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“It’s ok,” I say. “You just startled me.” I gesture at the disorder around us. “Can you tell me what happened here?”
The thick layer of grime on his face does nothing to disguise the hollowness of his cheeks. Flashes of white shine from huge eyes that dart side to side, taking in the strange, bright sphere that surrounds all three of us. His arms go limp, the pilfered treasure falling to his side. His jaw slackens in wonder.
“What’s wrong with the shadows?” he asks with a voice too soft to belong to one condemned to the cruel streets of Utsanek.
I wish I could offer him some explanation that would make sense. I shrug. “Nothing, really.”
Father tugs me close.
The child cocks his head, unsatisfied. “They don’t get near you.”
“We need to go,” Father says.
I tune him out and address my small interrogator. “It’s just like I have a little light, that’s all.”
The gaunt face scrunches as he tries to work it out. “But we’re not allowed to have light anymore,” he concludes, as if it settles the argument.
I wish I could make sense of this strange comment, but my father’s grip distracts me. A weak smile wobbles across my lips.
“Well, I’m sure we’re allowed to use it to find you a bit more to eat than bread.” I want to pull away, but the hand holds me tighter. The boy retreats, his eyes widening and his head shaking too fast.
My father’s voice grows stern. “No, Amyrah. We need to go.”
How can he willfully ignore this starving child?
“I’m sure if we both look together—”
“Now.”
His fingers root themselves into my very bones, and I gasp. I fix my eyes on the boy. Some of the light of innocence leaves his eyes, his face aged in an instant. Now an icy mirror, it reflects my father’s indifference as if he has seen it a thousand times before. That heartbreaking reality saps the last of my strength.
“I’m sorry,” I say weakly, yielding to the pressure, powerless to help without defying my father again.
The child’s face contorts as he spits on the stony ground and slips into the darkness.
Heaviness pools into my limbs. This city was alive with hope and energy yesterday. Now, it is a place of hunger and mistrust, and I’m nothing more than a feeble ignati within it. I stare down at my feet as they carry me forward without my consent.
The street rolls along under me, dusty and dim. I cannot tell where my body ends and the ground begins, nor do I perceive what objects make me stumble.
A glimmer catches my eye from the cobbles. It wakes me from my stupor, draws me in. I yank my arm away and veer out of Father’s reach to see it closer.
An argentilum necklace, fallen to the rocky earth.
It’s worth more than I could earn in a year, but that’s not what draws me. I wrap my stiff fingers around its angular shape. Warm to the touch.
I stand, slipping the minuscule treasure into the pocket of my dress, and rejoin my father. The tiny circle of heat from the pendant spreads through my palm and up my arm, dispelling the cold that had begun to turn me to stone.
Maybe a weak flame is still better than no flame at all.
9. Wehna
WEHNA
YOU NEED TO BE STRONG, WEHNA.
I’d take strength from these words—the last my mother spoke to me—if I hadn’t driven her to say them every day of my life. If I’d been braver.
“Wehna . . .”
