Lightbringer (Empirium 3)

But out of everything in the shop, as wonderful as it all was, Eliana liked Simon best of all.

She snuck a look at him while he worked. He had a very solemn face for a thirteen-year-old boy, everyone said. Rather severe, Eliana had heard. But she liked his face and its seriousness. His pale brow furrowed when he read lists of ingredients, and his hair was a dark golden color, falling messily over his forehead. He had deft fingers that chopped up roots and herbs so quickly and carefully that a feeling of warmth came over Eliana as she watched him. The feeling told her that she was safe. When she was with him and his sharp little knives, nothing could hurt her.

“Can I try?” she asked, scooting forward on her stool.

He glanced at her. “No.”

“Why?”

“Because the knives are sharp. Do you want to cut off your fingers?”

“No.”

“Well, then.”

“But someday I can use the good knives?”

He smiled a little, finished chopping his pile of yarrow leaves, then scooped them into his palm and dropped them into the crushing bowl.

“Maybe,” he replied. “For now, you’ll use the bad knives.”

He raised his eyebrows, looking at the knives next to her. They were kept dull for her use and therefore were not good for cutting, which meant that when she used them, she was slow and stupid-looking, and she hated looking stupid in front of Simon.

“They’re not bad knives,” Garver said from his own table. “They’re knives for learning.”

Eliana made a face at the knives, and then Simon laughed under his breath and bumped her with his elbow. This sequence of events cheered her considerably, so much so that she chopped up her own pile of leaves faster than she ever had before, then shot Simon a look of haughty triumph.

And that made him laugh aloud, his big laugh that he hardly ever used. She beamed at him, watching him smile. It was a rare thing to see him so happy. Often, while they waited for roots to boil or while they hung leaves to dry, Eliana caught Simon looking out the windows with a terrible sadness on his face.

It happened most often when the winds were high, carrying the scent of pine down from the mountains. Simon was quiet on those days, strange and serious, and not serious in the way she liked. On those days, he hardly talked at all. There were shadows on his face, and his eyes were sharp and angry, or else flat and full of sorrow. When this happened, he hardly looked at her.

Once, he had even snapped at her. “Is it possible that you could stop talking to me for once in your life, for even a few minutes?” he had shouted, and then his face had crumpled in horror, for she had immediately burst into tears. Garver had sent him upstairs to his room, not even letting him try to apologize, and then had sat quietly with her until Zahra came to bring her home.

Later, tearful and sniffling on her father’s lap, Eliana had asked him why Simon had done this. Why he grew so sad some days, so cruel and short.

And her father—her dear, gentle father, who always had the answers to her questions—held her for a long time, cozy on his lap beneath their favorite blanket. She thought maybe he had fallen asleep.

Then he said softly against her hair, “My darling, you may not understand all of this just now, but I’ll tell you anyway, because that’s what we do, isn’t it? We talk to each other. We tell the truth.”

“Yes, Papa,” she said, staring up at him. She had heard her father sound sad and serious many times, especially when they visited her mother’s tomb, but this was different. This voice held secrets.

“Simon, I think, grieves the loss of his power. You remember what I told you about what your mother did when she died?”

Eliana had seen paintings of her and had heard her father describe her many times. When she imagined her mother—her green eyes, power painting her hair and arms with gold—Eliana sometimes had to hold her breath, because it felt as if she could turn around and see her mother standing there. As if Eliana’s mind could bring her back from the empirium, wherever it had taken her.

“She helped the empirium go to sleep,” she told her father, her voice falling to a whisper, as it always did when she spoke of her mother. She thought carefully through each word, because her father had taught her how important that was. The magic in their world was gone, he said, but some still remained in the words they spoke, and that power must be respected. She held the necklace her father had given her—a disc of gold on a slender chain, engraved with the image of her mother riding Atheria. Holding it always made her feel a little stronger.

“Someday the empirium will wake up again,” Eliana said to her father, “but right now it’s asleep, and only I…”

She stopped speaking, her cheeks warming as she stared at the floor. When she wasn’t praying at the temples with Miren and Sloane, or reading books about the empirium with her father, Eliana often forgot about the power inside her body. Her power was why she could see Zahra and the other wraiths, while everyone else could not. Her power was why her father sent her to Garver’s shop for lessons, and why her father and Miren and Sloane and Zahra taught her so many things that sometimes she felt like her head had grown three times larger than it should be. They wanted her to learn everything there was to know about this magic that lived in her blood, and to not be afraid of it, and to know many other things too, like healing and music and mathematics, so that her power was not the only thing she loved.

Sometimes, when Eliana remembered that she wasn’t like anyone else in the world, it made her feel lonely, like a bird perched high in a tree, too high for the other birds to reach.

Her father kissed her head. “Only you can still touch the empirium. That’s right, Eliana. And it isn’t a bad thing. You shouldn’t be ashamed of it. Your mother left your power intact for a reason. Maybe she thought something frightening would happen someday. Maybe she loved you so much that she wanted you to keep this piece of her inside you.”

Eliana shivered. What frightening thing might happen someday, and what could she do to stop it?

“This is why Simon sometimes feels sad, I think,” her father said. “Why sometimes he even seems angry with you. You have power still, and he does not. His gift was taken from him, as was mine, as was everyone’s—for good reason, I have to believe it was for a good reason—but they are gone nonetheless. I think seeing you sometimes reminds Simon of what he has lost.”

Hearing this, Eliana’s eyes filled with tears. “Should I not be his friend anymore? I don’t want to make him sad, Papa.”

“No, darling, that’s not what I meant. In fact, I think it would make him saddest of all if you stopped being his friend. There may simply be days when he is not himself, and you will need to be patient with him. Maybe you’ll even feel that you should not talk to him at all at those times, and that’s perfectly all right. You can work together in silence, or read one of Garver’s books and leave Simon alone at his table. Do you think you can do that?” ut of everything in the shop, as wonderful as it all was, Eliana liked Simon best of all.

She snuck a look at him while he worked. He had a very solemn face for a thirteen-year-old boy, everyone said. Rather severe, Eliana had heard. But she liked his face and its seriousness. His pale brow furrowed when he read lists of ingredients, and his hair was a dark golden color, falling messily over his forehead. He had deft fingers that chopped up roots and herbs so quickly and carefully that a feeling of warmth came over Eliana as she watched him. The feeling told her that she was safe. When she was with him and his sharp little knives, nothing could hurt her.

“Can I try?” she asked, scooting forward on her stool.

He glanced at her. “No.”

“Why?”

“Because the knives are sharp. Do you want to cut off your fingers?”

“No.”

“Well, then.”

“But someday I can use the good knives?”

He smiled a little, finished chopping his pile of yarrow leaves, then scooped them into his palm and dropped them into the crushing bowl.

“Maybe,” he replied. “For now, you’ll use the bad knives.”

He raised his eyebrows, looking at the knives next to her. They were kept dull for her use and therefore were not good for cutting, which meant that when she used them, she was slow and stupid-looking, and she hated looking stupid in front of Simon.

“They’re not bad knives,” Garver said from his own table. “They’re knives for learning.”

Eliana made a face at the knives, and then Simon laughed under his breath and bumped her with his elbow. This sequence of events cheered her considerably, so much so that she chopped up her own pile of leaves faster than she ever had before, then shot Simon a look of haughty triumph.

And that made him laugh aloud, his big laugh that he hardly ever used. She beamed at him, watching him smile. It was a rare thing to see him so happy. Often, while they waited for roots to boil or while they hung leaves to dry, Eliana caught Simon looking out the windows with a terrible sadness on his face.

It happened most often when the winds were high, carrying the scent of pine down from the mountains. Simon was quiet on those days, strange and serious, and not serious in the way she liked. On those days, he hardly talked at all. There were shadows on his face, and his eyes were sharp and angry, or else flat and full of sorrow. When this happened, he hardly looked at her.

Once, he had even snapped at her. “Is it possible that you could stop talking to me for once in your life, for even a few minutes?” he had shouted, and then his face had crumpled in horror, for she had immediately burst into tears. Garver had sent him upstairs to his room, not even letting him try to apologize, and then had sat quietly with her until Zahra came to bring her home.

Later, tearful and sniffling on her father’s lap, Eliana had asked him why Simon had done this. Why he grew so sad some days, so cruel and short.

And her father—her dear, gentle father, who always had the answers to her questions—held her for a long time, cozy on his lap beneath their favorite blanket. She thought maybe he had fallen asleep.

Then he said softly against her hair, “My darling, you may not understand all of this just now, but I’ll tell you anyway, because that’s what we do, isn’t it? We talk to each other. We tell the truth.”

“Yes, Papa,” she said, staring up at him. She had heard her father sound sad and serious many times, especially when they visited her mother’s tomb, but this was different. This voice held secrets.

“Simon, I think, grieves the loss of his power. You remember what I told you about what your mother did when she died?”

Eliana had seen paintings of her and had heard her father describe her many times. When she imagined her mother—her green eyes, power painting her hair and arms with gold—Eliana sometimes had to hold her breath, because it felt as if she could turn around and see her mother standing there. As if Eliana’s mind could bring her back from the empirium, wherever it had taken her.

“She helped the empirium go to sleep,” she told her father, her voice falling to a whisper, as it always did when she spoke of her mother. She thought carefully through each word, because her father had taught her how important that was. The magic in their world was gone, he said, but some still remained in the words they spoke, and that power must be respected. She held the necklace her father had given her—a disc of gold on a slender chain, engraved with the image of her mother riding Atheria. Holding it always made her feel a little stronger.

“Someday the empirium will wake up again,” Eliana said to her father, “but right now it’s asleep, and only I…”

She stopped speaking, her cheeks warming as she stared at the floor. When she wasn’t praying at the temples with Miren and Sloane, or reading books about the empirium with her father, Eliana often forgot about the power inside her body. Her power was why she could see Zahra and the other wraiths, while everyone else could not. Her power was why her father sent her to Garver’s shop for lessons, and why her father and Miren and Sloane and Zahra taught her so many things that sometimes she felt like her head had grown three times larger than it should be. They wanted her to learn everything there was to know about this magic that lived in her blood, and to not be afraid of it, and to know many other things too, like healing and music and mathematics, so that her power was not the only thing she loved.

Sometimes, when Eliana remembered that she wasn’t like anyone else in the world, it made her feel lonely, like a bird perched high in a tree, too high for the other birds to reach.

Her father kissed her head. “Only you can still touch the empirium. That’s right, Eliana. And it isn’t a bad thing. You shouldn’t be ashamed of it. Your mother left your power intact for a reason. Maybe she thought something frightening would happen someday. Maybe she loved you so much that she wanted you to keep this piece of her inside you.”

Eliana shivered. What frightening thing might happen someday, and what could she do to stop it?

“This is why Simon sometimes feels sad, I think,” her father said. “Why sometimes he even seems angry with you. You have power still, and he does not. His gift was taken from him, as was mine, as was everyone’s—for good reason, I have to believe it was for a good reason—but they are gone nonetheless. I think seeing you sometimes reminds Simon of what he has lost.”

Hearing this, Eliana’s eyes filled with tears. “Should I not be his friend anymore? I don’t want to make him sad, Papa.”

“No, darling, that’s not what I meant. In fact, I think it would make him saddest of all if you stopped being his friend. There may simply be days when he is not himself, and you will need to be patient with him. Maybe you’ll even feel that you should not talk to him at all at those times, and that’s perfectly all right. You can work together in silence, or read one of Garver’s books and leave Simon alone at his table. Do you think you can do that?”