The Girl Who Drank the Moon(26)

Antain got to work.

Very quickly, as word of his skill and artistry spread on both ends of the Road, Antain made a good enough living to keep his mother and brothers happy and content. He built a separate home for himself—smaller, simpler, and infinitely more humble, but comfortable all the same.

Still. His mother did not approve of his departure from the Council, and told him as much. His brother Rook didn’t understand, either, though his disapproval came much later, after he had been dismissed from the Tower and returned home in shame. (Rook’s note, unlike his brother’s, did not contain the preface, “We had high hopes,” and instead simply said, “This one has disappointed us.” Their mother blamed Antain.)

Antain hardly noticed. He spent his days away from everyone else—working with wood and metal and oil. The itch of sawdust. The slip of the grain under the fingers. The making of something beautiful and whole and real was all he cared about. Months passed. Years. Still his mother fussed at him.

“What kind of person leaves the Council?” she howled one day after she had insisted that he accompany her to the Market. She needled and complained as she perused the different stalls, with their various selections of medicinal and beautifying flowers, as well as Zirin honey and Zirin jam and dried Zirin petals, which could be reconstituted with milk and slathered over the face to prevent wrinkles. Not everyone could afford to shop in the Market; most people bartered with their neighbors to keep their cupboards slightly less bare. And even those who could manage a visit to the Market could not afford the heaps of goods that Antain’s mother piled into her basket. Being the only sister of the Grand Elder had its advantages.

She narrowed her eyes at the dried Zirin petals. She gave the woman standing in the stall a hard look. “How long ago were these harvested? And don’t you dare lie to me!” The flower woman turned pale.

“I cannot say, madam,” she mumbled.

Antain’s mother gave her an imperious look. “If you cannot say, then I shall not pay.” And she moved on to the next stall.

Antain did not comment, and instead let his gaze drift upward to the Tower, running his fingers over the deep gouges and gorges and troughs that marred his face, following the rivers of scars like a map.

“Well,” his mother said as she browsed through bolts of cloth that had been brought from the other end of the Road, “we can only hope that when this ridiculous carpentry enterprise winds itself toward its inevitable end, your Honorable Uncle will take you back—if not as a Council member, then at least as a member of his staff. And then, one day, your little brother’s staff. At least he has the good sense to listen to his mother!”

Antain nodded and grunted and said nothing. He found himself wandering toward the paper vendor’s stall. He hardly ever touched paper anymore. Not if he could help it. Still. These Zirin papers were lovely. He let his fingers drift across the reams and let his mind drift to the rustly sounds of paper wings flying across the face of the mountain and disappearing from sight.



Antain’s mother was wrong about his coming failure, though. The carpentry shop remained a success—not only among the small, moneyed enclave of the Protectorate and the famously tightfisted Traders Association. His carvings and furniture and clever constructions were in high demand on the other side of the Road, as well. Every month the traders arrived with a list of orders, and every month, Antain had to turn some of them away, explaining kindly that he was only one person with two hands, and his time was naturally limited.

On hearing such refusals, the traders offered Antain more and more money for his handiwork.

And as Antain honed his skills and as his eye became clear and cunning and as his designs became more and more clever, so too did his renown increase. Within five years, his name was known in towns he had never heard of, let alone thought to visit. Mayors of far-off places requested the honor of his company. Antain considered it; of course he did. He had never left the Protectorate. He didn’t know anyone who had, though his family could certainly afford to. But even the thought of doing anything but work and sleep, the occasional book read by the fire, was more than he could manage. Sometimes it felt to him that the world was heavy, that the air, thick with sorrow, draped over his mind and body and vision, like a fog.

Still. Knowing that his handiwork found good homes satisfied Antain to the core. It felt good to be good at something. And when he slept, he was mostly content.

His mother now insisted that she always knew her son would be a great success, and how fortunate, she said again and again, he had been to escape a life of drudgery with those doddering old bores on the Council, and how much better it was to follow your talents and bliss and whatnot, and hadn’t she always said so.

“Yes, mother,” Antain said, suppressing a smile. “You truly always said so.”

And in this way, the years passed: a lonely workshop; solid, beautiful things; customers who praised his work but winced at the sight of his face. It wasn’t a bad life, actually.



Antain’s mother stood in the doorway of the workshop late one morning, her nostrils wrinkling from the sawdust and the sharp smell of Zirin hip oil, which gave the wood its particular sheen. Antain had just finished the final carved details on the headboard of a cradle—a sky full of bright stars. This was not the first time he had made such a cradle, and it was not the first time he had heard the term Star Child, though he did not know what it meant. The people on the other end of the Road were strange. Everyone knew it, though no one had met any.