Chapter 16
This is what it has come to.
Galipei sits at the end of the orderly line, exposed to the rain.
The camp is almost packed up, which has nothing to do with him.
It is not as though they need his help anyway.
Scouts wander out. Carriages and wagons are brought in, borrowed from nobles and councilmembers, piled with belongings and installed with seats to be used for transport.
Galipei does not shift with the moving line, does not scoot forward each time it sends off another cluster of nobles seeking asylum.
Quiet, serene Gaiyu, where hardly anyone lives, so hardly anyone can get into trouble.
There will be no war in Gaiyu. No legion would bother to march in, to light fires in the fields.
If any of the southern provinces around it fall, then Gaiyu goes with it.
Assuming the nobility can withstand the lack of running water and choke down the gruel, they will certainly survive until some semblance of order is restored in the capital.
Galipei rips out a chunk of grass beneath him.
Sprinkles it on his knee. What is he supposed to do when he goes?
Pretend to be an aristocrat, change his name, and start anew when the war ends?
He still has silver eyes. Those do not go away.
He could wash his veins clear with water and he would remain a Weisanna.
“Next group of five,” one of his distant cousins is calling.
He hasn’t a clue who she is. They may have the eyes in common, but if he cannot name a relative they share, they are as faintly tethered as he is with the mailman or the cobbler.
Talin is at war, so Galipei has no further responsibility upon being booted from the royal guard.
Under normal circumstances, his next use would have been procreation.
Keep it within the family, produce another Weisanna to be put to work.
Child-rearing in Talin is not a matter of love.
It is a process of laying claim to the earth, leaving behind a part of yourself.
The nobles want to continue their lineage; the common people want to prove their time alive meant something.
“How dour you are.”
Galipei’s fingers sink into the soil. Dirt cleaves under his nails. It will be difficult to clean that out.
“You don’t want to depart with this group?” Otta goes on, gesturing to the wagon. “It looks like they have a seat.”
“No,” Galipei says shortly. “I prefer more room.”
“Fair enough.”
Without waiting for any invitation, Otta drops down beside him.
Her skirts will pick up the mud. Her sleeves too, trailing onto the grass as she holds out her palm, cupping it to catch the rain.
Galipei has already gotten drenched. Otta’s shoulders darken slowly, each droplet darkening the fabric from light blue to midnight.
“Don’t feel too bad about yourself, Galipei,” Otta says, and Galipei imagines tearing out her pretty eyes, robbing her of all capacity to pick and choose who she’ll manipulate next. “Every orbit around power has to end at some point.”
“I’m not sure if I know what you mean,” Galipei replies.
Otta laces her fingers together. Turns to watch the wagon push off and rumble onto the Apian Routes, heading westward.
“They didn’t want to teach us about the pantheon in San-Er,” Otta says, “but I suppose they didn’t hide it either.
It’s all on the murals. There was such an effort to preserve the palaces tile by tile from the provinces that they couldn’t worry about what the artwork would communicate to the generations thereafter. ”
Galipei can’t fathom what Otta is going on about. She must read the expression on his face, because her head tilts, a smile quirking at her lips.
“Then again, it doesn’t seem you succeeded in reading the stories out of the murals.”
“No,” Galipei says. “I can’t say I’ve paid much attention to the murals.”
“You’ve missed out. One of my favorites is the one about the brides of balance. You know that one?”
Before Galipei can answer, Otta is already forging ahead.
“The king of the heavens had three wives.
The first, his most beloved, was the godling of qi.
She was full of life and exuberantly vivacious, but she was also uncontrollable.
She went where she pleased and she communed with mortals however often she wished.
No matter how dearly he beheld her, she tired him, and he took a second bride.
The godling of control. He wielded her presence with glee, rising to the height of his reign with her at his side.
But, as her very nature dictated, she wanted more and more of him.
The godling of qi felt it was unfair and called for balance in the heavenly sphere.
The gods care very much about balance, you know. It is the very core of their essence.
“So then there was the godling of greed, the third and final bride. She took on the appearance of a child, because she made a habit out of playing mortals for fools. You had to be desperate to trust her.” Otta’s expression thunders.
She recounts this as though it is a personal slight.
“Yet with these three brides, the king of the heavens had secured all he needed to rule over the pantheon. His power was untouchable.”
“Thank you for the story,” Galipei deadpans. “And this is relevant because…?”
Otta passes him a slip of paper. “An offer, Galipei Weisanna.”
He looks down. It’s a sigil. Two horizontal lines, one vertical stemming off the lower line, and two symmetrical flares at the sides.
“That can be used to call upon the godling of control. It is not to be used lightly.” Otta gets up, her skirts still clean. “Do with it what you wish.”