“Time does not matter here in the Far World,” the dragon said. “Tell me your story. Tell me from the beginning, as you remember it. Tell me everything.”
So with halting fingers, Imraldera began to weave the tale in the darkness. Her brown hand danced, but it was a solemn dance. A dance of mourning. And as she worked her tale, she felt as though she relived it.
She relived the days of death.
1
STARFLOWER
I REMEMBER THE NIGHT my mother died. I remember it because, until that night, I had never heard her voice. But that night she screamed. Not even the curse of the Beast could stifle those screams.
I do not like to recall my mother that way. It is difficult to prevent those final moments from overshadowing everything else. Her hands were gentle. They were not the hands I saw clawing at the animal hides upon her bed. They were not the hands I saw tearing at the shadows, begging for help in broken signs. No, let me remember them as they were before! Brown as doeskin, rough as lizard hide, hands that contained so many stories.
Her fingers . . . how they could dance out a tale! How they would fly for me when I was little and just learning to form words of my own. She told me stories of heroes, of elders back in the days before the Land was united under one Eldest. She told me how the mountains that surround the Land were once giants, tall and grand and glorious. But they sinned a dreadful sin; because of this, they are bound forever in stone. Only if they allow their hearts to become soft once more, to beg forgiveness and listen to the Songs of the Spheres, will they ever be free.
My mother taught me the names of things. I remember that best of all. Her fingers, elegant and strong, would help mine to form the name of the sun, the moon, the name of each mountain and lake and tree. They are silent names, known only to the women. Men do not speak our language of hands. They do not know the hidden names of things.
“Before a creature may truly live,” my mother told me, “it must be known by name. Every living thing, be it man or woman, animal or angel, sleeps inside, waiting for that day when it will wake and sing. But until it is called by its true name, it will remain asleep.
“A true name is a powerful thing. Dangerous. Many go through life asleep inside, because no one has ever called their true name. And so, they think themselves safe.”
“Safe?” I asked. “How can this be? If they must be called by their true name to come alive, why wouldn’t they want that name to be known?”
“Because to know a true name is to have great power. The one who knows becomes so strong . . . and also, so weak. Just as you too, when your name is known, are both stronger and weaker than you would otherwise be.”
“If one person knows many true names, is that person then very powerful?”
“Yes,” my mother signed. “But also very fragile.”
I shook my head, confused by this. How can one be both strong and frail at once? It is a great mystery. Perhaps the greatest mystery of all.
“Well, I know my name,” I told my mother in my ignorance. “I am Starflower.”
“That is the name your father gave you, yes,” my mother replied.
“Is it my true name?”
She smiled. I know the reading of faces as well as I know the reading of hands. And in her face, young as I was, I read her answer: “I know your true name, my child. I know, though no one else does. And I will keep it safe.”
My father is Eldest of the Land. All the elders of all the villages, the Crescent Tribes, the men of Black Rock, the tall North Walkers, all of them pay tribute to Eldest Panther Master. They bickered among themselves, however, and only their loyalty to their Eldest kept them from violent warring.
But my father had not produced a son. Only me. Only a worthless woman-child.
Without a son, my father risked losing the loyalty of the elders. Their squabbles became more bitter every year, and their trust in their Eldest, a sonless chieftain, faded. After all, who can trust a man who can father no heir?
The men of our village pleaded with Father many times to set aside my mother and take another wife, one who would give him sons. But Father refused. I would say it was because he loved my mother, but how can a man love a woman? We, who have no voices. We, who are born slaves. It is too much for me to understand.
But I know Mother loved the Panther Master. She loved him for his strength, but she loved him more for the kindness he showed her by not putting her aside when, in the ten years since she had given birth to me, she still gave him no heir.
Then, after all hope had been lost, she came to be with child again. Stone giants above! I had never seen her so joyful! How beautiful her hands became during those months. And I saw her sign these words:
“Let me praise the One Who Names Them.
He named this child from the Beginning.
Since before the worlds were made, he knew
The name of the child I bear.”