to use one of his tricks. He doesn’t like trying this while running, but he doesn’t have a choice….
He shuts his eyes, envisioning the city around him, seeking them out.
It takes him a while to spot them—he’s not near one of the entertainment districts, so there are very few theaters or restaurants or bars around here—but then he sees one burst into being somewhat close to him, a tangle of something bright and silvery and quivering, quaking merrily amidst all the gloom and sobriety of the city in day.
He reaches out to it. Grasps it.
Becomes it.
The world shifts around him.
He hears the final line in his mind: “…and the shepherdess, of course, says, ‘Well, it ain’t look too much like his father, neither!’ ”
Suddenly the boy’s ears are inundated with a glorious, wonderful, happy sound: the sound of men laughing, cackling, real tears-in-your-eyes laughing, absolutely bent-double laughing, and the boy is there with them, giggling merrily.
He has to force himself to remember what’s going on. He opens his eyes and sees he’s in a fish shanty down by the Solda River, surrounded by filthy fishermen all sipping from bottles of plum wine. None of them have noticed the sudden appearance of this young, pale Continental boy, who has, it seems, popped out of thin air. They act as if he’s always been in the crowd with them. One of the drunken fishermen even offers him a sip of wine, which the boy, still snickering, politely refuses.
It’s far too early in the day for such celebration. But he’s grateful for it. Wine creates merriment, merriment creates laughter, and laughter gives him…
The boy looks out the window of the fish shanty. He’s about three miles away from the alley where he was.
He sighs, relieved. “…a way out,” he says.
But then his brow crinkles. Is it his imagination, or is the sky darkening above him? Just above the fish shanty?
And are those stars shining so coldly and cleanly up above?
He stares as the sky above him floods with solid darkness, like blood leaking through a bandage.
The boy thinks desperately. Another trick, another turn. He doesn’t have a choice.
He shuts his eyes, and searches.
Another tangle of silvery joy. This one isn’t quite so thick, quite so bawdy, but it should still…
The world shifts around him.
…work.
He hears a voice: “Where is Mischa? Where is…Mischa!”
Giggles fill the air. He opens his eyes and sees he’s in a small apartment. A curly-haired infant is lying on a sofa, laughing hysterically as his mother hides behind the sofa’s back and pops out, crying, “Where is my Mischa? Where could my darling boy have gone? Could he be—here?”
Another explosion of delighted squeals. Neither seems to have noticed the boy’s sudden appearance, but perhaps it’s because they’re too involved in their game. The child’s laughter is infectious: the mother begins laughing, which makes the infant laugh even harder.
Remember where you are. Remember what’s going on.
The boy walks to the windows of the apartment. He’s about seven miles from the fish shanty, he guesses. He can still feel that other tangle of laughter out there, the fishermen sharing their bawdy jokes, and he can tell the distance between them. It should be far enough. No one can move that fast that far. And how could his pursuer even know where he’s go—