Week 16

  Nüba drew herself up, shoulders tense. “I despise autobiography,” she said. “But if you want the origin, there are others here who can recite it more faithfully than I.”

  She snapped her fingers, and one of her handmaidens scuttled forward and began to speak.

  ***

  The Story of Nüba

  “In the heavens, there lived a maiden of peerless rank. She was born of cloud and pure flame, and her name was Nüba. She governed the power of heat and dryness, and could command the parching of any lake or tear. The immortals valued her above all, for she was incorruptible: she did as she was told, and never once looked back.”

  “When the world fell into chaos and the demons of wind and rain swept the land, the Yellow Emperor called upon the court of heaven for aid. And so they sent down Nüba, brightest of the heavenly daughters, to dry up the enemy’s storms and end the endless war.”

  “Her first act was to unweave every cloud, to drink the very air of its moisture. Under her gaze, the rivers cracked, the earth withered, and the armies of Chi You perished; not in battle, but in thirst.”

  “With the weather cleared, the Yellow Emperor’s forces prevailed. They crowned him Lord of All Under Heaven. But when Nüba sought to return to the stars, the gates would not open. The world would not release her, for as long as mortals feared drought, they would remember her name and keep her here.”

  “She wandered, bringing dryness wherever she stepped. Her presence was a curse, yet the villages built altars for her, prayed for her to pass by swiftly. They burned effigies and called it ritual, but it was all fear. In time, her spirit shrank; her skin hardened; her words turned to dust.”

  “And so she became the Hanba, the Drought Demon. Never dead, never living, never at home in heaven or earth. Only remembered when the rivers ran dry.”

  ***

  The room fell silent. Even the minions bowed their heads.

  After a time, Callie said, “The part about not being allowed back to heaven doesn’t make sense.”

  Nüba laughed. “The most common explanation is that I had expended too much of my divine power during the battle, fundamentally altering my connection to the heavens. Perhaps Heaven is only for the innocent.”

  Tanith frowned. “In some sources, you volunteered to remain. You weren’t forced.”

  “Of course I volunteered. If that’s what you want to believe.”

  Callie studied the scars along her spine. “Is that why you can’t be healed?”

  Nüba shook her head. “No. I can be healed. I simply would not permit it. Not until every ounce of penance was spent, every drought paid in full.”

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  “My sister,” Callie said, “do you really want to be healed?”

  Nüba met her gaze, and for a moment, Callie saw through the mask: a soul that had done what it was asked, paid the price, and was still denied absolution.

  “If the Mother permits, I will not refuse.”

  Callie rolled up her sleeves. “Then let’s get started.”

  ***

  Callie knelt behind Nüba.

  The goddess’s back was a ruined manuscript of wounds and metal. The skin was parchment-thin, every scar a brushstroke, every tear a word in an ancient tongue. Up close, Callie could smell the iron tang of dried blood beneath the dust and incense.

  She touched the edge of the nearest wound. It didn’t bleed, but the skin shivered under her palm.

  Callie tore a strip of linen from her satchel, dabbed it in some bottled water, and wiped the grime from Nüba’s back. The runes beneath were jagged and uneven, but not random; each one a sentence in a language Callie half-remembered from the Library.

  She squinted. “Tanith, can you make this legible?”

  Tanith removed her spectacles, blew gently on the glass, and murmured a phrase. Her fingertips glowed, then she pressed them to the edges of the script. Instantly, the runes lit up. Amber at first, then shifting to a steady, deep gold. The script resolved into sharp, beautiful calligraphy.

  Tanith began to translate: “While war rages, she shall parch. While guilt remains, she shall wander.”

  Nüba did not flinch. “You can’t unwrite a curse, sister. But you can write an amendment.”

  Callie thought of the Bai Ze’s promise of 152 things [*], each one of which she could recall with absolute clarity: "When her face has turned to dust, mix the ash with your blood and tears, coaxed and freely given. The ash remembers greed. Your blood is mortal witness. Your tears say she may return."

  Callie looked for an entry point and found one at the base of the neck, where a thorn had broken off and the skin gaped open like a wound in a tree.

  “Sorry about this,” she said, and pried the thorn free. Nüba gritted her teeth but did not move.

  Callie fished out Abyssa’s gold thread and with, Tanith’s help, threaded a needle made from the iron thorn itself. Then she set to work. With each stitch, she pierced not just skin, but symbol. The thread followed the spiral of the curse, embroidering a new line beneath the old: “Forgotten by Heaven, remembered by dust, yet mercy arose because she was just. ”

  She tied off the thread and turned to Briar. “Can you get me the ash?”

  Briar blinked. “What ash?”

  Callie pointed at the pile of demon remains on the floor; the two who had dissolved after touching the idol. “Mix it with water. Just enough to make a paste.”

  Briar nodded, ran to the pile, and returned with a clay bowl of black, greasy ash. She added a splash from her water bottle, then handed it to Callie.

  Callie coaxed some tears from her eyes, it wasn’t hard considering the dusty surrounds, pricked her thumb and mixed them all with the ash, then applied it to Nüba’s wound. At once, a fine mist rose from the wound. The curse-script shuddered, then blurred.

  Nüba inhaled, deeply. When she let the air out, her body slumped. “It’s… cool,” she said.

  Callie stitched the final line, sealing the spiral with a small knot just below the left scapula. At once, the curse-script faded to pale gray, then disappeared entirely.

  Nüba stayed kneeling for a long moment. When she rose, her movements were easy, almost gentle.

  She took Calanthe’s hands in her own and kissed them both. “Thank you, my sister.”

  Then she turned towards the judgement seat, head bowed, and recited in a voice so clear it echoed: “Every life I have ended. Every city I have ruined. Every mother I have forced to bury her child. I remember you.”

  She listed names—hundreds, then thousands, in a measured, liturgical cadence. For a moment, it seemed as though the shrine itself was listening, counting the debts and marking them paid.

  Briar wiped her eyes. “That’s going to take a while.”

  Callie slumped next to Briar.

  They sat in silence, surrounded by the sound of names, the soft sizzle of healing, and the faint, impossible scent of rain on dust.

  ______

  [*] See Book 1 Epilogue