Situated in the rocky depths of the Waterlands, Brava was once home to a colony of Aquatori who possessed the power not only to manipulate water but to summon the rain. The Rain Singers dwelled in caves known as crevices, took to the skies on the backs of giant dragonflies, and were renowned for their ancient customs and rituals. Over the centuries, they adapted to their inhospitable environment, sustaining themselves on a diet consisting of rainwater, fish and mountainous plants.
I skim through the next few pages, all detailing their perilous habitat.
The Rain Singers believed themselves to be servants of a figure known as Om Shikara, whom they claimed to be the one true God. Consequently, they did not worship the Etherian Gods and thus did not recognize Etherian royalty.
My brandmark glimmers as I trace the lines with my finger.
When I flip over the next page, I stop short. For the paper is covered in handwritten notes, the margins filled with spidery lettering.
At the top, someone has scrawled:All Rain Singers are born with the ability to Meld.
I peer closer, holding the book up to the light.
Melding is the anchoring of a gift to a particular emotion.
I sit up straighter in my chair, vaguely aware that I’m gripping the book so tightly my knuckles are protruding.
Once discovered, anchors allow the wielder to call forth their gift.
I think of my drizzle, how it only ever falls when I’m thinking abouther. My mother. When I allow myself to mourn, if only for a moment.
I think back to what Grandmother said on the morning of the eclipse.
You have found a way to turn pain into power.
It’s just drizzle, I had replied, dismissing her words.
But I remember the fierce look in her eyes, the promise she had me make her.
Don’t bury your emotions. You cannot hide from your heart. That is where your power lies; that is what will guide you.
I swallow hard.
I thought my rain gone for good. But what if it’s not? What if it’s connected –anchored– to an emotion that I do not allow myself to feel?
You never talk about Mother, Renly had said to me on the roof of Harglade Hall.
That’s because it makes me sad, I told him.
If my power is Melded to the sadness I keep locked away inside a dark corner of my mind, then the only way to access it fully is to let myself feel it, to feel all of it. But there’s a reason I’ve never allowed my eyes to spill over – I’m afraid they’d never stop.
I turn back to the words inked into the book.
Rain Singers teach themselves how to harness their power through emotion without letting that emotion overcome them.
My hands are trembling. I read the notes again and again, and then I close my eyes.
I think back to the day she died. I remember the pain. It felt like …tearing. And I remember my father screaming. No, not screaming. There’s not a word that could ever trulydescribe the agonized sounds fighting their way out of his mouth that day. The baby was screaming, though. Baby Renly. Tiny and squawking, covered in blood.
Oh, the blood. There was somuchof it. You’d think I’d have been used to the colour red, having grown up a daughter of two Ignitia Houses. But this was not the red of flames. This was the red of death, the blood thick and dark and unforgiving. I could smell it.
Midwives. Stained sheets. Sterile water. Sharp instruments laid out on the bed. The physician shaking his head. I saw it all. Flint was herded from the room but I wouldn’t move. I was frozen to the spot. My father was bent over my mother as if shielding her with his body would somehow stop death from taking her. She was fading fast, her eyes hazy and unfocused. But just for a moment, which held inside it pain enough to last a lifetime, they fixed themselves on me. She smiled. And the fire in the hearth went out.
Drizzle kisses my cheeks. My throat is closing up and I gasp for air, my entire being folding in around the dull ache inside my chest.
You cannot hide from your heart.
Then, I do something I have not allowed myself to do for six long years.
