Today's Reading
He'd been the same size as he was now, but she'd been so much smaller. For a month, she'd tremble when he'd enter the room. And so, he'd kept away. She'd only known of his presence from the gifts he would leave her— acorns wrapped in leaves, flowers with odd- shaped petals, stones smoothed from the river. She'd find them on her pillow or next to her sandals. He'd built her a boat moored to the shore so that she could lie on her back and watch the stars. And a player's satchel of tools so that she could mimic Auntie with her flute and paper fan.
The first person she'd shown her face to was Big Uncle.
She'd stumbled upon him sitting quietly by the stream behind their home. At the sound of her approach, he'd glanced up. He quickly turned away, but not before she saw the tears in his eyes. She hadn't understood the source of his sorrow—later, she would realize it was the loss of a child, his and Auntie's—she only knew that in his sadness, she felt an echo of her own.
Taking off her mask, she'd placed it over his face, to hide his tears the way it hid hers. But the mask was meant for a child's face and only covered a portion of his, mainly his eyes and nose. He'd looked so silly that Ren had started laughing, and then Big Uncle had laughed. Afterward, he'd gathered her in his arms, and she'd never felt safer.
"This face?" Ren said, lifting up her mask. She stuck out her tongue. "Yes," Big Uncle said, and the love in his voice was as clear as it had been that morning by the river. "That one exactly."
He gestured to a rock nearby. "Wait here," he said, before moving off toward the wagons. She did as he asked, sitting down and stretching out her legs. A few minutes later, he returned with a long parcel wrapped in a bamboo mat, dropping it onto her lap.
"A gift," he said proudly, "for you."
Eagerly she unknotted the string and pushed back the folds of the mat to reveal a paper umbrella. She knew immediately that Big Uncle had made it; the craftmanship was exquisite. Gripping the smooth handle, Ren pushed the runner up. The hood of the parasol opened like a flower. It was a beautiful red color, with gold swirling accents.
"Give it a twirl," he said. She got to her feet and did just that, the gold and red blurring in the air like shooting stars; even the 'whooshing' sound it made was lovely.
"I know your birthday isn't for another week...," Big Uncle said, rubbing the back of his neck.
Still holding the umbrella, she threw her arms around him. "I love it! Thank you."
He placed her gently on the ground. "Now, let's get back to the others before they're tempted to leave us behind!"
As she walked with Big Uncle, she felt her earlier frustration ease from her shoulders. Auntie was right to be angry; she was only concerned for Ren's safety and that of the caravan.
Between the use of her magic and her family's well-being, there was never a choice. Ren would always choose her family. If she had to suppress her powers to protect them, then she would.
And just 'maybe' Auntie, once she saw Ren's determination, would change her mind and let her perform, after all—there were five days until they reached their last stop, enough time for Ren to prove her resolve, that she could bury the Light where it belonged.
That thought, and the realization that in a few weeks' time she'd be back home in the valley, with its cool winter days and star-filled nights surrounded by the people she loved, lifted her spirits. Twirling her umbrella, she raced ahead of Big Uncle, eager to depart for Gorye Village.
CHAPTER 2
SUNHO
'The Under World'
'Outside the Ninth Ward Mithril Factory'
SUNHO STEPPED BACK from the gates as the factory horn blared a warning, smoke unfolding from the great stacks like wings in the night. He raised his scarf, the red threads faded and fraying, higher over his nose. His movement jostled the sword sheathed at his back. For fifteen seconds the horn clamored, the stacks spewing enough smoke to fill the sky above the factory. When it was over, he turned away, only for his eyes to catch on sparks of blue in the fumes—mithril particles.
A pigeon warbled nearby. He followed the sound around a corner to where a boy and a girl lingered in the shadow of the factory wall. The boy was slight of build, with silver-white hair. 'Tag.' Sunho remembered his name from when they first met. He was seventeen, same as Sunho. The whistling trill cut off as Tag lowered his hands. The girl, Yurhee, was a few years older; her hair—brown with streaks of red—was pulled back from her face with a butterfly clip. She'd been leaning against the wall with her knee bent but rocked to a stand at Sunho's approach.
"We weren't sure if you'd make it," she said. "The patrols are out in droves."
...
