“Who are you again?” Fear asked, his white head turned towards the third, silent fate.
“Balance,” said the little fate and folded its nearly twenty fingers together. It bowed to Fear, but there was a mockery in the way it held its head. “There are brave children everywhere, in every world. They seek me out, and I aid them.”
Fear’s eyelids that held nothing, only a hollowness, drew together in a squint as he appraised the third subservient fate.
“So be it,” pronounced Power, and his words were the last said.
Power departed and took the rest of his skeletonswith him. And the five mighty fates, Fear, Hate, War, Greed, and Death, remained as their king had ordered, skulking and lurking and sneering. And the three other, minor fates faded from sight, but they did not leave. They stayed and watched and waited.
Hate, War, and Greed roamed to and fro, restless and raging, tongues lolling, spittle flying, ever starved for mortal feasting. Death settled himself under a mountain on the eastern side of the world. As he said he would, Fear went to the colder northern west to make himself an empire of terror, a pillar of reason, sightless eyes forever turned in spite to the little gods. He, like Death, lay in the earth, making a long grave for his bones, awaiting those who would feed his appetite. Of the five, he was the most embittered by not having had his taste of the air god.
The father shone down on his children and appeared in little flames they learned to make.
The mother was everywhere, beneath and beside them. Her bounty fed them.
The sister caressed them with her depths and carried them where they wanted to be. Her fish also fed them.
And the last god, the unknowable one, rested inside them and reminded them who they were, the people of Tintar.
21
THEN: REBELLIONS
Iconstantly spoke about my book to Rowena and though she was leery of it, she was fascinated despite herself.
“And listen to this,” I went on. “The prince’s brother is married to anotherman. Have you ever heard of such a thing?”
“This is why I worry, Robbie. This Una will give you ideas. You will misstep again and you’ll be boxed and?—”
“Don’t cry,” I interjected. “I can keep Una to myself.”
“But you cannot. You lasted a week before telling me.”
And she was right. It was not a few moons before I defied my father again.
“It’s the box again for you, girl,” he said. “I’ll not see your soul fall to a demon realm because of my poor parenting. I speak to the priest again today.”
My second boxing took place during winter. I was eleven winters old, and this time Lord Torm, my father, and some of the other elders of the church demanded of Tibolt that I be boxed and that the list of boxing offenses be put up in the town square and that it be followed to the letter.
The list of offenses that could be cause for people, mainlywomen and children, to be boxed was in most versions ofThe Book of Rodwin, but Sheridan had used it more as a guide for disciplining children at home, not in church.
The boxing list was made law, and I was the first criminal. I was guilty of the offense of twofold rebellion, having rebellious thoughts and saying rebellious words. I was given a sentence of two days and nights.
As I sat in the pew, cold despite the church full of attendants, I realized that the nights would be the hardest. Sheridan was too far south a town to get much snow, only a delicate dusting every fourth season, but the coldness of a winter night still bit. Rowena had made me put on a second pair of socks that morning, tears in her eyes. I had only half understood her meaning, but now I did.
I stood up more quickly this time when my name was called, walked more readily to the front and up the little steps. I even held out my arms and went limp so Torm’s guards could lift me easily into the box. I told myself I would cry later, but that now I must put on a brave face. I wanted my father to break away from his seat in the congregation, charge up to the box, and cradle me in his arms, saying no, no, he could not let this stand. I wanted my mother to do something more than weep.
But I let none of that show on my face.
After the service, I lay in a state of numbness. I was not yet upset about the box, only sad that I was there again. And the idea of two full days and nights had not quite set in. Likely exhausted by the emotional upheaval of the last several days, I fell asleep. When I woke, it was sometime during the night and I was freezing.
Perpatane had built the church. The walls of the church were stone from Eccleston quarries—always cold to the touch, even in summer—and the interruption of the narrow windows let in much of the current weather. Services were often muggy in hot moons, cold in cool ones. And so the building had retained none of the weak sunlight of that wintery day. And I shook.
That night I said my first real prayer. The fear ofRodwin’s hell gripped my heart, but aloud I said, sacrilege or no, “Can any of you hear me?”
My voice was thin in the night. I doubted the guards that must have stood watch at the back of the building could hear me. I knew Tibolt, likely asleep in his little rooms, could not. The man had whispered his apologies to me again, telling me he was sorry, that his hands were tied.
“I could go to hell for this,” I went on. “Praying to a god other than the saint is extreme heresy. Unforgivable. So, please.”
