One night-cycle after Mokoya’s whimpering had been silenced by unconsciousness, Akeha admitted to themselves that they were not following their twin into sleep at all. They slowly sat up in the gloom, careful not to disturb the shallowly breathing mound next to them.
The half hour before the sun returned to the skies was the coldest. Two night-cycles had passed, and a whole new day approached. Akeha’s fingers were numb, and their vision shone with waves of exhaustion, but rest and darkness would not come. Their mind would not settle.
Akeha, separated from their twin, had spent nearly two hours being questioned by the senior acolytes and the Head Abbot himself, passed around like cracked tableware. They repeated their story over and over: They had not intended to kill the naga. They wanted to send it away. Once or twice, they had almost slipped and mentioned the kirin in the forest, where they were not supposed to have been. But they caught themselves in time.
Eventually they had been allowed to return to their bedroom, where they found Mokoya sitting with their chin tucked against their knees, expression blank. And then they had to explain, for the final time, that they hadn’t really meant to kill the naga. They hadn’t meant to make the prophecy come true.
Akeha watched Mokoya as they slept. For once, they were not sure what their twin believed. No, Mokoya was not obliged to talk to them. And they were probably as tired as Akeha was, and frightened too.
But they wished Mokoya had said something.
Akeha got to their feet and shuffled toward the door. There was no point in lying still and trying to fall asleep. They knew it wouldn’t happen.
They crept around the austere gray sprawl of the Grand Monastery, letting the cold slow their blood and heartbeat where their mind wouldn’t. These were the wide corridors they and Mokoya had breathlessly run down between lessons, the stones upon which they had both sat for hours meditating, the courtyards in which they had sparred, using sticks and slackcraft as weapons.
Akeha’s childhood memories of the Great High Palace stitched together snatches of color and heavy fragrances with zither song and faraway, gentle laughter. They used to feel a jolt of strong, unnamable emotion whenever they thought about it, but those emotions had faded as the seasons left, and came back, and left again. The Grand Monastery was their home now.
A circle of light glowed in the distance, glimpsed between the even wooden teeth of intersecting corridors. The Head Abbot was not yet asleep.
For reasons they couldn’t quite understand, Akeha found themselves creeping toward the Head Abbot’s quarters. As they got closer, they heard voices: the Head Abbot had a visitor. In the deepest part of night.
Akeha shuffled into a crouch and pressed against the wall of the Head Abbot’s room, underneath the window. Their heart pulsed in their throat: if they were caught, they didn’t know what they would say.
“This is a generous offer,” said a high, crisp voice. Akeha’s memories of the Great High Palace came unbound in a wild cascade. That voice belonged to bright, wide halls with climate control and murmuring, attentive audiences. Second Sister Kinami—wasn’t she the Chief Royal Diplomat now, overseeing the Ministry of Diplomacy whose fingers stretched everywhere the Protectorate held land?
“It’s hardly an offer,” the Head Abbot said. “I’d call it a demand.”
“Well, you know Mother. Negotiating is not one of her great interests.”
“We made a compact, a blood deal. She cannot simply back out of it as it suits her wishes.”
“Except she isn’t backing out of anything. She promised you one child. She gave you two. At the end of it, you’ll still have one.”
Akeha dug their nails into their palm to stop from shaking. One leg was already feeling the strain from the unnatural crouch.
Kinami said, “Mother has requested only the prophet’s return. You can keep the other one. That fulfills the terms of the deal.”
“You speak of them as though they are mere numbers on a ledger. They’re children. You cannot just move them from one column to the next.”
Silence from the other end. Akeha could imagine the cold, arch expression on Kinami’s face. Of all their older sisters, Kinami was the closest in temperament to Mother, and even as a small child, Akeha had hated her. The Head Abbot had to tell her no. Tell her to go away.
“I see. I suppose I should have expected this. After all, treating people like numbers is one of your mother’s specialties.”
Akeha scrunched their face up to keep from screaming. Of course the Head Abbot wouldn’t fight Mother’s wishes. Nobody would.
“You’ll have a week to make the arrangements. Let the prophet say their good-byes. It should be plenty of time.”
The meeting was ending. Akeha had to get away. They kept to their crouch for two steps, and then started running, head ducked, chest constricting in pain. Wooden floorboards creaked as their soft-soled shoes slapped over them.
By some miracle, Akeha got back to their room without being stopped. They crashed against the wall next to the door and slid to the floor, gasping, their calves burning.
Mokoya sat up, robes mussed and eyes wide. “What happened? Keha? What is it?”
The conversation between Kinami and the Head Abbot repeated in Akeha’s head in a deathly loop. “They’re coming for you.”
“Who?”
“Mother. The Tensorate.”
Mokoya struggled to clumsy feet, wiping the sleep from their face. “For us?”
“No. Just you.”
Mokoya froze as though struck by lightning. “They can’t do that.”
Akeha pressed their head into the wall’s unyielding surface and closed their eyes. They felt tired, all the way deep in their neck and shoulders and head. Their muscles shook, their heart wouldn’t stop beating. “They can do whatever they want.”
“No.” Mokoya’s voice was soft but determined. Akeha felt fingers close around their hand and tighten vise-like. “Keha, we have to do something.”
Chapter Five
THE MOON RULED THE skies as the children set out past the guardians of their sleeping quarters, past the empty vegetable garden, past the raptors and through the broken fence. When it was just them and the forest again, Akeha stopped to adjust the heavy pack they had strapped on. Their exertions clouded the air with white puffs.
“Come on,” Mokoya hissed. “We need to get as far as possible before they realize we’re gone.”
Akeha hesitated, and they said, “Keha.” Then they turned and set off into the wooded depths without checking to see if Akeha followed.
Mokoya’s steady gait never wavered, retracing the route they knew: through the trees, toward the shining path that led up to the peak of the mountain.
“If the kirin comes back, you’ll kill it, won’t you?” Mokoya said, as they walked.
Akeha didn’t reply. They were mentally counting the biscuits and dried rice cakes stuffed into the packs, five days’ worth of stealing from the monastery’s kitchens. It would last them three days, four if they skipped meals. And they needed to find a source of clean water sooner than that.