Chapter 31

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Chapter 31

Andala and her mother returned to their chairs, opposite one another at the table. Girard took his own seat quietly, clearly hoping to blend into the background, but Andala was glad of his presence.

‘It's funny, I suppose, that this is all happening as King Tomas Meridea sits the throne,' Leilyn said, ‘seeing as it was his ancestors who moved away from the worship of the skysingers in the first place.'

She paused, seeming to gather her thoughts, then began.

‘We were never really worshipped. Not the nightingales. But the skylarks were. There are few around who still remember, but there was a time in Cielore when faith was the heart of everything – and the faith of the sky was everybody's faith.

‘The holy books told that from the beginning of time, the cycle of night and day had been governed by goddesses. At first, they were formless, bringing darkness and dawn by turns through the invisible force of their will. But then, as life blossomed in our lands, they saw a form they liked, and they mirrored it. They became birds, and their songs became the conduit that channelled their power.

‘According to legend, the goddesses first came into being on a little islet somewhere off one of Cielore's coasts. But with their new forms came wings. And with their wings, of course, came a desire to fly. One day they flew all the way to the mainland, and there, for 229 the first time, they saw people. And once again it was a form that intrigued them. They tried it out, then and there. For the first time, they changed from lark and nightingale to two humans, women made of flesh and blood.'

Leilyn glanced briefly at Andala. She seemed to have heard her unspoken question: How? ‘They were goddesses, don't forget. Their power was immense in those early days. Nothing like ours, I'm afraid.' A faint smile on her lips, Leilyn returned her eyes to the table, where they took on the faraway film of the storyteller again. ‘It's said that back then they could do almost anything. Not only change their form and call the sun and moon with their song, but raise structures from the earth itself if they wished it, or travel great distances in the blink of an eye, or heal human illness. Some of it is likely just myth or exaggeration, of course. But I've no doubt at least some of it is true.

‘The longer they remained in their new human forms, though, the more their power began to wane. For a while they flew back and forth between their little island and the land that would become Cielore, changing from bird to woman and back again as they pleased. But one day, as they prepared to fly back to their island, one of them discovered she could not transform.'

‘Which one?' Andala asked, though she already knew.

‘The nightingale, so the stories go,' her mother confirmed. ‘It was daytime, and she could not regain her bird form until it came time for night to fall. But just as she changed, the skylark changed back, and could not become a bird again until morning. No matter how they tried, they could not align their transformations anymore. That power seemed to have gone, leaving them for the first time at the mercy of dawn and dusk, rather than the other way around. It was not until many, many years later that some of us began to learn how to transform at will again.' 230

Some of us. Andala ignored the pointed words. ‘What does all this have to do with the Merideans?' she asked, remembering what her mother had said at the start of her story.

‘The Meridea family first came to power several centuries ago. But hundreds of years before they did, an entire branch of faith grew around the first skylark, who now lived permanently on the mainland of Cielore. She grew close to the humans there. And as she did so, somewhere along the way, she and the nightingale drifted further apart. Perhaps it was because the people did not worship the darkness as they did the light. Perhaps it was because the goddesses were human now, more human than they had ever been, and it is sometimes in the nature of humans to drift away from those they had once kept close.'

Guilt spiked in Andala at the words. Thankfully, neither her mother nor Girard looked her way, and she pushed the feeling aside.

‘Whatever the reason, the nightingale faded into obscurity, while the skylark rose to new heights as the centre of the Cieloran faith,' Leilyn went on. ‘The sky larks , I should say. It was during this time that the first lark – and the nightingale too, I assume – first partnered with humans, and began to pass down their power. The lark line continued to be worshipped, but at some point – most agree it was around the time the Merideans came to power – the faith, and the skylarks, faded and then disappeared, just like the nightingales had before them.'

‘What happened to the skylarks?' Andala asked.

Leilyn shook her head, spread her hands as though the answer might fall into her open palms. ‘Even though they clearly continued to exist, as the sun kept rising as it always had, the people's belief in them grew weak, and then was forgotten. Before too long they had become abstract figures – creatures of legend, only spoken about in stories. And the faith that had been built around the Messenger of Day slowly faded, until—' 231

‘Until King Tomas,' Andala finished. ‘Until now.'

Leilyn nodded.

‘And that's all you know?' Andala pressed. ‘You haven't heard anything else – about whether something like this has ever happened before?' She gestured to the window, and the endless black beyond.

Her mother shook her head. ‘Not that I have heard. There have been whispers, throughout the intervening years, that both of them – the lark and the nightingale – still existed, still sang their songs. But such rumours were either spread by the fanatically faithful, those who clung to the ancient beliefs … or those who would seek to cause the skysingers harm.'

‘Harm?' Girard sat forward, speaking for the first time.

Leilyn nodded. ‘There have been … certain tales, passed down as warnings through our line. Some tell of folk who seem to think they'd be doing the Merideans a blessed favour by removing the skylark from the picture once and for all, so that their power can never be threatened by the faith that once loomed larger than their rule. It's part of the reason the skylarks have stayed hidden all these years. We nightingales have done the same, just to be sure. Even if it isn't us they're after, concealing ourselves has always been safer than drawing the attention of any such dangerous folk.'

‘But that's ridiculous,' Girard said. ‘If they killed the skylark, the power would be gone too. We'd be stuck like this, in endless night, and we'd all …' He swallowed, not finishing the thought. ‘And why would anyone want to kill the nightingale ?'

But words were coming back to Andala, words she'd overheard at the tavern on her way here.

… heard the king is going to kill it.

… not the skylark … The other one.

If he kills it like he says he will, the spell will be broken. 232

Right now, she could think of a very good reason why people might think killing the nightingale a viable plan.

‘If all this is true, though,' she pressed on, ‘why would Tomas have sought m— sought Oriane out in the first place? If all she represents is a threat to his family's rule, why would he go out of his way to find her and show her to the world?'

Leilyn slowly shook her head. ‘That I cannot say.'

Andala fought back the shout of frustration that threatened to burst from her. She dropped her head into her hands, despair clawing its way up through her body. None of this had helped. It was all just myth and folklore, and even if any of it were true, it offered no solution to their problem.

The three of them sat in silence. The wind brushed its fingers through the trees outside.

‘Andala, I know … what Oriane's been through,' Girard said after a while, with the awkward air of someone broaching an unpleasant topic. ‘What you told me … I can only imagine how she's suffered, and I understand why she's refusing to sing. But surely … surely she realises what is at stake? Surely she knows that by staying silent she dooms us all.'

Andala raised her head and opened her mouth – to say what, she did not know, though the urge to defend Oriane was immediate and strong – but Leilyn spoke first, her expression grave.

‘I don't think it's quite that simple anymore, Girard. It is not easy, to do what she has done. Nor is it – for want of a better word – right. It denies her very nature. She must have exceptional strength of will, to have achieved it … But that might also be her downfall. Her will to suppress her song might be too strong.' Leilyn paused. ‘Such that she may never get it back.' 233

‘What?' Andala demanded, at the same time as Girard breathed, ‘Skies …'

‘Consider how the original goddesses' power waned as they changed. Who knows what happens to that power in a case like this? And I speak from experience, too,' she added, glancing to Andala. ‘I know that when I was the nightingale, I could no more have held back my song than I could have felled a tree with a touch.'

Girard looked to Andala, the question plain on his face.

Andala shook her head miserably. ‘I've never been able to control it. Any of it. The transformation, the song … It's all so much bigger than me. It feels … powerful. Like a living thing of its own.'

‘A living thing … A thing that Oriane might have killed for good?' Girard asked, horror lining his words.

Leilyn sighed before she answered. ‘Perhaps not for good – but from what Andala has said, it will take something serious, something strong, for Oriane to bring it back to life.'

The three of them fell quiet again, none looking at the other.

Time dragged itself by. A sense of defeat hung in the air, thick, almost palpable – but after a while, it only emanated from the other two. Not Andala. For while they had been discussing, going back and forth and around in circles, Andala's mind had been working. And she had come to a conclusion.

‘Have you ever played chess, Girard?' she asked, turning in her seat to face him.

Leilyn looked at her sharply – thinking, no doubt, of Andala's father, as Andala was herself. After he had taught Andala to play when she was ten, the two of them had spent countless evenings across the board from one another. Andala had loved nothing more than to sit there in easy quiet with him, the only sound the soft click of pieces moving about the board. 234

‘I'm afraid I don't have the patience or the intellect for games like those,' Girard answered, looking confused.

She smiled. ‘Sometimes it isn't patience or intellect that helps you win. Sometimes it's something else. Sometimes it takes—'

‘Sacrifice.'

Andala and Girard both looked to Leilyn, who had finished Andala's sentence for her. She was staring at her daughter, her eyes wide in understanding. It was another of those occasions Andala usually so hated, where Leilyn knew precisely what she was thinking. But she found she did not hate it as much this time. It was a relief, actually, to know that it been so easy for Leilyn to come to the same conclusion she had. It made her feel like she was on the right track.

‘I'm sorry – sacrifice? What does that mean?' Girard had not yet realised it. He glanced between Andala and her mother. But it was Leilyn, still staring at Andala, who was the one to say it aloud.

‘She's going to give herself up to the king.'

‘ What? ' Girard demanded. ‘You mean – tell him you're the nightingale?' When Andala nodded, he looked at her the same way her mother was doing – as if she'd lost her mind. ‘Andala – why? '

‘It's the only thing I can do,' she explained calmly. ‘At first, it will buy us some time. Distract Tomas from Oriane and whatever awful things he's planning to do to try to get her to sing. Then Kitt can work on a plan to free her – that's the safer option, I think, than keeping on with trying to somehow replicate her song.'

Girard folded his arms and narrowed his eyes. ‘And what then?'

‘Well,' Andala said slowly, ‘I have heard that perhaps … perhaps the king has a plan. To end the so-called curse of night – a plan that involves me.'

It took a moment for Girard to realise what she meant, but when he did, his narrowed eyes went wide. 235

‘And I think,' she said loudly, over the protests he had begun to voice, ‘I think it would work. If it came to that, the curse would end. Without me, the night would cease to exist, so the day would have to come back.' She shrugged. ‘Better to have eternal sunshine than eternal dark, wouldn't you say?'

‘What of Amie?' Leilyn cut in. ‘Would your power not pass on to her the moment you left this world?'

At any other time, such a question from her mother might have enraged her, a thousand scathing retorts leaping ready to her tongue. But not now. Andala was calm and entirely certain as she replied, ‘No. That's not how it works, not for us. I can make sure it doesn't happen. I know I can.'

Girard was shaking his head. He pushed back his chair with a scrape and stood, moving away to pace in front of the stove. ‘This is ridiculous, Andala. You're talking about dying. Putting yourself at the end of a sword to try to get the sun to rise.'

Andala threw up her hands. ‘What is the alternative, Girard? Would you prefer that I wait here to die in the darkness with you and everybody else? Because that is what will happen. The night will keep getting colder. Our food will run out. Thousands of people will die, rather than just one who could have saved them all.'

Girard seemed to have no answer to this. He turned to Andala's mother. ‘Leilyn, what do you have to say to this? Surely you aren't going to let her do it?'

Andala turned to Leilyn as well. Her mother's focus was still trained on her; it seemed not to have strayed the whole time. Andala wondered what she would say – whether she would join Girard in protesting, or offer no opinion at all. 236

It surprised Andala when Leilyn did not respond in either way. Instead, she was shocked to see tears form in her mother's eyes, as Leilyn lifted her chin in a sad yet unmistakeable show of pride.

‘I know that when my daughter has made up her mind about something, it is near impossible for anyone to change it,' she said. ‘But even if I could try, all of us know that she is in the right.'

‘In the right ? Leilyn, I'm sorry, but that's ridiculous. There's nothing right about this. There has to be another way.' Girard paused, then repeated himself, quieter. ‘There has to be.' But he was sounding less sure with every word he spoke. When he finally looked back at Andala, she could see in his face that he knew she was going to do this, and that he could not stop her.

‘It's for the best,' she said. The words were as much for herself as they were for him.

Girard's shoulders slumped. ‘At least – at least stay for a little longer, Andala,' he pleaded. ‘Spend some time with us, with Amie, before you go.'

Instead of answering, Andala looked at her mother. Leilyn knew what she was thinking. Again. Andala could see it in the regret and the acceptance in her eyes.

They both knew she had to go now. It would only make things worse if she stayed. With every minute that passed, there was the chance of her resolve slipping, of it getting harder and harder for her to leave. Andala could not risk that. She felt strong in her decision now. She needed to use that feeling. To take her horse and run.

But she also knew Girard would keep trying to talk her down, so Andala decided to pretend – like she had five years ago with him, and five years before that with her mother – that she would stay. She got up from the table and embraced him with all the love they 237 had once shared, and the new form of love they shared still. Then she went to her mother and embraced her, too. They had never been affectionate with one another. It felt strange, but also right, to be so now. This was no longer just the woman who had sealed Andala's fate and changed her life without her consent. It was the only woman in the world with whom she had shared that fate and that life, and Andala had never felt closer to her.

‘I'll stay for a few hours, maybe sleep a little,' she said as she let go of her mother and stepped away. ‘I'll just go up to see Amie.' To say goodbye to Amie, she thought. Leilyn and Girard watched her go. Andala felt a flicker of guilt at the lie, but she pushed it away.

This time, when she stole away in the dead of night, she would be surer than ever that it was the right thing to do.

Amie was sleeping when Andala slipped into the room – her own bedroom, much the same as it had been when she'd left it ten years ago. Her daughter was a bundle under the covers of Andala's old bed. A book lay discarded on the ground beside her. A covered lantern burned low on the little side table.

A lump rose in Andala's throat as she looked at it. Perhaps Amie was afraid of the dark, just like her.

Andala sat carefully on the edge of the bed, so as not to wake her. It was easier to be around Amie now. Was it because she was asleep? Or because Andala knew she would be leaving soon, and therefore would not be a danger to her daughter anymore? It didn't matter. She felt as if her chest had been freed from a vice. She could breathe in her daughter's presence, just sit there and watch Amie breathe, too, the blankets rising and falling with that delicate rhythm. 238

It was strange. Andala didn't feel like a mother, nor would she ever think to claim that title; she did not deserve it, after what she had done. But suddenly, with a fierceness that set her eyes to burning, she hoped Amie would know that, in some other world, Andala would have loved to have been her mother, in the proper sense of the word.

She looked out the window. Black upon black outside, a faint smattering of stars. Cold. Empty. The same as it would always be if she did not go soon.

Andala drew in a deep breath, let it out. Amie fidgeted in her sleep, and Andala froze, expecting her eyes to flutter open at any moment. But she only smiled a little, as if she were dreaming.

‘I'm glad you never had to know me,' Andala whispered, so quietly that the words seemed to fade in the still air. ‘I would only have been a disappointment.' She paused, a tiny mirror smile etching itself across her lips. ‘But I would have liked to have known you.'

Amie rolled over, nestling herself deeper into the blankets. She looked the picture of peace in that moment: innocent, content. But Andala did not stay to watch her. She opened the window and climbed out onto the sturdy trellis that scaled the side of the house. Then she slid the window closed behind her, sealing her daughter in the safe, warm house and stealing off into the endless night.