The week comes to a close. I still haven't chosen a star.
My scab has been a sleepy thing, drained, though thinking about the Choosing jolts it and sends it quivering over my shoulder blade.
When it's like this, I remember that night at the pit.
I recall lifting off the ground and into the air, and feeling no pain. I recall cutting through and through the air with Naqi, with his laughs whistling by me, and just like that, my omen stain settles into something like sleep.
I spend most of my days in the archives now, mostly alone, with my turtle inkstone and brush and sheaves and sheaves of calligraphy paper. Sister Ena coos at my company and offers me butter cookies that I turn down, because I don't want crumbs on my pages.
I memorize the shapes of the lines and their sounds, and their meanings. I memorize them even though there's no racing in the second stage if I can't pass the first.
There's albash, ugly. Nabal, foolish. Kahah, weak. Sister Ena sees the list of words I am compiling and shakes her head, and insists that I cease learning only mean words, sad words.
I pause, because I didn't even realize I was doing it.
So I learn beautiful, kind, strong. I learn yir, bird. Hra, flower.
If I am to win the second stage, I would need to write a line that impresses and exhilarates. The line for fireworks, maybe. The line for capsule-coin. Can a whistling star write that? What would the word for capsules be? Or would it need to be the word for wealth?
I wonder if there is a word for Omens.
I've been wondering that for a while. The thought like a weed roots into me. I ask Sister Ena, and she tells me that there is no such word, not in the starsong language.
"Why do you ask?" she says.
And I think about it, and say, "If starsongs are like spells, couldn't we write the stain away?"
Sister Ena coos. If only it worked that way, she says. There are songs of healing, yes, but stains are not broken bones. Stains are not punctured flesh. Omens bubble forth from deep within, from the Ahs written in our souls, and so washing away one's stain would require seeing which Ah it has corrupted.
"Even then," she flaps a hand, "there is no word for Omen, so all this talk is moot."
Moot, she says. Still the thought of it all clings to me, stains into me, like cigarette smoke in hair.
When Sister Ena is busy with something or someone else, I look in secret through bamboo scroll after scroll; I do not want to deal with her questioning my search.
I find the words for disease, for sickness, for dirtiness, for scar. I find the words for sin, for crime, for wrongdoing, for murder. The lines for these words are ugly things, crooked and full of breaks, like I am looking at a reflection.
I think about what it is to be Omen.
I think about making up my own word.
Ten people could commit the same crime, yet only one will be marked, stained, exposed. So I dig for that line – exposed. I find it.
Exposed, arah – a corkscrew, a zigzag, another corkscrew.
Sin, avah – a corkscrew, a harsh 'v', another corkscrew.
Perhaps this is what the word for Omen is, someone whose sin is exposed.
The more time I spend in the archives, and the more words and lines I memorize, the more I wonder with something like awe at Naqi, at the breadth of the claims made about him.
Was he really able to memorize everything?
"Well, certainly not everything." Sister Ena titters. "But the boy gives it a good go, bless his heart."
"How much does he know, then?"
"Well, quite a bit. He's drawn shapes that I've never even seen."
I don't know what to say to that, or what to think. Who could've thought a khab could know so much.
#
The next day, Brother Marat tells all the racers, "We're going to take our anchors and stars outside the temple. Practice by the pools. And then perhaps," he smiles his kindly smile, "some free time to explore the markets, yes?"
Everyone is rosy-cheeked and brimming. I shift on my feet because it's been too long since I've felt and smelt the city, but I don't know if I am included in this field trip. I still have no star, after all.
Maybe Brother Marat reads my mind, because he pulls me aside. He settles his old hand on the top of my head, and I tense; I don't know what to do with his gentleness.
"Naqi's told me of how you flew at the pit."
I frown, though he can't see through my mask.
"He says you're an excellent whistler. Better than even him."
I don't know what to say. "So what does that mean?"
"It means, young Lumi, that I want you to join us by the pool. Take a meeker star. You may still practice, after all, though you've yet to gain an official star."
I look over at Naqi, and he senses me looking, maybe, because he looks back.
He smiles the way he always does.
#
The bathing pools of marble and stone sprawl by the edge of the districts between the slums and the gambling houses. The water is full of flowers.
Patches of sunbaked rugs are laid out over the tiled courtyard, for food and for wares, and for people to dry on and lounge on. Here and there on the pool steps, or by the shade of an awning or tree, are beggars and children looking blown and wild like weeds. They flock to us when they see us, because the Suns that came with our group is carrying baskets of food.
There's sticky rice wrapped in bamboo leaves, the ones tied up with string, and steamed buns, and the little rectangular milk boxes that never seem to expire or go bad. The beggars and the children crowd close and paw and paw.
I would be begging like them, if I hadn't met Esp. My face would be dirt-crusted and sun-peeled, my skin pulled taut over bones. They are what my reality would still look like after the race, if I don't win it.
Esp has no use for people that have failed her.
Brother Marat is gathering the racers close, and we stand with our anchors by our sides and listen as the old man begins to teach.
"This past week, starsong words have been flown and practiced at the pit, and admirable progress has been made. So today, at these pools, we shall weave the words we've learnt into complete sentences."
"Starsongs," he reiterates, "are spells. And when the words of these spells are strung together, strung properly, reality is woven. Draw the line for tumm'mha, for example, and watch as rain is brought into existence."
Tumm, fall. Mha, water.
Someone raises their hand. "But where would the water come from?"
"The same place all wishes come from."
"From the star?"
Brother Marat nods.
Roaz says, "Thought whistling stars couldn't grant wishes."
"And you would be right, young Roaz. What we are doing here instead is making a statement. A proclamation."
"Sounds like the same thing to me."
"Perhaps," Brother Marat concedes. "But with a starsong, one is limited by their line and their ability to fly. While with a wishing star, one is limited only by one's imagination and desire. Now."
The old man claps. "Shall we begin?"
The racers are eager to. The crowds that have gathered around us are the same.
Roaz, being Roaz, mounts his anchor before all the others. He laces up to his star, light billowing through him, and is the first one out onto the water. A pang strikes my omen stain. I'm jealous, I realize. Roaz – though he's a brute of a boy – looks sure and strong and free on the waters. Already, he is carving out sounds.
Right, left, right, then a corkscrew, another zigzag, and a hard left followed by a drop into another hard left – rark, fire. The ichor line remains in the air, ever gold-white.
It's a difficult flight pattern, but Roaz has done it. The broadness of his frame and the strength of his legs can manage all the harsh tugs side to side. His smile is broad and smug, even though he hasn't completed his sentence yet.
He curves and swoops up for the sound 'ee.' He transitions into a harsh slant and, at the peak of that slant, releases a cloud of ichor – a burst of power like a pop. He completes the sound 'ha.'
But I can see that the burst has jarred his bones and rattled his teeth, and he winces. He forgets his next sound, and loses his line, and then he loses his footing on his anchor. He falls.
So this is why Brother Marat chose the pools.
Roaz slams into the water. The spray of the splash is high and wide, and the crowds are gasping and cheering, some confused, others delighted. Roaz's anchor bobs to the surface, and then Roaz himself breaks through, gulping in air. He's scowling, but fine.
So it begins.
Other whistlers begin to fly. The pools are vast, able to fit five or six starsongs above them comfortably, so that no one's line writes into another's. Someone is whistling the sentence yir'agnia, birdsong, and birdsong fills the air. Someone else whistles hra'rahira, the aroma of flowers, and floral scents waft.
I notice, for the first time, that when people are joined with a star, when they fly, something like zero-gravity settles over them. Their hair floats. Their anchor sometimes bobs against the soles of their feet, or seals tight against them like metal to magnets.
A golden line soars high, higher than all others. It's Naqi. His line is long and unbroken, elegant and practiced. While others stay tucked close to the water, he ascends without fear. His corners are bold. His twists are like flashes of light in your eye, quick and blinding and gone in a blink. My heart is pounding, pounding.
I want to fly like him.
The racers on the water are stopping to look, to gawk. Even Roaz is looking. Every eye in the gathered crowd is wide and watching. Every breath is baited.
Naqi has written words, complex words, ones I barely know. There's nav, light. There's muumta, full. And I think, maybe, I can read an ain-something, which might mean explode? Break?
The boy drifts down and away from his finished sentence, and looks up at it, and then his line of light expands. The many many glints of gold swell in colour, in intensity, and then they burst.
It's a firework of stardust. It's a lightshow of stars. Awe rains down and down over us, colouring us gold, and when the dust settles over my skin, it itches, just like it did ten years ago.
#
I don't fly. My heart pounds to. My fingers itch to. But I don't fly. Brother Marat asks me if I would at least like to glide over the waters, and I shake my head no.
Naqi is crowded by his friends. He is the center of all the chattering and laughing. People are turned toward him the way flowers turn toward light, and their eyes are bright. Their smiles are wide. Someone's arm is slung over his shoulders.
I've noticed that nobody dislikes him. Even Roaz doesn't dislike him, not really. He sees in him a good fight, I think.
Naqi's eyes tick over to me. I jolt, I don't know why, and twist away. Heat floods over my neck and cheeks, and my scab itches. I roll out my shoulder.
An hour or so passes. Brother Marat gathers us together again.
He passes to the each of us two silver capsules and three bronze capsules – each about an inch in length, aluminum casings stained bronze or silver, with the numbers one or two or ten embossed onto their sides. Within their closed seams are stardust, a different weight according to the number on the capsules.
One bronze capsule will be enough to get us a marble soda. Two bronze capsules, a bao. Three, a cup of goopy flour rice noodles. A silver capsule would be enough to get us a good hour inside an arcade, or a seat inside an air-conditioned restaurant.
I've never been given this much money before.
"The rest of the day is yours, young whistlers." Brother Marat's wrinkles fold over themselves with his smile. "Meet back here by six, yes?"
Yes, the group resounds, and then they're off, scattering like birds taking wing.
"Lumi."
I look over. Naqi's got his anchor and star slung over his back, and I move to do the same. He's alone, strangely. Why isn't he with his friends?
"What."
"You lived out here, right?"
I did, yes. All my life. But Lumi moved here only two or so years ago, to train in the school.
I nod. "For a bit."
Naqi's smile blooms. "Show me around?"
"What?"
"Us acolytes are cooped up in the temple most times," he explains. "Lived here eight years, and still don't know what half the streets are called. Do you know where they sell coffin bread? Or ice cream burritos?"
I wrinkle my nose, though he can't see. "They sell those everywhere."
His smile beams. "Take me to the best ones?"
"The best ones take forever," I say, but I'm already thinking of the roads we'd take, and the district tiers I'd take him to. "If you complain, I'm not taking you."
"Complain? With you around?"
I call him khab. He smiles. I take him where he wants to go, and play pretend that I'm not excited, giddy even, to show him the city I know so well.
#
The line up for the coffin bread takes twenty-six minutes, because the shop I take Naqi to is the best one on this tier. The line up for the ice cream burrito takes forty-two minutes, because the shop is the best one in the city.
We eat the bread in the burrito line. The toast is large enough, thick enough, to fit an entire hamburger. Inside, underneath its sliced top – the top like the lid of a coffin – are shrimp and peas and onions, lathered in a mixture of milk sauce and creamy cheese. Naqi, cheeks puffed on bread he cannot swallow fast enough, will not stop humming.
The ice cream burrito is three scoops of taro ice cream on a bed of peanut brittle and a sprinkling of cilantro, all wrapped in a soft thin crepe. Naqi takes his first bite, then moans, and I wrinkle my nose and shove him. He says nothing about it. He says nothing because his mouth is too busy being stuffed. Peanut shavings coat his lips. Ice cream dribbles down his chin.
"You animal," I call him. And he grins all taro-smeared teeth and howls.
I take him to the gambling district, to the pachinko parlours, just to see his face light up. He laughs and laughs at the cacophony of colours and of noise, his white teeth flashing like the lights, and covers his ears and shouts words I cannot hear, so I shout back that I can't hear him. My shout bounces against the inside of my mask. Naqi laughs again.
Afterwards, at the junction of the tofu street and the silk vendors, we bump into other acolytes from the temple. Pea and Yashi are there, too. Everyone must've been given leave to explore the city.
"Lumi!" Pea comes over to me and loops her arm around mine. Her smile is so very full and content. It strikes me again how beautiful she is. In the angles of her lines is the kind of elegance you'd take pictures of, the ones you blow up big and hang from the walls.
"I'm having so much fun," she declares. She does not fidget. "I saved up for nearly a year for this. Can you believe it?"
"You get allowance?" I look at Naqi, as well.
They nod, and Pea says, "Just a bit, from the work we do at the tents and benches, weaving baskets and making pots and things. I was going to get some bubble tea but, there's so many, I don't know which store to choose."
"Lucky for you," Naqi grins, "we've got the best guide with us."
"Do we? Do you know the city well, Lumi?"
"I guess."
Pea laughs and cheers. Yashi behind her smiles and raises a hand, and flutters it through letter after letter. The signing is far faster than I can comprehend, but I think I catch the word 'yaki.' Then she pinches her fingers together and points them against her mouth. I can't read that one; I've only been taught letters so far.
"Ah." Naqi is translating. "Yashi wants to try—dorayaki?"
"What's that?" Pea frowns.
"Pancake burgers," I explain, "with red bean paste filling."
Pea giggles and shakes her head. "That sounds gross."
"It's good. Sweet." I stole some once, when I was eight or so. "You'd like them."
A crowd of children bump past Yashi in their hurry to get by, scrappy looking things with mismatched clothes, and I know exactly what has happened. I've pulled this same trick many many times myself.
I reach out to stop the first child, but then Yashi's hand flashes out. She grips the child's wrist, a boy, only six or so. It's no trouble at all for her to drag him close.
She signs an open palm from him back to her, and I don't need to be taught to understand what she is saying: return what you stole from me.
The boy screws up his face because he doesn't understand. He begins to struggle.
Let me go, he cries. I didn't do anything wrong, he lies.
On the back of his neck, unobscured by his sleeveless shirt, is the bold black of an omen stain.
Pea sucks in breath, and jerks away. She tugs me back with her by my arm and fists her hands into my sleeve.
Yashi hears the gasp and understands the mood, and so she hauls the boy away from us, further down the street and into the shade. There, she holds her hand out at the boy again and waits, stare stern, until the boy hangs his head and relents. He digs about his pockets.
I feel eyes on me.
I jerk a look over my shoulder at the bustle of the crowd, at the slanted shadows, but see no one looking back.
That's right. That boy is an Omen. Maybe he belongs to Esp.
Pea clings tighter to me, and pulls my attention back to her.
"Stars," she breathes. "An Omen, and now he's, she's, I can't believe Yashi is touching him."
Naqi turns to us. He hasn't reacted, not like Pea – wide-eyed Pea looking like some frightened animal – who continues to babble. "They're unclean, and, and Yashi is just touching one. It makes me think the rumours are true."
Naqi's eyes narrow. Something in me draws tense – I've never seen Naqi verge on something like anger before.
Pea does not notice, maybe. She turns to me and continues, urging and urgent, "They say Yashi used to have a stain on her tongue, and that's why she cut it off. Went to black market doctors for it and everything."
"Rama."
Pea flinches. Naqi's voice cuts crisp, curt. "Don't talk about things you don't know."
"Yeah, well," she fidgets, "I don't see why you're always defending her."
"I wouldn't have to," Naqi replies, "if people stopped attacking her."
"I'm not attacking her. I wouldn't do that. I'm just saying—"
"Bubble tea, right?" Naqi smiles, but it's faded, polite. It occurs to me I can tell the different kinds of smiles he wears, now.
"We should go and get some before we need to head back. It's almost already five."
Pea fidgets again, but nods. She does not argue.
#
Evening draws near. We return to the pools.
Pea is a happy fluttering thing, chirping at all the things she'd seen and tasted, and the pretty things she'd bought. She found for herself a new lip stain, even though she can't wear it inside the temple. She found a new string of coloured beads and fake gems that she can hang above her hammock.
Naqi's smiles are normal again. He makes easy conversation with Pea, despite what happened before. Maybe forgiveness is something that comes easy to him, or forgetfulness.
The boy didn't buy much for himself, just the food in his belly, and some seeds he thinks the birds might like. I've—never had money like this to spend before, and guilt pinches my stain each time I spend it. So I don't buy much, either. I look at things. That is all I do. I can still hear the remainder of my capsules clinking and clinking against each other in my pockets as I walk.
We're one of the first few to arrive at the pools. Brother Marat is nowhere to be seen. Roaz is with some of his friends by the edge of the pools. The courtyard is empty. The air is still sweet. Sunset red highlights every ripple of the waters and tinge every surface with a blush, a lethargic rose-gold smog. Pea takes off her sandals and dips her feet into the waters. She kicks at flowers that drift too close.
Naqi unslings his anchor and whistle-sling, and for the first time, I'm able to look at his Togarath star up close. It looks much the same as any other whistling star, form like a misshapen pearl, but larger than most others, the size of two fists.
If Naqi wins the race this decade, it would no longer be called Togarath's star. It would be called Naqi's star.
"Our holy Veil!" Roaz booms. Already he is making his way over. "Lucky us. We were just talking about you."
Pea shrinks. Naqi rolls his eyes. I tilt up my chin though it's obscured by my veil, and stand firm where I am as the boy swaggers up to me. Oh, how I wish Lumi could swear.
Roaz smirks all teeth and says, "You see, we've got a bit of a bet going on. Taigo there thinks you're just pretending you can't get a star, can't fly, so on and so forth. But I know better." He touches his chest. "A pure Veil like you wouldn't ever lie, so it's only right to assume you really can't do anything at all."
He cackles. My stain bubbles. I want to bodycheck him into the pool. If I let my stain take over a little, I would have strength enough to.
I sense Naqi tensing beside me, so I say instead, "How much did you bet?"
Roaz looks at me. "Huh?"
"How much, I said, did you bet."
Roaz snorts. "Nothing, obviously. Didn't know Veils were allowed to be dumb."
If I weren't here, if Lumi were still alive, she would be the one speaking to Roaz right now. She would be the one Roaz called all these things, the one he mocked. I don't know why, I don't quite understand it – but heat simmers against my ribcage. I'm indignant. I'm offended.
"Let's make a bet then," I say. "If I can fly a better line than you, you need to katoh to me ten times."
"Ka-what?"
"Katoh," Naqi cuts in. He shifts on his feet. The air about him is giddy, now. "You'll have to bow to her in front of everyone."
"Bow!" Roaz barks a laugh. "Good to know you really do get a trip outta being worshipped."
"If you can fly better," I continue, "then I'll have to bow to you."
"Ten times?"
"Ten times."
"Make that twenty." Roaz's smile cuts. "Then you have yourself a deal."
"Fine." I don't care. If I have to look at him any more than this, my stain will scab over my shoulder, maybe even up my neck. I turn away. I unsling my anchor and whistle-sling and begin whirling my star.
Pea's gotten to her feet and is making herself small behind Naqi. Her eyes are wide, fearful, and she is frowning. Naqi's gaze holds steady on me, and when I look back at him, I'm struck with the sudden meaning of that gaze: he thinks I can do this.
"Gonna beat me with a common star?"
With the knowledge of Naqi's hope in me like wind in sails, I say, "Yes."
Roaz barks again. His friends have wandered over by now, and they border us in, nudging each other, speaking to each other and laughing, but I don't hear any of it. My star cracks awake, and I slam it into my engine-lock.
I mount my anchor. I lace up.
Ichor pours into me and brims into my every line, and I swell with the victory of it, that I am able to do this without pain now.
Roaz follows suit. The colour of his star when swung awake is a gold richer than mine, and when he laces up, he shudders at the power that courses. He lifts into the air with me, and together, we hover out onto the waters.
I'm securing my veil into my sash when someone parts through the people on the shore – Brother Marat. The others will likely be returning soon, as well.
Naqi is speaking to him, explaining the situation, and Brother Marat looks as kindly as usual. He nods at Naqi, and then at us.
Naqi turns to us out on the water and calls out, "Brother Marat will be the judge."
"Fine by me," Roaz replies. He rolls out his shoulders, then rolls his head at me. "You going to insist on going first like the Veil you are?"
"Why wait." I don't bother turning to him. "We'll go at the same time."
I can hear the sickle curve of his smile as he says, "You scared?"
I don't bother answering him. I shift forward, and begin to glide.
The water beneath my anchor ripples as I pass, and I stay parallel to its surface for a while, in a long line. Then with a harsh tug, I cut directly up. My line now reads 'b' at that ninety degree angle. I follow with two corkscrews, then a square, then a generous loop, and another square. Half a square. A corkscrew.
Naqi is laughing. I can hear it even up here, the brightness of it, because he can tell now. He can tell that I'm writing his line.
I'm flying what he flew this afternoon.
I still don't know all the words and meanings of what he wrote, but I remember the exact angles and cuts and sequences of what he wrote. I don't need to see it more than once. The light of his line is like a brand behind my eyes, and when I close my lids, I can still see it burning clearly, brightly.
And the more I draw, the more I realize with an expanding awe, how gifted Naqi is. Already, my knees are straining. My head spins and spins the farther I glide from the water. Yet he's able to fly this harsh cutting shape so quickly, with careless joy, with fearless abandon. Like a bird that soars, the sky is his playground. Gravity is his friend.
Out the corner of my eye, I see Roaz tearing by.
The sound of his line is a roar. He's writing rark again, fire, but this time he's connecting that fire to a shape – shakhal, lion.
I don't know what he's planning, but I can tell he's deliberately writing his lines over mine, peaking the angles of his 'sh' to cut through my words, disrupting its meaning.
Two can play at that game.
I abandon Naqi's line and pull into a large loop, up and over, to arrive behind Roaz's line. I corkscrew and swoop and cut right through his ichor drag so that his lion is severed.
Then I connect my line to taqa – a great sound, a blast. I'm going to write into existence the roar of a lion, a roar like thunder enough to fill the skies. So I soar high and higher so that Roaz cannot reach me. I fly half a square, a corkscrew, a hard left and a drop followed by another hard left, and I only have another corkscrew left to finish, then my line will be complete. I will have finished my first starsong.
Roaz enters my vision. He's caught up to me. He's overtaking me. I don't understand.
I tug against the cord around my leg, for more ichor, for more power, but I can tell – already I'm straining against the limits of this star. Its body quakes in its lock and squeals like a kettle on a stove, because it has nothing more to give, because it was never meant for starsinging.
Naqi had said I'm a better flyer than even him, but none of that will matter if my star is weak. I'll never be able to win the race like this.
When I look at Roaz, I see that his star – the star of Nim – continues to pulse ichor after ichor of power into him, thrusting him along, hurtling him faster and farther from me.
He looks so free.
Envy sinks into me; it pinpricks over my stain.
Roaz cuts directly in front of my path; he's playing dirty. He blasts out a cloud of ichor, and the blow of the burst rattles through me, buffets me like wind. My stance wobbles. I lose my balance. I topple off my anchor.
I careen. My cord is still connected to my leg, but the wind is too loud, and the world is a blur, and I can't think. The air is going by too fast for me to gulp it in, for me to breathe, and then I slam into the water. I go under.
My mask and veil is in the way. I'm going to drown.
I thrash to the surface.
I claw my mask and veil away from my face and gasp for breath, but I do not tear them off. Even in the frenzy of staying afloat, I remember that Roaz and his friends are from outside the temple. A Veil can never expose herself to the vow-less.
But then Roaz is hovering by me and above me, and he is smirking, and something inside me uncorks, something like fire, like red. I don't care about being a Veil anymore, not now, not with him looking down on me.
My anchor has bobbed to the surface, and I grab onto it. I dip back underneath the water and kick my feet up, to realign them to the glider. The cord tightens against my leg again and the star stutters back to light. I flip upright, and float off of the water.
"Was hoping the fall would rip your veil clean off." Roaz leans toward me and into my space. "Guess I'll have to make do with those katohs instead."
"You cheated," I hurl.
"A loser would say that."
"You knocked me off my anchor."
"You fell. I didn't do anything."
"Liar." My scab is thickening beneath my robe, down my back, down to my elbow. Pain jolts through me from the cord. My connection to the star is beginning to burn. Still I stay where I am. I hold my head high.
Roaz bares his teeth in a smile. "Not my fault if you flew too close to me. Also not my fault if you couldn't get out of the way fast enough. And now you're going to throw a tantrum because you're not as good as me? Siren's teeth."
"You sure," he jeers, "you're even a Veil?"
I snarl.
I slam my fist into his nose.
People are clamouring. Everyone has long since returned, and the shore where they are is all commotion. Roaz rears back, stunned, and then his eyes flash. His teeth are like fangs. He swings for me. I jerk out of the way, fly high with my anchor.
"You're a liar," I fling. And I'm going to expose you for one.
With blood streaming out his nostrils and staining his teeth, Roaz comes after me. He shouts things at me, names, hateful things, things I don't hear because I'm writing another line. I'm spinning and twirling my way around him, twisting out of the way when he comes too close.
Arah, I write. Expose.
Avah, I write. Sin.
I'm going to expose his lie. I'm going to make him pay for making me feel small.
The line is complete. I finish the final corkscrew and bob down from the line, but I shouldn't have stopped. Roaz is right behind. The full weight of him crashes into me.
It's a violence of sounds. Metal cracks and snaps. Our bodies plow not against water, but against the stones of the courtyard, and we roll. We tumble. Nails flash and teeth gleam.
Roaz reaches for my hair through my veil, and I slam my knee up into his stomach. He doubles over. I kick him off of me, away from me, and scrabble onto my hands and feet to kick him again, but then people are holding me back by my arms, yanking me away.
Roaz's friends crowd around him to help him up, and Brother Marat is here. Same with Pea. Same with Naqi.
The old Sun's expression is stony, but he is not looking at me or at Roaz. He is furrowing his brows at something over the waters – the line that I had last drawn.
Pea is by my shoulder, and Naqi is gripping my arm and frowning and hushing, "Lumi. Lu. What happened?"
One of the boys cries out.
He stumbles away from Roaz, Roaz still on the ground, Roaz who is staring at his hand and trembling, trembling.
There's an omen stain on his hand.
Blackness leaks out of the seat of his palm and bubbles over like tar. It slicks its way over the heel of his hand, down his wrist. A stain blooms over his temple. He winces at it, whimpers at it. It's hurting him.
"Roaz! He's, he's stained!"
Everyone is watching him. His friends have all pulled back. Brother Marat stands where he is, ever silent, ever stoic, and then he turns to me.
He says, softly, "What have you done?"
Pain splits through me. Brother Marat turns back to Roaz, and I double over onto my knees. It feels like my bones are trying to sprout their way out of the soil of my flesh and skin. Naqi is there, holding me close. Pea is there, fretting and frantic.
My omen stain begins to tear through my robes.
No. No, no.
Brother Marat is helping Roaz to his feet, and all eyes are on them, pinned on them, except for Pea's.
Except for Naqi's.
They see it. They see me. There's no denying what they see. My omen scab juts from my left shoulder and through the fabric, craggy like the face of a cliff, and Pea tenses. She tenses the way people do, right before a scream.
I wrench away from them. I cover my shoulder.
It hurts. My head pounds and it hurts. My heart thunders and it hurts. I can't stay here. I can't bear it, the weight of what I've done, the weight of who I am exposed.
I can't bear to see Pea and Naqi's faces.
So I don't. I turn away.
I run.