IN THE ROOM HE had called home for the last eight years, Akeha was packing. He had put together some clothes, simple toiletries, a few days’ provisions, and enough money that he could be comfortable, but not so much that he might be robbed. He intended to travel south, where the winds remained mild and the snows did not come, so he didn’t need winter clothing. And he had enough confirmation medicine to last him a month before he had to look for more.
His body ached. His reshaped hips felt loose where the confirmation doctors had shifted bone, and soreness coiled in flesh both old and new. The doctors had assured him that the discomfort was normal, part of his body learning to speak the new language it had been taught. In time it would forget it had known anything else. In time, he too would forget what it felt like not to have this body, not to have had this life.
It would just take time.
His chin itched with fresh growth, dark hairs pushing through the skin for the first time. He hadn’t decided what to do with it yet. Growing a beard might help him slip through the northerly regions where the shape of his face was still familiar, framed on walls in the official portraits of the Protector’s family. Or not. The doctors had called forth a thick mane of hair from his scalp, and it now sat on his head in a tight bun. He had decided that he would cut it short, in the style of southern men, once he was on the other side of the Mengsua Pass.
Akeha gathered the small bags he had assembled and started tying them into his sling.
A commotion of stampeding feet was the only warning he got before Mokoya burst through the door, breathless and flushed with anxiety. “Keha,” she gasped, “Sonami said—”
She froze as she took in the scatter of his belongings, the debris that had not made it into his pack. Her eyes widened as she realized the truth. “You—you’re leaving?”
Akeha tightened the knot on his sling. “I am.” He had told Sonami last night, as a courtesy to the woman who had raised him in early childhood. He made her promise to keep the news from Mother until he had time to leave the city. But of course Sonami would tell his sister. She was crafty in that way.
It was no matter. Mokoya could not stop him from leaving.
His sister blocked the doorway, her expression tumbling into the valleys of desperation. “Keha, whatever I did, whatever I said, I’m sorry. Please, don’t go.”
“It’s nothing you did. You have a place in this city, in the shape of things to come. I don’t.” Akeha pulled the sling over his chest, feeling its weight settle onto his shoulder. “And if I stay here, I never will. I have to go. I have to find my own place in the world.”
“What do you mean? Your place is here, with me. Wasn’t that what we said?” Her voice cracked. “We were born together, we stay together until we die.”
He would not be frightened by the talk of death, or the glasslike fragility she was exposing. “Moko. To leave is my choice. Just as becoming a man was my choice.” He came face-to-face with her, forcing his expression to remain as calm as possible. “Would you really keep me here against my will?”
She was visibly shaking, as though she might disintegrate at any moment. Emotions deeper than terror laced her words as she said, “Everything I’ve done, you’ve picked the opposite. You think there’s something wrong with me, don’t you?”
“Moko. No.” Despair sank through his gut. He wanted to reach out to her, but he couldn’t bear to touch her, afraid that the contact might shatter his resolve. “I can’t explain what this is about, but it’s not about you. You have a future here with Thennjay. I want you to be happy.”
Mokoya folded as she began to cry, collapsing against the wall in grief. Akeha resisted the instant urge to catch her, to hold her up, as he had so many times before. That was someone else’s privilege now.
She had left a gap in the doorway, one he could step through easily, like his heart was made of stone. “Forget about me,” he said, as gently as he could. Did she hear? He wanted to say I love you, but he couldn’t bring the syllables to his mouth. Instead, he settled for “May the fortunes keep you safe.”
Mokoya didn’t look up, didn’t respond to his words. She just continued sobbing. Then Akeha was through the doorway, through the gauntlet, his feet carrying him away as fast as they could. Behind him, he heard Mokoya screaming his name. He forced himself to stare straight ahead. He would not look back. He would not cry.
*
The lonely moon rolled across the sky as Akeha flew. He leapt from peaked roof to peaked roof, a hundred yields per jump, soaring as a bird might, landing as a feather would. He had learned this in the Grand Monastery: pulling away earth-nature so that weight fell from him, pushing through water-nature so that each jump had the speed of a released arrow. The night air sang in his clothes, his hair, his ears.
Below him, Chengbee slumbered, its squares of light dimmed or extinguished. From this height, the city was a dense, absurd plaything, something that looked easy to crush. In between the houses and matchstick streets, people vanished from view. Stay high enough, and the city became mere map, a territory, lines drawn on the edge of a mountain.
Akeha came to the city’s southern edge, where the rivers Tiegui and Siew Tiegui met, where the spines of ships jostled for space along the quays, where the fertile plains downriver stretched silver and gray. He stood on the roof of an inn that nestled against the riverbank and filled himself with the cool damp of summer. This was it. This was his point of exit. He intended to find a ship with space amongst the cargo belowdecks, space he could slot himself into, and wait. The ships sailed downriver with silks and paper and Slack-powered devices, and with them he would go, hopefully as far as Jixiang, where the pass through the mountains waited.
“Akeha.”
He froze. He had been so consumed by his thoughts, so focused on damming up the rising waters of fear and despair, that he hadn’t noticed he’d been followed.
He turned, feet choreographing balance on the narrow beam of wood. The silhouette making its way across the roof of the inn left him breathless with recognition. Thennjay looked the same as on the day they had met him, somber and beautiful, rich skin shining in the moonlight. “What can I do to convince you to stay?” he asked in his gentle baritone.
“Nothing.” Akeha licked the parched surface of his lips as Thennjay drew close enough for him to smell. “I’ve made my decision. I’m not turning back.”
“Mokoya is devastated,” he said, voice unhardened by spikes of judgment. “This is hard on her. You should reconsider.”
“She’ll cope,” Akeha replied stiffly. “She won’t be alone. She’ll have you.”
His eyes drew across Akeha’s face slowly. “That’s not how it works.” He reached out and took Akeha’s hand, pressing fingers into skin. “I want you to stay.”
Akeha pulled his hand back. “I’ve made my choice,” he said, but his tongue was thick in his mouth, and it was hard to push words out of his throat. His skin was strangely alive where Thennjay had touched it. The taller boy radiated heat: heat that he could taste, heat that he could swallow.
Their eyes met. And in that moment, Akeha realized exactly what it was he wanted, and that this was the last, only chance he was going to get.