Aluali’s fingers were nimble. He didn’t stop braiding rope, but his words were too strong to keep inside. “Zasha is mysterious.”
Billisha agreed—Zasha was mysterious. Even now, he practiced a contortionist art out by the pool, twisting his body in strange directions, as if he were bound and seeking a way to escape.
She bit her lip, which she did often when thinking deeply. She paused her braiding to chase these thoughts.
“He makes me think of Aku the Wild Child,” Aluali said, continuing. “We are living like we are in one of his stories, but Zasha cannot be Aku.”
“The Wild Child would be a hundred years old,” Billisha said, shaking her head. “Maybe older. My grana told me she first heard the story when she was little. No, Zasha is like Aku, but not Aku. Besides, he said his name is Eight. He’s kept secrets, but never lied to us.”
“His secrets are mysterious,” Aluali said. “Like how he killed the lion. That was before he collected the chiash poison. Or how his fine clothes don’t fit, and so many of them have holes in them. Or how he doesn’t understand spoken Diaksh. How can that be? The signed language is only for those people without proper mouths.”
There was an idea, a story that they’d been assembling. Aluali was sure it was true, but Billisha was more skeptical. She was better at not believing a story until there was evidence to prove it. That had come from having a father who was a lodge master, who owned three books and prepared his daughter to eventually take his place.
One of the books her family owned was the story of the Imperfect God. Another was a collection of teaching stories. The final was a catalog of paths and talents. At night, she used to browse through the pages by candlestone, looking at the strange and wondrous paths one could take to reach perfection.
That was gone now—the father, the family, the books, everything. The pain came all a sudden, and she closed her eyes to grip Meliune’s Blessing.
Aluali quieted when he saw Billisha embrace Meliune’s grace. His own pain wasn’t as great. His family hadn’t been nearly as kind as hers. Still, it hurt to see her hurt. He paused his braiding to reach out and hold her hand.
From the corner of his eye, Aluali saw Zasha pick up his spear to practice with it. So strange. At rest, Zasha looked skilled with the spear. Once he moved, though, the strikes were clumsy. Aluali’s Militia Arts skill was likely higher.
Ah, but Zasha had many knives, the bow, and knew how to use poison. Was the story they’d assembled true after all?
The story went like this:
Once there was a family that lived in the shadows. They followed one of the paths of assassination and trained their children accordingly. One day, the family was attacked. Out of revenge. For justice. No one knew. All that was known was that a child of the family escaped, along with his bodyguards.
They fled, but were pursued. A battle took place, fierce and vicious, and there were no survivors. None, except the child who fled into the wilderness, along with what he’d scavenged from the dead.
Billisha squeezed Aluali’s hand as she let go of Meliune’s Blessing. Her eyes shone with gratitude for the comfort he’d offered. “I am thinking he was never taught Diaksh. That he only learned the secret method of communicating with his family. Perhaps he was only taught what was needed to accomplish his purpose. It would explain why he lacks common sense and why he is so skilled in some things but not in others.”
Billisha shook her head in sorrow, and continued: “He was made a weapon. Sheathed at home, with no purpose—not until he was drawn to kill. That would explain why his family would feed him silverlight early. With the training he’d undergone, he wouldn’t need the time to establish his path. Either that, or they gave him silverlight to help him survive the attack on the family.”
“Is this story true?” Aluali asked. The story was exciting, but if they were right, then Eight had had an unfortunate upbringing.
“I don’t know,” Billisha said. “The catalog’s pages on shadow paths and talents were sparse. They were based on guesses and rumors. The book didn’t say so, but that was my father’s judgment.”
“What did it feel like to hold the book?” Aluali had meant to ask that question many days ago, but hadn’t yet had the opportunity. Just surviving had taken so much.
“It was heavy and as thick as a man’s fist. The writing was small, so I had to squint to read it. The smell—I don’t know how to describe it. Dry, bitter. The cover was bear leather, treated the old way.”
“Ah,” Aluali sighed. “I’d like to look at a book sometime. It sounds so interesting.”
“We could make our own,” Billisha said, “with bark for pages and rope for a spine. I could teach you to read—”
“And Zasha too,” Aluali said, interrupting.
“And Zasha too,” Billisha said.
“We’re safe with Zasha, right?” Aluali suddenly asked.
He’d been the one to push for them to stay, and Billisha wondered if he was having second thoughts. “We’re not safe anywhere,” she said. “But at least here, we are under both his protection and the protection of a spirit of the land.”
Aluali nodded. “That’s right. That’s right. Zasha truly is mysterious. He has a spirit’s blessing.”
And that, more than anything, was what convinced Billisha of Zasha’s extraordinary circumstances. A spirit of the land had accepted him—had taken them in and blessed them. She felt it shining inside her, dimmer than Meliune’s Blessing, but present.
“This is a good place, isn’t it?” Aluali asked.
Billisha could only nod.
