Chapter 30
Under the cover of night, the girl flees for her life.
She has survived this long in Ximili Province without incident.
She was one of the first to arrive—she had thought that would mean there would be no record of her presence.
Dry, red central Ximili, where villages dot the valley between two mountains.
Her shoes are covered in dust. She makes a final sprint to reach the outpost, biting on her tongue to tamp down her breathing.
The valley settles. Night’s shadows work fast to cover her body behind the signage. It is nothing more than varnished wood.
The sign shatters, bursting into wooden splinters.
The girl shrieks, then moves to flee again, searching around desperately for new cover.
There is so little life here. When she first arrived, the borders of Talin sat closer to Ximili, and there was constant activity between the settlements.
The kingdom ended nearby, in the sand valleys beyond Actia, rather than at the borderlands, marked by the snow.
She should have done more back then. Joined the rebellions cropping up to keep Rincun and Youlia independent.
She thought herself useless. Melded with the form of a child because she had chosen to invade a vessel as close to her true form as possible.
She mourned that she would never return to her heavenly state.
That the body disintegrated the moment she exited it on the earthly plane.
That was how all the gods fled the heavens.
Devouring the qi of the first form they melded with, and jumping with that qi thereafter.
She could jump again, so long as she was prepared for her eyes to carry over their teal-green color, but she never had.
No one noticed she didn’t age, in any case.
She was content to continue her simple life.
Look at her now, fleeing pursuit. Her foot slips. She stumbles when she turns.
“You know who I am. You know what I seek.”
The voice shudders through the night. It follows the girl when she shoves into a narrow passage, running for the barracks.
Only days ago, the palace had droves of soldiers stationed here, overseeing the mines that Ximili Province operates.
The girl often visited, bearing gifts from the yamen.
If there ever was a whisper about her afterward, it was to hope she was doing well after the passing of her mother.
If asked when her mother had passed, the mortals were all somewhat confused, unable to recall.
The girl turns. Dead end. The walls climb too high. The barracks are all empty, the soldiers gone.
A bolt of light flashes in front of her. She stumbles to a halt.
“Please,” the girl whispers, whirling around.
“Oh, please. I didn’t think you lot knew what that word meant.”
“I am not powerful,” the girl rasps. “My memories have slipped to such severity I can hardly recall my former designation. I am not who you want.”
The woman who walks into the barracks is dressed in palace silks.
Long, airy black hair and white skin, the contrast made severe by the torchlight she holds in her hands to show the way.
Though the girl does not recognize her face, she is revolted by her qi.
It is unnatural. Aberrant. The queen reborn, who drew such power upon the earth that it poisoned the heavens.
Sinoa Tuoleimi seems to return her disgust, her lip curling when she steps closer.
She has marked herself with the language of the gods.
Violated the former sanctity they used to possess, each sigil belonging only to those who called upon their patrons.
Now she will call upon any qi that the sigils can summon forth, because there is no one left in the heavens delineating anymore.
“Still, you think yourself too good for us,” Sinoa says. “Still, you turn your backs on all those who pray to you.”
“No one prayed to me!” the girl claims. “I am nothing. I am—!”
The bolt of qi strikes her dead center in the forehead. The girl hits the ground. She’s clinging to the barest edge of awareness, and there’s just enough remaining to feel pain, the slit on her arm. Movement, on her face. A sigil being drawn, and oh! She knows which one this is!
Highness, Highness, the voice sounds in her head. It’s her voice, she remembers. The god of violets. Such a minor position in the pantheon, and one she was grateful to have, serving as an attendant to her lady. The godling of control. A bride of balance. A queen to the heavens.
The sigil marks her cheek, and the girl seizes, her eyes rolling back into her head.
She misses that first week when she walked Ximili, wearing those plain cloth shoes, feeling the hot air on her face.
The sun was bright, and it burned her forehead until she was red and tender to the touch.
She liked how the earthen realm felt, the scratches she picked up from gravel kicking against her legs, the sweat that gathered at the small of her back.
She built her shrine, and she drew her sigils, speaking up to her lady, who had cried day and night about the poison in their realm.
Her lady was not one who often consorted with mortals, so the girl would descend first and guide her landing.
Her lady is dead now. The old gods could not be gods without their qi.
Though they did not age, no amount of passive immortality could combat death by starvation, by disease, by murder.
The old gods grew to become nothing save the folktales of rural dwellers, and they might as well have been, with no proof, no power.
She never should have promised that all was lovely here. Her lady’s death is her fault. How beautiful it is that she can die by her lady’s sigil now.