The Hollow Heart by Marie Rutkoski

THE GOD

RAVEN SETTLED ME ON HERdressing table amid her treasures. Her true name was Raveneh, shortened affectionately by her younger sister, who said she was as clever as a raven, and as fond of collecting things. Oh, let me give you something in return for this flower! Raven said, and hunted among her treasures. A ribbon? Raven stared at it, aloft in her hand: a cyan strip of fabric whose color was beyond her kith. She set it back down. No, she said. You could get in trouble for owning this.

My girl smiled. Sister, you just can’t bear to let it go.

But I also don’t want you to get in trouble! Raven chewed her lower lip, picking up objects and setting them down: a violet shell whose inner curl was a shiny pink, a gold coin, an embroidered cloth doll, and more items, each time finding a reason not to give it to her younger sister. This shell is pretty, Raven said, but not worth very much, is it? And where would you spend a gold coin? Who would even have change for such a sum, in the Middling quarter? Now, you are obviously too old for a doll.

Give me nothing, my girl said. I’m glad your collection makes you happy.

Raven’s face softened. As handsome as she was, this was the only time she looked truly beautiful. She said, No one understands me like you do, Irenah.

You see my dilemma. The kind sister was my best chance for compassion—and I was truly worthy of it, if only she knew! I had been cheated and entrapped. Irenah, perhaps, would pity me—if any human could pity a rose. But she was too good even to keep me, and certainly too good to take me back from her grasping, delighted sister.

Irenah left the room, and Raven fussed over me for a while, positioning me just so in a new cut-glass vase, lifting my leaves and letting them fall as though they were a lace collar in need of straightening. She inhaled my perfume, and I do not care to tell how many times she subjected me to that, her face so close. That a mortal would take such privileges with a god, unbidden, was unheard of. Somewhere, the god of games laughed. She has a very particular laugh, that god: like the jingle of tiny bells mixed with the clash of knives.

Then Raven forgot me. She showed me to no one, for fear that I would be stolen. My only view was of her bedroom, her bed made with what were surely the softest sheets in the house, the curtains sewn from the sheerest, prettiest fabric. The window showed me the street, and the wall beyond it. The god of thieves had commanded it be built, many hundreds of human years ago, to imprison the mortal children of the gods. They lived and died. (Nirrim liked to believe herself immortal, but even she could die like the others—like you.) They bore children of their own, god-blood watering down through the ages. From Raven’s bedroom, the wall rose in a white crest, like a foaming wave, above the houses.

But I was a god, and could see beyond the wall. I saw the jungle, the sea.

The bay of Herran.

A baby’s wail split the night. Arin, Death’s Child, looked up from where he sat, hollow-eyed, face carved with worry. His infant howled in her crib. His large hands, which knew how to do many things—forge a blade, sew a button, murder an enemy, caress his wife—looked useless to him, clumsy. He had not been able to help Kestrel. He had not known how to stop the bleeding of birth, and the doctor, frantic, had banished him from the room.

He should call the baby’s nurse. But the baby screamed, ruddy-faced, her fists the size of pebbles. He reached for her and settled her against his chest, against his loud, nervous heart. He had been a father for barely a few hours, and already he felt he was failing his child. Sidarine, shh.

The baby quieted.

Your mother is strong, he said. Wait for her. She will survive, you will see. But I am here. I am always here. I will care for you. No harm will ever befall you.

I promise.