Chapter 50 A Song of Trust #2
Out of every crevice of darkness in the silo, every corner and shadow and pocket of black, moths pour.
Not hundreds, not thousands, but millions.
And all of them, every single one, is an itka.
They burst out of the Dark in their shimmering whites and blues and purples, shooting through the air as fast as bullets.
Their hard onyx bodies connect with guns, swords, and shields, with armor and bulletproof vests.
The moths grab every soldier, human and aesin, off their feet and flatten them against the rounded walls of the silo.
Her hand outstretched, Sascia holds them there, hundreds of soldiers held captive at the mercy of her moths.
Their faces are slack with surprise—and fear.
They’re waiting for her to say something, even Tae, who’s taken a few steps away to better position the camera, but Sascia is not one for great speeches.
She is all spur-of-the-moment, whatever-comes-tumbling-out-of-her-mouth, consequences be damned, but this is about consequences, about the fear people fall prey to, the blades they pick up, the endless cycle of violence.
She lets her fury settle, her mind sharpen, and speaks from the heart, from her own soron mola: awe, respect, love, and perseverance.
“I am no more and no less than you are,” she calls out. “Not an expert, like Professor Carr claims to be, not a prince, like the Darkhumanoid behind me. Not a poster girl for peace or a Queen-killer. But I have something to say, nonetheless, and I hope you hear it.”
She turns in a circle, grabbing the scared gaze of every soldier pinned to the walls. Thalla is among them, her nose bleeding into the collar of her uniform. Sascia holds the lady’s gaze and at once, Thalla begins translating in a high timbre that carries around the silo.
“The Dark has hurt me too,” Sascia goes on. She points to her arm, where blood stains her makeshift bandage. “Human weapons have hurt me too. But hurt is not our nature. It is a choice, one we make when we’re scared or angry or confused, so today, I’m asking you: make a different choice.”
Against the walls, the soldiers writhe, trying to get free.
“Choose to lay down your weapons. Choose to negotiate peace. Choose to be allies—because our worlds were not brought together by chance. You have all seen what my moths can do. They are gods of the Darkworld. They can open the door between our worlds, but traveling through it is not straightforward.”
She pauses for Thalla to translate, and gestures at the Darkgate across the silo. Without Nugau fueling it, it has begun to power down.
“Our timeline and that of the Dark are not linear. When you travel through the door, you might end up in the past, or the future. The nova-bombs we dropped into Darkholes traveled to the past of the Darkworld and liberated the Darkbeasts from their cages—the same Darkbeasts that we created the nova-bombs to destroy in the first place. This man,” she says, pointing at Carr, “the esteemed director of Chapter XI, has known this truth for a long time. He chose to hide it from you, because this is more profitable: fear and hurt and war.”
Thalla’s translation takes a few minutes, which Sascia spends watching, studying. A wave of whispers tides over the silo, hued with accusation—but not at her. At Carr.
From where he’s holding Nugau a few feet away, Tae turns the tablet toward her. A notification from Crow has popped up at the top of the screen: I hope you all enjoy attention, because I just sent a copy of our theory on knotted time to every major news company in the world.
Whatever happens here tonight, the rest of the world will know the truth. They’ll make an informed decision, one that Sascia hopes is of courage that sheds no blood.
“The moths,” she says, “bridged our worlds together and made a tangled knot of our timelines because they want us to save each other. Our worlds are slowly dying—think about the environment, the climate, energy sources, overpopulation. But together, we can find another way.”
“The way,” a voice whispers, “of the Moth Dark.”
Slumped against Tae, Nugau props up his head. He is a sore sight: pale skin, cracked lips, trembling legs. Yet he speaks in a voice that carries through the vast space, resonant and regal, repeating his words in the aesin tongue.
“The tenets of the Moth Dark are about ever-turning change. About endless beginnings. About growth and progress and inclusion,” the prince says. “But in our fear and fury and grief, we forgot—death can only ever be an ending. And we, my friends, cannot let this be our ending.”
No one is struggling against the moths’ holds any longer. They are enraptured and dutiful, because they can see the truth of Nugau’s statement on the floor before them: death is only ever an ending. If they keep fighting, battle after battle, nothing will change, nothing will begin anew.
It starts as a thump, soft and distant.
Thalla has wiggled an arm free of the moths’ hold and beats it now against her breastplate.
On the other side of the silo, Orran picks up the beat.
An aesin warrior bleeding from his temple follows.
Then comes another—a human, who knows nothing of the Thistha Ren, nothing of the aesin culture, yet can understand this heartbeat means agreement.
He thuds a gloved fist against his bulletproof vest, and soon others join, human and aesin alike.
Fist by fist, chest by chest, the beat of the Heart Trial echoes from every corner of the chamber, the sound almost lyrical, a song of trust woven into their flesh and bone.
Nugau’s head tilts back.
At his side and over Tae’s shoulder, his palms unfold.
Sascia can’t see it with the naked eye, but she can feel it—power gathering at the prince’s fingertips, seeping into his flesh, filling him up.
The Royal Thistha Ren is complete, Claimed and proven, and so now it is time for Nugau to receive its gift: his magic increased a thousandfold.
Now it is time to crown a new king.
Sascia thinks, You can let go now, and the soldiers drop from the walls like sacks.
She thinks, Take them home, and the world around her splits, hundreds of nicks beneath or behind the aesin, living, injured, and dead.
They are sucked back into Itkalin without preamble, except, when they go, they place the knuckles of their index and middle fingers against their lips, the sign of respect Orran made to the itka.
The chopping sound of helicopters echoes from outside the silo. Chapter XI is here.
“Nugau,” she says across the room to him. Mooch is hovering in front of him, a door to the Dark waiting for the prince. “Go home. Tend to your injured, bury your dead. And when you’re ready, Mooch will help me find you, and we will figure this out.”
But Nugau doesn’t go.
He only opens his eyes and turns them to her—they are wholly black.
“No,” he says.
He opens his palm to Mooch; the moth lands on it.
“You were right, little gnat,” he says. “A door should not be forced open.”
What door? Sascia thinks, her pulse raging at her neck. The itka’s rifts are all closed, except the one that stands before him. At his back, the center of the Darkgate is empty once more, powered down.
“And I,” the king says, “will make sure it never happens again.”
Then he flings Mooch into the Dark.