If one thing in the holy texts is a lie, then anything else can be.
What if…
What if art isn’t a sin?
Hope, vindication, and a dash of fury flood my chest for all of a second. Then I remind myself of all the proof I’ve seen. All the terrors I’ve witnessed. Despite what I want to believe, I know some things to be true.
Shades are attracted to lies.
Shades are also attracted to art.
Shades are attracted to violence.
Shades are attracted to crime.
Shades are also attracted to childbirth,I remind myself. But that is reasoned away by the holy texts, stating that procreation is a sin because of how it mocks our creators. Regardless, everything fits so seamlessly under the umbrella of sin when explained by scripture.
I clench my jaw. I’ve never liked the holy texts. How can I like something that calls me impure while positioning the Sinless as theepitome of perfection? Yet just because I dislike something doesn’t make it false. When all I’ve seen is evidence supporting the texts, I’ve had no choice but to believe them while simultaneously hating them.
So…
Is it possible the texts contain numerous lies? Or is it just the part about how all sin creates Shades?
My mind spins to make sense of that. Even if it’s the single deliberate falsehood in the texts, it’s huge. If only the darkest kinds of sins create Shades, then humanity has been burdened with undue blame. Sure, it’s clear even our most mundane sinsattractShades, but we’ve been blamed forcreatingthem with those same actions all this time.
All.
This.
Time.
For five hundred years.
What the fuck does that mean, and why?
“What the hell, Inana?”
Harlow’s voice snaps me out of my stupor all over again, and I realize I’m losing water from the skin I’ve filled, tipping it too far to the side while fumbling with the cork. I right the waterskin, but the cork slips from my frozen fingers and rolls across the snow-dusted glade.
“Damn it.” I thrust the waterskin at Harlow so I can chase down the cork. It doesn’t roll far, stopping beneath a cedar. The tree’s wide boughs have created a shady space devoid of snow, and I crouch beneath them to reach for the cork. My fingers are about to close around it just as something catches my eye. I snatch my hand back and glance at the dark shape that stands out against the shadows cast by the tree. It’s a squirrel, but…
Not just any squirrel.
It’s a Shade.
I take in its small, semitransparent form, its pitch-black eyes, the flap of skin that extends from foreleg to hind leg on each side, the crescent moon perched on its brow.
My mouth falls open. It can’t be. Can it?
It stands right beside the cork, tilting its head at me, tiny nose twitching. I can’t imagine it’s just a coincidence that this Shade looksexactly like the ones we convinced the dragon to shift into. It’s either one of the very same Shades, or it’s another that took shape based on one of them. Either way, it’s all the way out here.
A chill runs through me, but I don’t know if it’s out of fear or awe.
Fear,I try to tell myself, especially after what I witnessed yesterday. I should fear them. I should hate them. I should reach for my mask and don it before the squirrel can seek to steal my face and become an Incarnate.
But even though I understand this to be the most suitable reaction, I can’t bring myself to obey. At least logic is partly on my side. I need not make any sudden moves to whip out my mask; Shades seek to steal the faces only of those who enchant them with sin. Nor do I need to chastise myself for not succumbing to fear. Our jobs as Summoners depend on us staying calm and not reacting.
So I let myself be still for a few moments while the flying squirrel assesses me with what feels like benign interest. Then, slowly, I close my hand over the cork and prepare to rise—
