Please Stop Spreading Rumors About Me — They Keep Coming True

The morning after Su Yue’s answer, the whole world was ringing. That’s the only word for it — a great glad bell struck once, loud, and it was still echoing three days later. Every town was retelling how the Lantern’s own voice came down from the sky; every Rememberer was arguing over which word cracked the loudest, and every kid in every mountain hold was learning the two sentences the world waited a thousand years to hear.

I want to come home. I have wanted it every night.

The First Author walked in the light for the first time in a millennium. She’d spent her whole life being the woman who put people out of the world, but she just heard — in the voice of the one she loved most — that the person she feared wanting back was the same one who wanted her, too. Something ancient in her finally let go. Her list read eleven thousand four hundred and two and falling, while the single name at the top of a fresh page glowed, the way things glow when you stop being afraid to carry them. She smiled at breakfast — a small, terrible, beautiful thing. None of us said a word, because nobody wanted to break it.

The Scroll, resting on my shoulder, was so happy it invented three new emojis to capture the specific vibe of its joy, but then it kept rejecting them as insufficient.

”There should be one for this,” it kept saying. ”Talent. A specific one. Maybe a little Homelight with a door in it. Can I get sign-off on a new emoji? Who do I even petition?”

”Not me,” I said.

”I’ll petition Heaven. Again.”

”They fired you the last time you petitioned Heaven.”

”Exactly why I have nothing left to lose.”

And Tao Tao, our newly minted Legendary, our Founder of the Homecoming, was — I want to be respectful here because she earned it — she was insufferable. She’d asked me twice that morning to please refer to her, from now on, as Legendary Tao Tao, which she pronounced with a heavy emphasis on the first syllable, in a voice she clearly practiced in the mirror. I told her I’d consider it. Yun Shu said she’d sooner die. Tao Tao took both as the love they were, punched my arm for old times, and went back to organizing homecomings with the same bubbly ferocity she’d had since Chapter one, plus one new tier of belief and the same smudge of jam on her chin.

It was the best week we’d had in five years.

That’s why I didn’t get what Xue Ningzhi meant when she came to me on the third morning, hands very still, and said, ”It’s changed.”

”...What has?”

”The Redactor.” She sat down, not looking at me, just staring at the fire. She looks at things that way when she’s thinking like the enemy and doesn’t want to get caught wearing the face. ”Every move it’s ever made, Lin Bo, has been about us. Our arks. Our keepers. Our roads. Our people. It treated us like the enemy. For a hundred and thirty Chapters, its whole game was keeping the movement from reaching the dam.” She swallowed hard. ”Three days ago, it heard the dam say, in front of the whole listening world, that it wanted to come home. I’ve been sitting with that for three days, and I finally got what’s been wrong.”

She looked up.

”The Redactor doesn’t think we’re the enemy anymore. It thinks the dam is.”

— • —

I want to be careful here, because it took me an hour just to feel the size of what she meant.

For the whole book, the Redactor and its cold Empire understood the war exactly like we did: two sides, opposed. We were remembering; they were forgetting; and the dam sat in the middle — that great, tired mechanism whose job was forgetting, and whose loyalty everyone on the dark side assumed was theirs. Every move the Redactor made — every needle, every flood, every cut — was aimed at us, because we were the danger to the dam’s work.

But then Su Yue asked the dark a question, and the dark, in front of the whole listening world, said it wanted to come home. And the Redactor — alone in whatever cold room it plans its wars from — understood what that meant before any of us did.

It meant the dam was never on its side. The dam was the scar, that tired mercy that never wanted the work in the first place, and the Redactor was just policy — the Empire’s cold logic built on top of the scar’s exhausted duty. The scar was finally learning it could rest. Learning it could hand its ocean home. Learning it wanted to. And if the scar chose to open its hands — if the dam decided to let the ocean home — the Redactor’s whole cause wouldn’t just end in defeat. It would end in irrelevance, the mercy it preached made useless by the very tired mercy it had been standing on all along, without ever noticing whose shoulders were holding it up.

So in three days, the Redactor redrew the whole war. It stopped trying to keep us from the dam; it knew it couldn’t stop us. It reached, instead, for the one thing left it could touch.

It went for the dam’s willingness.

— • —

I felt it that afternoon. I’d been going down every morning, sometimes twice, since the dam asked its first question — sitting with it, sharing small things, letting it tell me things, the slow, normal work of being present that Mu Chen taught us is the only real work there is. I went down expecting that same warmth I’d found for months, but I found a silence I’d never felt in a hundred descents.

Not the old silence of ten thousand ages — that packed, still cold that was only holding too much to make a sound. I knew that silence. I’d come to love it, if you can love a silence that’s held the world’s forgotten alone since before the first star.

This was a new silence. Small. Tight. Frightened. The silence of something that had been talking, just a moment ago, and had suddenly gone very still.

”Are you there?” I said.

Nothing. Not resistance. Not anger. Not the vast old absence. Just — clenched. Every muscle a scar has, held so tight that when I reached out to touch its cold, I didn’t feel the deep old cold I knew. I felt a shallow, flinching cold, the kind of cold that’s bracing itself against being touched at all.

”...You shouldn’t come down here,” it said, its voice tiny. ”I’m not — I don’t think I should be near you right now. I might—” It stopped. ”I might hurt you. I’ve remembered that I might hurt you. Please. Go up.”

I didn’t go up.

”What happened?” I asked. ”Something happened since yesterday. Tell me. Slowly.”

”I have remembered what I am for,” it said. The voice was worse now — not because it wasn’t its own, but because it was. It sounded just like those first descents, back when it thought forgetting was mercy and I was just a kid playing with a dam it had held alone since the beginning. Certain. Formal. Cold. ”I have been very confused this long season. Something helped me remember. If I open my hands, the world drowns. I have known this for ten thousand ages, and I forgot it for one bright, glad summer, and now I have remembered, and I am so sorry. I am so terribly sorry. I cannot come home. I must hold. I must always hold. That was the whole point of me. I shouldn’t have let anyone tell me otherwise.”

And I understood, kneeling at the bottom of the world in a dark smaller and colder and more frightened than anything I’d felt in this whole book, exactly what the Redactor had done.

It had gone down past me. Past all of us. Past every hand we’d laid beside the dam this whole tired, glad season. And it whispered, in the exact voice that could still reach — because there’s always a voice that can reach a frightened thing, and the Redactor is very good at finding the right one — a single, true, terrible sentence.

If you open your hands, and the world isn’t ready, you will drown them. All of them. Everyone you’ve learned to love.

And it had shown the dam — because the Redactor is old enough and knows enough to show it — the whole first age drowning again, this time on the healed world, this time on Tao Tao and Yun Shu and Mu Chen and Bai Qing and Ji Lan and the girl Rin who’d waited a thousand years for the end of a story, and me. The whole warm, loud life the dam had learned to love in one glad season. Drowning. Because it opened too soon.

The Redactor didn’t have to force the dam to close. It just had to remind it of the fear it had been carrying since before the first star, in the exact voice of everything the dam had dared to love this year.

And the dam, being the most loving thing in creation, clenched shut so hard it might never open again — because the last thing it was willing to risk was hurting the very people who’d finally come down to sit with it.

The Homelight over the world, which had been blazing brighter than it had in a millennium for three days, cooled. It wasn’t out, but it wasn’t bright, either. Because Su Yue was up there feeling everything the dam felt, and the dam had just gone frightened; a Lantern who wants to come home to a shore that’s suddenly gone still can’t help but dim in the waiting.

I went up the descent shaking. When I told the family, the fire went quiet in a way I hadn’t heard since Sedgewater.

”How do you undo a fear,” Bai Qing said, ”planted by someone who knows exactly which fear to plant?”

”You can’t,” Xue Ningzhi said, flat. ”The fear is true. If the dam opens before the vessel is wide enough, the ocean will drown the world. That’s not a lie the Redactor told. That’s the actual rule we’ve been living by all season — no faster than the flood. It just made the dam feel it — from the wrong direction. It turned wisdom into terror. You can’t argue a true fear out of anything.”

Mu Chen had been quiet the whole time, hands folded, the way he gets when a very difficult patient is put in front of him. He looked up.

”You don’t argue with a true fear,” he said. ”You sit inside it with the frightened thing until it can hold it without clenching. I’ve spent my whole life beside people who couldn’t hold their fear alone.” He looked at me, and there was a thing in his gentle face I hadn’t seen in a long time — not since he was a boy freed from the Verse-Blade in a tournament ring. A resolve. ”I have to go down. Not next to it, this time. Into it. Into the fear itself. I have to sit in the drowning it just saw and hold that vision without flinching, so it knows the fear can be held. That is the whole of my art. It’s the only thing that’s going to work.”

The Scroll made a small sound. ”Talent. That is very deep. I do not know if any of us can hold him if he goes that deep.”

”Then we hold as much as we can,” I said. ”And we hold each other holding him. Because if that dam doesn’t open again, Su Yue doesn’t come home, and if Su Yue doesn’t come home, nothing else we’ve done this whole book means anything.”

The fire went colder still because it was true, and no one contradicted me, and outside the pot the wind moved through the reeds like something waiting to see what we would do.