Page 81 of Veinblood
“It’s beautiful.”
The word feels inadequate. This marriage of artistry and magic shouldn’t exist under Authority rule, yet here it is, dancing in defiance of their laws.
“It can’t be displayed openly, of course. Far too risky. But we brought it out on her wedding night and watched it dance while we celebrated.” Nava’s voice grows soft. “This is what I dream of. Making things that bring joy instead of hiding everything that matters.” She rewraps the sculpture and returns it to its hiding place.
The raw longing in her voice hurts my heart.
“What abilities do you have?”
“We’re Earthveins. My daughter lives two valleys over now, in another community. Her husband is also Earthvein.” Her smile brightens her face. “Their children could be extraordinary … if they were allowed to use their powers instead of suppress them.”
“How do you bear it? Watching them hide who they are?”
“By hoping that someday we won’t have to make that choice.” She turns back to me. “If you’re here now, it means the stories are true. And if the Vareth’el really has returned …”
“You’re wondering if that someday might actually be closer than you thought.”
“We have told ourselves for years that it would arrive eventually. We have raised our children on stories of better times, when Veinbloods didn’t have to hide. But hoping and believing are very different things.”
I think I understand what she’s not saying. Hope can sustain you through years of hiding, but belief demands action. Belief requires risk … and these people have hidden for so long, that taking that risk might never happen.
“Why don’t we take a walk around the village, and I’ll introduce you to some more people?”
I accept her change of subject without argument, and follow her out of the workshop.
Each person I meet over the next few hours has found their own ways to blend in while hiding their true natures, but while they all have different abilities and suppress things in various ways, one thing remains true for them all. They’re tired of hiding. Tired of pretending to be something they’re not. Butthey’re too scared of what will happen if they show what they are to do anything about it.
We stop to watch a man tending a small flock of sheep in a paddock near the village’s edge.
“That’s Torven,” Nava says. “His wool is sought after by traders from three valleys over.”
“He uses magic to enhance it?”
The shepherd overhears me, and comes over.
“I could encourage better grass growth, or use subtle wardings to prevent predators, and heal injuries before they become bigger problems. I could also double the flock’s size.” Frustration is clear in his voice. “But bigger flocks would draw attention, and raise questions about how one shepherd manages so well. So instead, I focus on making the wool slightly better. Most of it is through knowledge rather than magic.”
“But every day you choose to be less than you could be.”
“Every day.” He points toward a ewe that is limping slightly. “See her? She injured her leg yesterday. I could heal it completely in minutes, but then if anyone comes by who saw her when she was injured, they would ask why a lame sheep suddenly walks perfectly. So I treat it the way any shepherd would, with poultices and rest and time.”
“But who would see it? Vorith said you don’t get many outsiders here.”
“We don’t. But what if I do it once and get away with it? Then I’ll do it again when the next animal gets hurt, and again after that. Each success makes the next seem safer, until I’musing my abilities without thinking. Eventually, someone will arrive at the wrong moment, and I’ll be discovered.”
His logic makes sense, but watching the injured ewe struggle creates a knot of anger inside me.
We move on, and Nava introduces me to others. A weaver whose cloth holds warmth longer than it should, the fibers coaxed to remember summer, but only in pieces for her family. A metalworker whose knives never dull, the steel shaped with fire that asks it to hold its edge, but only for his private use.
The small sacrifices add up. The sculpture hidden in the trunk, the sheep that limps, the children who learn to suppress their gifts. Their lives are shaped entirely by fear. Not the acute terror of battle, but the grinding, constant pressure of never being able to fully exist in their truest form.
That afternoon, Vorith finds me sitting by the village’s small pond, watching children play skipping stones across the water. She hands me a small wrapped package of cold meat and bread, and a water skin.
“I thought you might like something to eat. What do you think of our village?”
I unwrap the food and pick at it. “I understand the reasons you hide, and the fact that you’ve managed to survive when everyone thinks you no longer exist is a miracle. But I think Kalliss is right. Eventually Veinblood abilities will die out. Children are going to want to leave, and find lives elsewhere … the restlessness is already there. And then what will happen?”
“He is right. We’ve preserved something precious, butpreservation isn’t enough if it slowly withers away. Each generation becomes more detached from what we truly are.” She watches a young boy chase after the other children, his laughter reaching us. “Eventually, we’ll become nothing more than stories told by old people who remember when Veinbloods existed.”
