“Then how do you know they exist?” Poppy asked, baffled. “How do you know anything about them at all?”
“That’s faith?—to believe in that which you can’t see,” Hasan said. “As for where our knowledge comes from, well, we tell each other stories. In the old days, you could hear the epic stories being told at the temples, with certain stories reserved for different days and seasons. But when the Welks desecrated our temples and banned the teachings of the true gods, we were forced to adapt. Now we tell our stories in the form of song and dance. There are troupes, performers that travel between villages for a living. When we were boys, whenever a troupe came to our village, our grandfather would take us to see them. He was insistent that we remember the traditions and legends of our ancestors.”
His expression softened slightly as he reflected on the tender moment, a memory for which Poppy had no match. Something sharp and thorny wrapped itself around her heart. The Sutherlands had forced her to attend operas and plays, but those events had never been about the art or the story being told?—Poppyhad been the true performer at those outings, demonstrating her manners before the nobility, hoping desperately that civility would equate to humanity in their eyes. The only person who had ever told her stories was Nanny?—and those stories had cost Nanny her life.
Poppy switched her gaze back to the table so that Hasan would not see the envy on her face. “There’re so many gods,” she said, skimming a hand over the edge of the table. While Nanny had told her plenty of stories, there had to be at least three times as many gods as she remembered.
Hasan chuckled. “And these aren’t even all of them.”
She tilted her head in question.
“These are only the gods that have been important to my family,” he explained. “They don’t represent the full pantheon. If you travel to different parts of the island, you’ll find different gods who are important to the people there.” He walked around the diorama, trailing his finger up the slope of the hills. “For example, in the North, the communities who live at the foot of the volcano place more importance on the fire and earth deities than the seaside communities, who revere water and air deities.”
“I see.” Poppy shuffled closer, examining a small mound of dried fruit, coins, and flowers that had been left at the foot of the diorama. “So, how does this fit into the bigger picture?”
Hasan stayed silent. For a moment, she thought he’d changed his mind. She bit her tongue, fighting the urge to speak. The harder she pushed, the more he’d clam up. “The gods are our source of power,” he said at last, his words tumbling out in a rush. “When the Welkish settlers came, they knew two things: one, that we worshipped the pantheon, and two, that some of us had immense power. They did not realize that the two were connected: We only have immense powerbecausewe worship the pantheon.”
“So anyone who prays can use the power?” Was that why she had gotten ill when she had tried to use her power? Because she hadn’t prayed first?
He shook his head. “That’s not exactly it. Everyone is born with different abilities and into different circumstances dependent on their parentage. Virians believe that the circumstances of one’s birth are an indication of what the gods have chosen for our lives.”
“But not you?” When he stared at her, Poppy clarified. “You saidVirians, notwe. Do you believe differently?”
“What I believe isn’t relevant,” Hasan said. “Some of us are born with the ability to channel daivyakhi, which is control over one of the four divine elements. These people are gods-blessed, or daivyakt. Historically, they were considered the gods’ chosen rulers, but the trait is passed through families. If two parents have the gift, then the child will inherit the ability to control one element from their parents. But if only one parent has the gift, then there is a chance that the child will be born without any powers at all. Therefore, in order to protect the gift and ensure it did not get diluted, daivyakt were not permitted to marry vasudhakt?—a caste of people unable to harness daivyakhi, even if they pray.”
“What about Jagat Rai?” she interjected, referencing the last maharaja of Viryana, infamous for being the country’s only natural?—orvasudhakt, as Hasan called them?—king. His people had mutinied against him, and the Welkish people had offered their support in exchange for power.
“There are plenty of theories about Jagat, especially surrounding the legitimacy of his parentage.” He shrugged. “Most likely, he was a bastard. Either way, it didn’t matter. His father still recognized him as his lawful heir, but his failure to rally the support of the people cost him not only a throne, but Virian self-governance.” Hasan locked eyes with Poppy, his expression serious. “If you take anything away from his story, let it be this: Neither gods nor blood decide who rules. The people do. Understood?”
She nodded, though she doubted if she agreed. If the people had so much power, why didn’t they simply rise up? If kings and gods were so easily overruled, why had they prevailed for centuries? Power games took more than numbers. Hasan’s words struck her as a complex truth boiled down to an idealistic sentiment.
“Where were we?” He turned back to the pantheon. “Right. Daivyakt are nothing more than vessels. We have the ability tochanneldaivyakhi, but we onlyhavemortal energy, or kanusakhi. That’s why you were drained when you used your powers. Because the amount of kanusakhi it takes to control an element is far more than the amount of daivyakhi required.”
Relief swept through her.I’m not broken.“So how do you get divine energy?”
“Sacrifice,” Hasan answered. “Prayer. We can’t justdemandthat the gods give us their energy. It’s an exchange: a give and take. A bargain. We give up something of value to us, and in return, they bestow on us divine energy equal to the value of the sacrifice.”
Poppy processed this. So she had theabilityto control water, but not theenergy. “That seems... fairly simple.”
“Hardly,” Hasan said. “There’s nothingsimpleabout bargaining with the gods. If they believe the sacrifice isn’t genuine, or if the intent behind a person’s request for divine power is unworthy, they’ll deny you. For example, in the old days, the daivyakt would use their divine energy to care for the island: to temper tsunamis, soothe the volcano, regulate rains, and keep the earth fertile for planting. But if they prayed for power to usurp the king and seize the throne, the gods might deny their request.”
“What stops the person from asking again?”
“Common sense, I’d hope.” Hasan traced one of the rivers on the diorama. “You don’t want to piss off a god. Especially because, in rare cases, the gods have been known to forsake men. If a person commits a sin so offensive in the eyes of the pantheon, the gods can refuse to bestow power on them for the rest of the person’s life. It’s considered a great shame, and often the ruling class would strip these people of their names and cast them out of their homes.”
Her stomach turned.What a horrible fate, to lose your name and your home.“So how do you ask the gods for power, then?”
“We make sacrifices, ornaumya,” Hasan answered. “Usually, we dedicate the sacrifice to the god whose patron cause is similar to what we intend to use the power for, or a god who we think would be most sympathetic to us, so that there’s a better chance of the prayer being heard.”
“Is there a specific prayer?”
Hasan spoke, two lines in Virian. She could recognize the smaller words, but the meaning of the prayer was lost on her.
Poppy winced, averting her gaze. “I don’t understand what you said.”
“How much Virian do you know?”
“Some,” she admitted, crossing her arms over her chest. “Basic words and phrases. I haven’t needed to use it in seventeen years.”
