“But younger elves, they strayed from the course. They were drawn toward the flashy magics of newer races. And they began to forget. When the upkeep of the pillars lapsed. . . we were doomed from that moment. Even if I wished for more time for my people, nothing lasts forever it’d seem.”
“Pillars?” Jo’s focus honed on the one thing that could be useful to them now.
“It was said that the world was anchored on four mighty pillars, positioned in each of the cardinal directions. And on these pillars were the truths of the cosmos as written by the gods who formed them.”
“Were they from the Age of Gods?” Jo dared to ask, as if interrupting his flow might make him stop altogether. “I asked Snow that once, when he told me the time he was from. I take it he’s told you as well.” Eslar glanced sideways at her for a long moment.
Jo gave a small nod. It wasn’t phrased like a question because the answer was obvious. “Were they?”
“He would not answer.”
“Good to know I’m not the only one he’s cryptic toward,” Jo muttered.
“You are most certainly not.” Jo had never expected this to be their common ground, but she’d have taken anything for that brief moment of camaraderie with the elf. Eslar continued, “Truly of the divine, or not, did not matter. All that mattered was that while the pillars were maintained, the elves would not die unless they chose of their own will to return to the earth.”
It seemed poor design on the part of the gods—if that was truly who made them—to have structured the anchors of the world on something that required constant maintenance. But that brought them back into the realm of speculation. Jo, instead, would focus on fact.
“So, these pillars were maintained by the elves. . . Not maintained, I mean, given power?”
Eslar nodded, preparing to retreat back into the world of his book.
“Wait.” Jo held out a hand, as if she could catch him and reel his mind back. This was just what she’d been hoping to find. “Do you know how to do that . . . thing . . . ritual? Whatever it was that gave the pillars power?”
He frowned, and Jo suspected that it was not because of the ineloquence of her question. She’d beat him to the punch.
“Don’t think I’m crazy,” Jo said quickly. “But we need magic to feed the Society, right? We get it from wishes. . . kind of like. . . the Society is built on its own pillar—makes sense, right? After all, it’s a world outside of the world, so it’d need its own pillar. And instead of making elves immortal, it’s making us immortal.”
His expression devolved into an all-out scowl.
“What if we figured out our own ritual to feed it magic, rather than wishes? That way if we ever can’t—”
“Out.”
“What?” Jo leaned back, as if trying to avoid the invisible whip that lashed the word off his tongue.
“Out, Josephina.”
“I’m not trying to upset you, or ask dumb questions. I’m genuinely trying—”
“How dare you,” he whispered, the words dripping with venom.
“What?”
“Do you not think that if I could have saved him, I would have?”
“That’s not what I was implying.” But had it come off that way? Jo didn’t give it much thought. Intention had to outweigh execution here, right? She was trying to save them all, to cheat or dismantle the brutal system they were all subject to.
“You knew him for a few months. I knew him for a millennium. Tell me, how many sketches would he produce before picking up his brush to actually paint?”
“I. . .”
“What music would always make him dance, regardless of whether or not he had a partner?”
She’d never listened to music with anyone in the Society.
“Could you tell the difference between the smiles he gave when he was genuinely happy, and the ones he gave when was desperately trying to have you not see his heartache?”
Maybe?The word was weak, and small, tinier than she suddenly felt. “I was just thinking. . .”
