The river is one of the only places within the forest-sea that one can see the sky unimpeded by branches and canopy. It reminds me of the view from the temple spire, though there the sky feels only half-real, like a backdrop for the rich architecture and comforts of the temple itself.
Here, with the water lapping around me and the leaves along the bank whispering to each other in the river breeze, the sky feels so close and so real I could touch it. The big, dark shape of the cloudlands blocks out a section of stars, dimly purple with the last hints of sunlight shed from below the horizon.
I’m tracing the constellations of the deities who lived and died before me when I see a spark of light—there, where there ought to be none. Tiny at first, so dim my mind cannot tell if it’s real or imagined, the light seems suspended at the edge of the cloudlands like a firefly in a spider’s web.
But then I realize the light is growing, coming closer, gaining speed and definition as it travels in an increasingly steep arc across the sky. My heart seizes as it catches up to my eyes, and my breath stops as I stare skyward so hard my eyes begin to water.
Unbidden, for I would not dare to think the words for fear of hopes dashed, comes the thought:
The empty one will keep the star as a brand against the darkness… .
It is no ordinary shooting star, no thin arc of silver that streaks across the sky and vanishes into the darkness—this light lingers and grows, and just as I wonder if it’s headed straight to me, it plummets, streaming fire and ash, into the forest-sea beyond the river.
Even the bindle cat has seen it. And when he chirps a question at me, it’s all I need to affirm that what I’ve seen is real.
The Last Star. The star of prophecy.
Without thinking, without letting myself think, I use the sharp edge on my spearstaff to sever the lines binding this raft to the barge. I take up the oar and set off toward the opposite bank of the river.
Excitement propels me on as I hurry through the trees, though all logic is telling me to turn back and fetch my guards. Haring off into the forest-sea after a falling star would seem like utter foolishness to them, but they did not read the lost stanza—they didn’t feel it seep into them like warmth into a cold-numbed body.
It could be a trap, though I know of no magic that could summon such a vision. This is my divine purpose—I know it so deeply in my being that I might more easily be convinced I could fly than that I’m wrong. Finally, I will have something to offer the people who look to me every day for relief from the constant barrage of famine and plague and mist-storms. Finally, I can promise them an end to this cycle, and the beginning of a new one, free of suffering.
I can give them hope.
Lightbringer, I pray, I will find this star. I will bring it to the lost stanza—I’ll find the one who must read it by fallen starlight. Just … let it all be true.
Night insects swarm at me, prevented from reaching my nose and mouth by the muffling veils I’ve tied around my face. The bindle cat, trotting along at my heels, vanishes to chase some hidden creature in the forest undergrowth. He always returns, and I give him his freedom.
After all, I am chasing my own hidden thing.
As I see the trees thinning ahead, I break into a run.
Beyond the forest here lies the Mirror of Divinity, a vast salt flat that stretches leagues in all directions. The water, only a finger deep, is so poisoned by salts and minerals that nothing lives there, not a single insect to stir the surface. Even the breeze from the river is gone, not a ripple disturbing the Mirror’s reflection of the heavens. The bindle cat, melting out of the forest-sea beside me, takes one step into the water and hisses angrily, licking at his wet paw and loudly cursing the salt.
I leave him at the forest’s edge and step out into the water, my footsteps splashing gently against the crusted minerals beneath. All that exists, above and below, is stars.
The cosmic river flows across the sky in an arc of indigo and pearl, meeting itself in the water’s surface and curving away again beneath my feet. The water ripples at each step, as tremulous as my own heart.
And there, still smoldering and smoking from the fires of its descent, is the fallen star. Shadowy and dark, it seems to draw all the light around it into itself. I would be afraid, were I not so hopeful—already I know it is no bit of celestial rock, for it has structure, intention, purpose. Arcs of shadowlike wings curve toward the sky, and a tiny pinprick of light glows deep within its dark skeleton.
I can hold myself back no longer—relief and joy are too strong, and I cannot wait one more second.
Timing my steps to the drumming of my heart, I strike out across the night sky beneath my feet and toward the fallen star.
FOUR
NORTH
The glider plunges through the clouds, the world turning solid gray, my vision gone but my ears full of screaming alarms and the horrible grinding of my engine, my own ragged breathing barely audible above it all. I yank at the controls, unable to help myself even though I know it won’t make a difference.
And then I burst through the bottom of the clouds and the starlit world of Below spreads out beneath me. I see dark masses that might be forests with shadowy rivers winding through them, and a huge sheet of water that gleams up at me, flat and motionless as a mirror.
I can’t help looking at it all, taking it all in as it rises up to meet me, this place I so desperately wanted to see. This place that’s going to kill me.
Then the Skysinger shudders, snapping my head back and jarring every bone in my body, and my nostrils are filled with acrid smoke and the smell of burning plastic, and instinct takes over, driving me to fight a battle I’ll surely lose.
I unsnap my harness, sliding down in my chair so I can kick at the access panel by my feet, jamming the flat of my foot against it once, twice, three times, until it begins to buckle. The glider’s powered by her engines, and the circuits that power them might be a smoking ruin, but that’s not the only way to steer her.
My wildly kicking feet shove aside the wreckage of the hatch cover and push through, and I flail around for the thick bunch of cords that control my wing flaps. As I press hard against them with my boots, I feel the Skysinger start to tilt just a little, and I throw my weight sideways to help with the course correction. I can’t see what I’m doing, and I’m steering by feel, but ever so slightly, I think her nose is coming up as she loses height.
Maybe, maybe, enough to land.
The alarms are still screaming all around me as I struggle backward, one foot jamming in the hatch as I fight to free it, hands scrabbling against the sides of the cockpit as I try to lever myself back into my chair.
I snap my harness back into place, and the next instant we’re at the water, and the world’s whirling by impossibly fast, and my head’s spinning from the impact, and my glider’s skimming the surface and sending up huge sheets of spray, tumbling, rolling completely over once, and then slowing, dragging, until everything’s still.
It’s a long moment before my vision clears and I can tell which way’s up and which is down.
All the alarms are silent.
And to my complete surprise, it turns out I’m alive.
The Skysinger’s nose is crumpled in around my legs from the impact, pinning me in place. Every bone in my body hurts, and, and … there are flames coming out of the altimeter and the tilt indicator and the whole back of my glider is scorched.