“Tell me what you make of this.”
Rhian slides a scroll across the table from where she perches in her chair like a cat, knees drawn up, tension coiled tight, like she’s ready to pounce on anything that moves. Stacks of parchment surround her. Some are densely scribbled over while others are blank. All manner of styluses are scattered among them.
I scan the unfurled parchment. Strange markings trail across the page beneath a drawing of two figures and a harp, all contained within a simple circle. Above them stretches an open, dark sky. I peer closer. One of the figures holds two scrolls. It’s just like Rhian thought.
“This is clearly a depiction of someone using the Ballad,” I say, sitting back. Beside me, Taliesin nods.
“Can you read that?” she asks.
“Those markings? They haven’t been used since Culling Day.”
She sighs, tugging at the ends of her hair in frustration. “We did exactly what it showed. Two scrolls. The harp. Night sky. Why didn’t it work?”
“Why are they in a circle?” Taliesin murmurs, steepling his fingers beneath his chin.
Rhian frowns. “Isn’t that just the edge of the drawing?”
“Could be,” he says. “Or could be a circle.”
“So we need to draw a circle around them?” Her frown deepens. “With what?”
I look at the image again, closer this time. An uncertain familiarity stirs through me, tickling the back of my mind. Over the past few days, I can’t help but feel like something important is trapped inside my memories, and if I only focus hard enough, it’ll come to me.
I try not to dwell on that brief flash of memory, the one filled with stars. It makes little sense. I was only born thirty-five years ago, far before the Culling. And yet…that image remains seared into my mind. Like I saw it. Like I remember the world with stars.
Taliesin hasn’t said anything, but I can tell he noticed my reaction to the song.
And as for what Rhian is asking…the answer feels close. Or at least some of it.
“That’s not a circle,” I say with more confidence than I understand. “It’s where you’re meant to perform the ceremony.”
Rhian’s brow wings upward. “You say that like you know.”
“I do, kind of.” I glance at Taliesin, then back at Rhian, searching for the right words. “When I use my magic—my innate magic, not the Order’s—I lose pieces of myself. Memories, mostly, but it feels like more than that. Like a fragment of my soul breaks away…”
At the look of horror on her face, I falter.
“But you resurrected someone for us,” she whispers, her complexion paling. “Are you telling me that it cost you one of your memories?”
I swallow and nod.
“Angharad, why didn’t you tell us?” She leans back in her chair, her hands gripping the armrests. “We never would have asked that of you if we’d known.” Her gaze swings to Taliesin. “Does your magic do that, too?”
“No,” he says quietly. “It does not. If it did, I might not be as inclined to give so much of myself as freely as Angharad does.” The corner of his mouth tilts upward. “I’m not that selfless.”
I shift on the chair, warmth blooming in my chest at his words, though I’ve never thought of myself that way. Selflessness means giving without expecting anything in return. But Ididwant something from the Order. A home. A family.
“Be that as it may,” Rhian says, cutting through the silence. “I’m sorry, Angharad. We didn’t know.”
“You don’t need to apologize. I did it because I wanted to.” Eager to turn the conversation away from myself, I press my finger against the parchment. “This circle…I think I know what it means. There’s only one place in this kingdom shaped like that. A perfect circle.”
Taliesin follows my thought almost instantly. “Ah.”
“A perfect circle,” Rhian repeats, her eyes locked on the page. “Surely you don’t mean…”
“The Observatory,” I finish for her.
Before the Culling, the elves turned to the stars for answers. In many ways, we revered them more than the gods themselves. Perhaps the gods were too close to inspire true awe. But the stars, distant and unknowable, gleaming far beyond the limits of our understanding…those inspired true veneration.
