Chapter 261
Skymning standing over the empty carboy, blazing: white light pouring out of his eyes, his mouth, the seams of his dove-grey coat, as if he'd swallowed a star. The raiders in the doorway, shielding their eyes.
transfigured, weeping, laughing, every feeling at once.
Skymning swinging a blazing arm, not a punch, just a flail of too much feeling, and a wave of white light slamming the raiders back through the doorway into the hold, shelves rocking, jars clinking.
picking himself up off the floor among rocking shelves, squinting into the white.
Skymning staggering out of the stern room, through the hold, past his shelves of stolen joy, the jars trembling as he passes, up the stair, onto the deck, and off the side of the barge into the shallows, wading, stumbling, blazing, up the black beach of Lumen.
The blazing grey man staggering up the seventh hill toward the dark seventh tower, a moving star on the black island, and the raiders pouring off the barge after him.
at the foot of the first hill, her clay lamp held high, looking up at the blazing figure climbing the seventh. Her small face very old.
beside her, a hundred and four, leaning on his lamp-pole.
a long breath. Then hitching up her too-big lamplighter's coat, tucking her braids into her collar, and grinning, gap-toothed.
Iskall running. A seven-year-old's run, skip and hop, bare feet black on the soles, up the first hill toward the first tower, lamp held high, never lowered even when she stumbles.
On the seventh hill, holding a man made of a lamp.
Smurjan, without Bakasura's hunger, his shadow quiet, getting his arms round the blazing Skymning and holding, holding, his skin scorching. "…Steady."
Svala diving round them, cutting the vial-straps of Skymning's coat-lining so the little jars fall into the grass, clink clink clink.
Kompis, without courage, shaking, standing in front of the Lamp-bearer children who've followed up the hill, Bror levelled. "Stand there, stand there, stand there."
Daniel, one hand raised at Skymning, the balance of pale light forming. "Objection: to the theft of a lamp", holding him in place while his hand stays up, sweat pouring.
held, blazing, weeping, his own hands clawing at his chest.
Iskall at the top of the first tower, holding the clay lamp up to the great lamp. It blazes.
(On the bridge of her nose, one emerald freckle lights.)
Iskall at the top of the second tower, already, running along the ridge between the hills faster than a child should. It blazes.
(A second freckle.)
The third tower. ba-DUM. (Three freckles.)
The fourth. ba-DUM. (Four.)
The fifth. ba-DUM. (Five.)
The sixth. ba-DUM. (Six.)
And Iskall, at the sixth tower's top, turning toward the seventh hill, where the seventh tower stands dark, and a blazing man is being held at its foot.
Lumen, blazing. Six white towers on six hills, each lamp roaring with white light, the light pouring off them and joining, a great dome of brilliance over the whole island, the black sky of the Deep above it lit white for the first time in memory, stars that have never been seen in the Deep coming out in it.
On the seventh hill, a dark tower, and at its foot a man made of a stolen flame, held by a crew.
And on the sixth tower's top, a seven-year-old with a clay lamp held as high as her arms can reach, six emerald freckles blazing across her nose, and her face, for one panel, a week older: a little longer in the jaw, a braid an inch longer, a child who has just grown up seven days in seven heartbeats.
off the far shore, in the blaze of white. And inside it, on every shelf, every jar cracking: a thousand, ten thousand tiny tinks, glass splitting, corks popping, and out of every jar its stolen feeling flying, gold, blue, rose, red, streaming out of the shuttered windows into the white sky in great flocks, scattering in every direction across the Deep.
on a cracked jar, the glass falling away: WIDOW HARALD · HER HUSBAND'S LAUGH. And far away across the Deep, on some small island, an old woman at a window laughing suddenly, and not knowing why.
where Svala's cuts dropped his coat-vials: the little jars cracking one after another. Out of them, ribbons of colour streaking home:
A red ribbon to Vigolas. His fury slams back into him, and his face lights up, furious, delighted. "THERE it is!"
A silver ribbon to Rougeina. Her blades snap into her grip, sure. "…Ah."
An amber ribbon to Bakasura's shadow. The great jaws opening wide. "…HUNGRY." (Roffe, from across the hill, weeping with relief: "HE'S HUNGRY!")
A gold ribbon to Kompis. His shaking stops. He stands up straight in front of the children, Bror steady in his hands, and breathes out. "…Hi."
in Skymning's breast pocket, the silver-gold one, the biggest, cracking against his chest.
And out of it, a great silver-gold river, a whole lifetime of getting up, streaming across the hill into Krydog.
receiving it, his raw eyes going wide, his whole body straightening as if lifted by a hand, the wanting back, all of it, and his grin coming back with it: huge, chipped-tooth, alive.
laughing and crying at the edge of the hill.
flexing his hands, looking at them.
on the sixth tower, panting, her clay lamp smaller, a week older, looking across at the dark seventh tower. There's no lamp in it to light. It's inside a man at its foot.
The crew letting go of Skymning as the jars release, and the grey man staggering free, still blazing, the seventh lamp's flame roaring inside him, brighter now in the white dome, as if the six lit towers were calling to it. He turns toward the dark seventh tower, his arms outstretched.
A crack of white light spreading over his heart, light pouring through it like water through a split dam. The beat that won't close.
The seventh hill: a man made of a stolen lamp, blazing, cracking, at the foot of a dark tower, under a white dome of six lit towers, both crews round him, and above it all a black sky full of stolen feelings flying home.