Scavenge the Stars (Scavenge the Stars #1)(73)

“I know,” Amaya said without thinking. “I remember.”

She had once seen two teenagers chased out of the park by an irate member of the city guard, one of them carrying a bucket of white paint. When she had asked her mother what they were doing, her mother had explained that some people were graced with the gift of art, and sometimes that made them want to share it with the whole world. If you have a special talent, she would say, it would be selfish of you to keep it for yourself.

“You remember?” Cayo echoed, frowning.

Amaya realized her mistake and stiffened. “They…do something similar, where I’m from. That’s all I meant.”

“Oh.” He still looked a bit confused. “Where exactly are you from? I think no one really knows the answer to that, yet.”

“Does it matter?” she asked, already rebuilding her protective walls.

“I think it does, yes.” He dropped his hand and studied her as intently as he had studied the graffiti surrounding them. “Where you’re from…I think it helps inform who you are as a person, in some ways. A home is something you can’t easily forget. It stays with you no matter where you go or who you become.”

Amaya stared at him, again sensing the ghosts that called her back to the street where her mother and father had carved out a simple yet happy life. For a time, anyway.

She had carried that seed of remembrance during her years on the Brackish. She carried it still, that pocket of memory that reminded her of all she’d lost, of everything she would never have again.

She looked away from Cayo, drifting to the far end of the bridge. Placing her fingers against a word she couldn’t read, she traced the lines and curves as if to discern its meaning through touch alone.

“I come from a place where happiness was more important than money,” she said, her voice nearly overtaken by the hiss of rain outside their shelter. “Where spiders are revered and myths were eaten up like candy.”

She heard him come closer, stopping just far enough to give her space. “What sort of myths?”

Amaya took a deep breath and delved into memories of her father, his low, amused voice and the way he used his broad hands to add inflections to his stories. Turning, she bent and scooped up a handful of clay from the edge of the trickling creek.

“Trickster was born from a seed of the oldest acorn tree and the blood of the cleverest snake, and the heart of a star was his womb.” She took some of the cold, wet clay with her fingers and drew a star on a bare patch of stone, with Trickster’s symbol in the center: a diamond with a forked line in the middle. “When he emerged bright and hungry from the star, he descended to the earth and disguised himself as human. He wanted to learn about people by becoming one, to better understand what they wanted and how they deceived one another.”

Cayo listened raptly to the Kharian myth her father had often told her—her favorite one, the one she would always request before bed. She drew as she spoke, outlining Trickster’s life and his most notable deeds.

“He grew trees when there was famine, stealing them from the forests of Khari’s enemies. He instated the first empress of Khari, and was even said to stay with her in the Ruby Palace for many years as her lover.” She drew the spiraling dome-shaped towers of the palace. “But when the other gods began to look upon him with disdain, he knew he was in trouble.”

“But he was doing good deeds,” Cayo interrupted, the first time he had done so. “Why would they object?”

“Because the gods like order and balance, and Trickster was a being of chaos,” Amaya explained. “He opposed all their orders and never listened when Protector warned him not to overstep his bounds. Then, one day, Trickster offended Protector greatly when he pretended to be him, ordering the other gods to perform his whims. When Protector found out about the impersonation, he challenged Trickster to combat.”

Amaya drew a knife, its shape a familiar comfort. She checked to make sure the tattoo at her wrist was covered by her sleeve, but some part of her didn’t mind if Cayo saw. In fact, she wanted him to see it, to share a bit of who she truly was.

Taking an uneven breath, she drew a tree. “Protector spilled Trickster’s blood, and an orchard grew where he fell, bearing enough fruit and nuts to feed five villages.”

“So he died?” Cayo asked.

“Gods can’t really die, but he disappeared for a while to lick his wounds. The orchard is still there, though. There are people who visit to pray to him, and some claim they can hear him laughing through the trees and raining acorns down on the heads of unsuspecting visitors.”

She turned to find Cayo smiling at her drawings. The softness of that smile was like a kick to the chest, and when his eyes met hers, she stood rooted to the spot. They were no longer full of pain; they were gleaming with discovery, with contentment.

For a moment, she felt as if she, like Trickster, were encased within a star. Bright and hungry and eager to right the wrongs of the world.

As she watched, Cayo also scooped up a handful of clay and began drawing on the stone. He told her about his favorite book, a story about a boy who joins a pirate ship and sails on adventures all around the world. He drew sea monsters and swords and chests of treasure.

“What’s that supposed to be?” she asked, pointing at an oblong shape he had made.

“It’s a mermaid,” he mumbled.