Chapter Thirty-Four The Fourth Lesson #3
L YTHLET LED THE two dogs to the nearest shrine, and there she spent one of the coins Saevem had given her, buying two sets of rosaries.
After returning a satisfied Runt and a sleepy Schwala to The Steam Dragon, she turned homewards, facing the giant kataka trees growing in the distance.
A conflicted mix of emotions rose at the sight.
Home, and what a bittersweet thought that was.
It was a home of poverty and failure, a wooden cage lifted high into the sky, juxtaposing her suffering against a good view of the Tower of the White Sun. Now with the final jackpot lost, she’d most certainly never leave it.
Before long, the rope ladder dangled within reach. Up her hand rose, fingers curling around the lowest rung, and she hoisted herself up. She took her time, letting her thoughts percolate, ascending through the branches and up the sky, the setting sun on her back.
The name of the Golden Thorn had failed her.
Her dream of consuming starfire had failed her.
Even her lifelong trust in Desil had failed her—but something in her demanded she pressed on.
Her hands rose again and again, conquering the sky rung by rung, never flagging in her efforts until her fingers met the overhanging ledge of the kataka flat. She swung herself up.
Desil was seated by the entrance, knees folded to his chest. A pot of tea sat by his side, one steaming cup in his hand, an empty one waiting upside-down on the tea tray. A look of surprise took him. “You’re back,” he breathed out in relief, but then he fell silent, nervous.
They looked upon one another. She had prepared no script for this moment—she’d hoped the words would come to her when she saw him, but they didn’t. How does one address the fact that their dearest, beloved friend has killed a man?
She sat on the ledge, back pressed against their wooden flat, the doorway separating her from Desil.
Stretched before them was the vast expanse of the white city.
On any other day, the orange-soaked sky would have comforted her, the weight of the warm rays resting on her shoulders like a blanket on a winter’s night.
But now, there was nothing but awkward silence between her and Desil.
Desil fumbled with the teapot, pouring into the empty cup.
He pushed the tea tray toward her, timidly, as if uncertain whether she were friend or foe.
She accepted it with a nod—eniseya tisane, sweet on the tongue, cooling in the aftertaste, with more than the usual tiny chunks of bitter ginseng root floating around, enough for Lythlet to guess that Madame Millidin had quietly thrown in extra to quicken Desil’s healing.
She set the teacup down and heaved a deep breath. “Desil,” she said, withdrawing her hand from her pocket. Dangling from her fingers was a rosary she’d just bought at the shrine.
He stared at her, lost, making no move to accept it.
“Will you not wear it?” she asked. “Yours broke.”
“Do I have the right to wear it?” he asked in return, eyes flooded with doubt.
She fingered the white bone runes thoughtfully.
“Must we be faultless to wear these rosaries? If so, no mortal can wear them. You taught me that verse from the Poetics: come as you are . So come to me now as you are and tell me the truth. When you learned you had killed Joshir Vethina, what did you do?”
He puzzled at her question. “I quit brawling.”
“And then what? I remember in the weeks—no, months—that followed, you went out often. Where did you go?”
“I went all over the city looking for Joshir’s family,” said Desil quietly.
“I wanted to make amends—I didn’t know how, of course.
But it didn’t feel right to end a man’s life, and then leave his family stranded without hope.
But I couldn’t find anyone. It seems he was alone in life, and brawling had been his last resort to make some coin.
” He buried his face in his hands. “Isn’t that just awful?
If the chronoscape were my bloodright, I’d ride the threads of time back to the day and stop myself from killing him. ”
“It may be too late to strike this sin from your divine record. But it’s never too late to learn from your mistakes and choose a better path for yourself. So, what do you want to do instead? You know what you’ve done wrong. You know the gravity of your sin.”
“What am I allowed to ask for?” he said softly.
“I am not asking what you think you deserve. I’m asking what you want . If you want to live a life worth living, you must first find your conviction. You have the answer in you.”
Desil sat there, thinking. In a small voice, he said, “I want to make things right. I want to earn forgiveness. But what could possibly redeem the killing of an innocent man? The reason why taking that which cannot be returned by thine own hand is considered the greatest sin is because there’s no true equitable justice to be given. I cannot bring a man back to life.”
“No, but you can show others the mercy Joshir was not shown in life.” She stood and went before him, reaching forth a hand toward him.
He hesitated, then raised his hand to her. She wondered briefly if this was what Kilinor saw every time a supplicant grasped his offered hand.
She took his wrist and tied the rosary on for him.
“The man you killed had no family for you to beg forgiveness from. But let the city he once called home become the family he did not have in life. Live your life in honor of Joshir Vethina and ensure no one like him ever falls through the cracks forgotten and abandoned again. Find your conviction now and hold fast to it, and perhaps the divine will show you the way to your absolution, that you may someday earn your forgiveness. I will be there for you; I will go with you until the end.”
He teared up and crushed his eyes behind his palms. “Why are you being so gracious to me?”
“Because once upon a time, you saw a girl crying outside your schoolhouse, and you chose to be kind and patient with her even when you couldn’t understand a damn thing she was saying,” she answered with a smile.
“I’m not here to pardon your sins, Desil.
That’s not upon me to do so. But I will hold you accountable as you find your road to redemption.
As long as you hold onto your conviction, I will help you maintain your momentum.
” She withdrew another rosary from her pocket and deftly tied it over her wrist, turning it until the fellowship rune faced upwards.
Desil raised an eyebrow.
Rosaries were a tradition in which she’d never partaken. Some wore them out of superstition or performative morality, but she was not one of them; this was not an act done lightly by her.
She knelt and took his hand, tightening her grasp until he reflexively returned the grip. She raised their hands and brought the back of his against her brow. “I am not as learned in the vows as you are, so you’ll have to correct me,” she murmured softly.
His eyes were wide and wet, glistening in the light of the setting sun. “You wish to make the sacred vow of fellowship?”
“If you will let me. We were bound under the unconsecrated vow of the arena for a year—I wish to bind myself to you with the real one, instead.”
The gravity of her offering struck him dumb—it meant she knew him for who he was, virtues and vices, and held nothing against him, willing to make a vow under heaven to support him as he strove to do better, asking him only to return the favor.
He leaned in, brow brushing against the back of Lythlet’s hand.
There they sat, joined in fellowship, flesh to flesh, spirit to spirit.
“By the blood of my ancestors and the blood of my unborn,” she began nervously, but hearing him echo the words fortified her voice, “I vow to uphold your soul ever in pursuit of the divine, that I will stand by you until the white wind rises in your wake. For your glory and honor alone would I forfeit my soul. For the edification of your mind, the purification of your heart, and the ascension of your soul unto the Sunsmith and the Unbound Empress. By wind and water, I bind myself to you, brother by Tazkar—”
“—sister by Kilinor—”
“—until the end of my days.”
They raised their heads and pressed their lips to each other’s hands, eyes shut.
When they opened them, there was something flickering anew in his olive-flecked eyes, a little flame.
He sat back, staring at her fondly. “I don’t understand you, Lytha.
We’ve lost everything. We forfeited the final match, we lost the jackpot, we’re sitting here at the end of everything as a bruised and battered duo.
You saved the city and jammed the spokes of its corruption, but you’ll get no reward or credit for it.
And yet you’re so—you’re so hopeful. Have you figured out what we’re going to do next?
You know, I was cleaning out my things, and I found this.
” He dug into his pocket and retrieved a folded piece of parchment.
She unfolded it: it was the handbill Master Dothilos had commissioned. THE ROSE AND THE GOLDEN THORN — A GOLDEN BET TO MAKE!
Quiet laughter spilled from her. To think she had once been so proud of something so worthless now.
“The Golden Thorn will fight no more,” she muttered, rising to her feet. “The Golden Thorn will be loved no more.”
She gave the handbill a final glance. With a small smile, she ripped it into tiny little shreds and held them forth in her palm as an offering to the whims of the world. The blustering spring winds accepted it, whisking it far away to scatter across all four corners of the city.
With a surprised look on his face, Desil rose and joined her side.
Together, they glanced out at the vast world around them.
The city of Setgad was starting to light their fires for the night.
Soon, the setting sun would vanish into the thin line of the yellow-cast horizon and give way to a night of a thousand stars.
It was a city they could yet make their mark on, a city brimming with good yet to grow.
“I harbored so much hope for myself this past year: my escape from the slums seemed certain, my ascent into highborn society guaranteed, my path to riches paved by my own lauded wit and wiles. But what was that you once said? That hope in times of happiness isn’t hope—it’s expectation.
And now I’ve lost everything, all my expectations crumbling into ash.
But there’s a little fire inside me that’s pushing me forward, and it’s hope true and proper, at last. I truly don’t know what lies ahead of me, Desil, I have no machinations or plans or schemes any longer.
Our lives will return to what they were: we are slumdogs, as ever, and high society will never care for us as we cobble together a livelihood from our humdrum vocations.
But perhaps my life still has value as it is.
Perhaps I needn’t shrink my shoulders or hide away just because I haven’t made something of myself yet.
Change is afoot in our city, Desil, and by fair means or foul, I will not let it be for the worse.
I may no longer be the Golden Thorn, but I am not without the means to protect those in even worse positions than me.
I’ll make my mark on the canvas of revolution one way or another, and I intend to do so with a fourth lesson Master Dothilos never wanted me to learn. ”
“What’s that now?”
“Perhaps the most important thing one needs to know: what they wish to set as the needle of their moral compass. Mine shall be mercy at all costs—to extend the hand of mercy to those in need and show them a kindness they never knew before. I don’t think Master Dothilos ever got an ounce of mercy in his childhood, and for that, he never learned the value of it.
But you showed me kindness when no one else did, and because of that, I want to pass it on. ”
“An unintended fourth lesson,” Desil murmured with a soft smile. A slightly concerned expression came over him. “Oh, that’s not a good number to end on.”
“No,” Lythlet said, laughing as the first star appeared in the darkening sky, “but some things are worth crossing the line for.”