It was winter, not cold enough for snow but cold enough to sit in front of the fire, wrapped in a blanket and sipping chocolate, rich and hot and sweet.
“In the beginning there wasn’t anything,” said her mother, sitting beside Talia. Her skirt pooled around her in a perfect circle of dark-green silk. “No light, no trees, no world. Just darkness.”
Talia drank more chocolate and scooted closer, eyes wide, ears alert and listening.
“Then the One who was before everything, even the gods, shaped three Stars in the emptiness and set them swirling about a single point in the void. The Stars were the most powerful things in existence, because they were first, and closest to the One’s heart.”
The wind whistled outside of the windows. The fire popped, shooting hot embers out onto the stone floor. Talia watched them spark orange and then wink out, turning to ash.
“And in that point, as the Stars wheeled, the One who was before the gods made Endahr, the world. It was very beautiful, but it was empty, and so he made a Tree to fill it up, a huge white Tree formed from the dust of the Stars. He set it in the middle of Endahr, and it stretched its branches up to the heavens, but it still wasn’t enough.”
“What did he do then?” Talia whispered, the story pulsing sharp in her heart.
“He made the gods,” said her mother, a smile touching her lips. “Listen, and I will tell you their names:
“Tuer was first, Lord of the Mountain, the most powerful of all the gods, and their leader. Raiva came after—she was born in the light of the Stars and woke already singing. She was made Lady of Trees and green growing things.”
Talia squirmed happily and put her elbows down on her knees, forgetting about her chocolate.
“Huen was Lord of the Earth,” her mother went on, “and Caida the Guardian of Stars and Fire. Aigir was Lord of the Sea; Hahld his brother had charge of the rivers and streams. Ahdairon was the Lady of the Air—the birds obeyed her, and she dwelt with Mahl, Lord of Wind and Thunder. Last of all was Uerc, Lord of the Beasts. He rode a great black horse and wandered all of Endahr, naming the animals, and speaking to them.”
Talia pictured the gods as her mother talked about them, beautiful and mysterious and strong. Raiva had silver hair, she imagined, and Tuer looked a great deal like her father. Huen was like the Emperor, except he wore a brown coat, and Aigir and Hahld were vaguely green. Caida wore a gown made of fire, while Ahdairon had wings as bright as a parrot’s. Mahl was always frowning. Uerc had a jaguar for a pet. She couldn’t decide which one she liked best.
“The One who was before the gods charged them with the keeping of Endahr. He told them to guard it, to make it flourish and grow, and to guide and keep mankind when they awoke. So they were called the Nine Guardians.”
“And did they guard Endahr?” asked Talia, tucking herself under her mother’s arm.
Her mother smiled and kissed the top of her head, pulling her tight. “For a time. The One created spirits to help them—beautiful beings a little less powerful than the gods, called the servants. Raiva taught them how to sing.”
“Is that the end of the story?” Talia said sleepily, yawning and leaning her head against her mother’s chest.
“Almost. The gods and their servants dwelled happily on Endahr, eating fruit from the Tree and living in the shade of its branches. Birds and animals flourished. The Tree grew strong, the Stars burned bright. All was well until mankind awoke on Endahr.”
“But where did mankind come from?”
“The One formed them from a Tree leaf and a spark of Starlight, then planted them in the earth until it was time for them to awake.”
Talia listened to her mother’s heartbeat, strong and steady beneath her ear. “What happened then?”
“Everything changed,” her mother said. “But that is another story.” She fell asleep, then, in her mother’s lap by the fire, filled with warmth and peace and love. The gods from the stories danced behind her eyes, and she wasn’t afraid.
Part Two:
STAR AND TREE
And the gods rose up in their anger and as one plucked the Tree from the ground.
Chapter Nine
THE COACH RATTLED UP THE ROAD, ICY air leaking in through the crack under the door. Talia didn’t think she would ever be warm again—the cold gnawed into her bones. She shuddered in the ratty blanket she had stolen from last night’s flea-infested inn. She had no money to purchase any kind of coat, and no leisure to shop for one even if she did—the driver who had collected her from the seaport kept a strict schedule.
The landscape stretched out before her, endless low-rolling hills spotted with patches of purple heather. Clouds hung overhead, moody and dark, blotting out any hint of the morning sun.
She knew only two things about the Ruen-Dahr, the Baron’s estate where she was headed; it stood on a bluff overlooking the sea, and the proprietor at the last inn thought it was haunted.
It had been four days since she left Captain Oblaine and Hanid at the seaport. Four days since she’d seen the ocean.
It had been two months and eleven days since she’d lost her mother.
They’d had a funeral of sorts on the ship. She’d tied a scrap of white sailcloth around her arm in lieu of proper mourning clothes. Captain Oblaine had spoken the formal words of burial, but Talia had stumbled over the traditional prayer: May your spirit be gathered beyond the circles of the world, and your body rest quiet until the end of time, when the world is unmade.
She didn’t know the prayer for burial at sea.
She curled her body up tight on the carriage seat. Her mother’s death was a constant, gnawing ache, as if her leg had been cut off but she still had phantom pains. Most days she did her best not to think about it, because when she did, when she really, truly thought about that night in the storm when her mother flung open the window, the world went black and she didn’t know how she would ever go on, how she could ever go on. Because the truth was—the truth was—
The truth was she should have leapt up in time to pull her back.
She should have jumped out the window after her, grabbed her before the sea swallowed her up.
She should have done something.
But by the time she tore up on deck screaming for help it was already too late. Sailors threw ropes into the water below the spot where her mother had fallen. They shouted her name through the wind and the rain. One of them even dove into the raging waves to look for her.
But it was too late.
She was gone.
And Talia wished the sea would have claimed her, too.
She didn’t know how to live with her mother’s absence, with that phantom pain that would never go away.