SIXTEEN
NORTH
For a moment, the sounds of the party on the other side of the screen—music, distant laughter, the hum of conversation—fade away. I’m caught staring back at Nimh, no ready reply, too riveted by her serious dark eyes and her earnest expression to think.
“Destiny,” I echo, buying myself time. “Like … fate?”
She nods, and while I’m ready to laugh at the obvious joke, there’s no hint of a smile on her face. “Prophecy plays a great role among my people. I believe I was meant to be there that night and see you as you fell.”
My mind flashes to the cut lines on the Skysinger. My crash wasn’t destiny. It was sabotage.
“I–I’m certainly glad you were there,” I respond tentatively. “The thing is … you know I don’t believe in … This whole magic thing in general is … hard to swallow.”
Despite my efforts to keep my expression under control, Nimh’s face shows a flicker of hurt. “And you ask why I did not tell you who I was, out there in the ghostlands. Did I not heal your arm in front of your eyes?”
“You cauterized it with some kind of chemical reaction,” I reply.
“It was healing magic,” she insists, leaning forward, eyes alight. Though she speaks with fervent assurance, there’s a flicker in her gaze—some part of her is enjoying the argument.
“Okay,” I reply. I rise up onto my knees so I can discard my jacket, then reach for the hem of my shirt and draw it up over my head, letting the fabric gather around my arms. “You want to see it? It’s a burn—better than a bleeding gash, but still a burn, Nimh. Caused by a chemical reaction that …” I reach for the clean bandage that replaced my dirty one when I bathed, ready to show her the burned place—and instead, when the fabric falls away, there’s only a pink line there along my bicep, shiny with new skin.
Shock robs me of my indignation. I sink back on my heels, staring down at my arm. After a few moments, I glance up to find Nimh watching me. Her eyebrows rise.
“Some kind of … medicine,” I mutter, “an antibiotic, in the chemicals.”
“It was a healing spell, North.” She leans forward to retrieve the bandage from where I dropped it, then begins to wind it back up, fingertips lingering where they trail across the fabric. “Mhyr’s Sunrise and thicksweet, when mixed with water, do still burn without magic. But they only burn—they do not heal unless a magician’s will directs them.”
I can’t prove or disprove what she’s saying, partly because I don’t understand about half of it. And even if I did, I can’t prove or disprove her will. Still, I push on. “So … you can do anything with magic? Start fires and heal people, sure, but what about …” My mind runs through half a dozen examples from old fairy tales, and before I can stop to think, it chooses: “What about a love spell?”
Nimh’s lips quirk, a clear sign of amusement, though she’s gracious enough not to laugh at me. “Magic has limitations just as any other force in this world. I could cast a spell to make myself appear more beautiful to you, or I could bind the magic to a charm that would track your movements, so I could bump into you more often. But the mind is its own realm—a magician uses her will to direct her power. She cannot use that power to affect another’s mind.”
She pauses to scan my features for comprehension, and she gives a quick, wry smile at what she finds. “No, North, I could not cast a spell to make you love me.”
“But destiny could?”
Her smile falters, her certainty dropping away. I realize how my words sounded—defensive and aggressive all at once.
Accusatory.
Disbelieving.
When the truth is that I am drawn to her, so much so that I could almost believe it was magic. Miri and Saelis feel so remote compared to Nimh that my heart aches.
I let the air out of my lungs, realizing that I was tensed as if for a fight. “Nimh, I’m sorry. I’m trying to understand, I promise. Maybe we talk about destiny another time, and just … eat some more?”
Her gaze flickers up, though it takes a few seconds to reach my face. Belatedly, I realize my shirt’s still pooled around my arms, and with a start, I pull it back on over my head. By the time I can see her again, Nimh’s looking a little unsettled.
“There are things we should discuss,” she murmurs. “I have no wish to keep anything a secret from you, not if …” She trails off, catching her lip between her teeth as she thinks. The sight is so distracting that I don’t even realize I’m staring until she stops.
I look up, blinking. “Sorry?”
“Have another dumpling,” she suggests, nudging the dish closer to me. It’s a tacit acceptance of my truce—or my plea—and I’m not above taking it.
She turns as I reach for the tray, her attention moving to the party going on beyond and below the screen. Her profile is solemn as I pop a dumpling into my mouth. She must have spent all her life watching like this.
She’s always alone, I see that now. In her rank, in the ritual I saw her perform this evening …
The staff—the weapon—leaning against the wall by the screen never seems to leave her side, a constant reminder of her duty. She even has her own corridors to walk without company—except for the bindle cat, who still hasn’t reappeared.
But Nimh doesn’t seem to mind me in these secret spaces of hers, and in that realization, I suddenly catch a momentary glimpse of something else.
Nimh’s not being a goddess right now. She’s being a person. A person who got me dumplings. I was right before, when I thought maybe she didn’t tell me what she was because she never gets a chance to be anything else.
The strange thing is, if there’s anyone who can understand even a fraction of what that’s like, then surely it’s me.
And, as the part of my brain dedicated to fairness (heavily influenced by Saelis over the years) points out, you haven’t told her who you are either. You haven’t said anything about being a prince.
I scoot a little closer so I can look out through the carved screen as well. We’re one floor up, situated behind the musicians—it’s a good view.
“Tell me about the people out there,” I say, changing the subject. It feels like the safest thing to do. “I see some really amazing outfits.”
She’s quiet, considering this, then she leans in to put her eye to one of the carved holes.
“That is the high priest,” she says, “over there by the far wall, wearing the gold-trimmed robe.”
“Your high priest,” I say, trying out how it feels to say it aloud.
“Yes,” she says quietly. “His name is Daoman. He leads the priests who live here in the temple. He is … a formidable man. He raised me, for the most part.”
Which explains why you’re so formidable. I bite down on the words and focus on the dumpling in my hand while she searches out other characters of note.
She points out Techeki talking to a guildmaster, a couple of the council members who lead the city, dignitaries from foreign governments.
It all feels oddly familiar—the cast of characters might be different from those who occupy my grandfather’s palace, but their roles and the patterns they make are the same.