Please Stop Spreading Rumors About Me — They Keep Coming True

We had gotten used to living with the dark. Now we had to figure out how to keep it company when we were away — because the Redactor found that one hour we couldn’t cover, and it was every single hour we were gone.

Mu Chen went down every morning, just like he said he would. He sat with the dam through the worst of the daily fear, took a piece of it for himself, and came back up grey and silent; then the family would warm him back to life until he had to go back down the next day. It was the most anyone had done for that tired thing at the bottom of the world, and it was working in the way a hand on a fever works — real, gentle, and nowhere near enough.

Because a day is long, and a night is longer, and Mu Chen is just one guy.

”You can’t guard it,” Xue Ningzhi said. She was sitting by the fire, laying it out like she does everything, without any mercy or malice. ”That’s the problem. We should just say it so nobody spends a month pretending otherwise. The dam lives at the bottom of the world, in the deep silence, all by itself — that isn’t some weakness we can patch, it’s just what it is. And the Redactor doesn’t need a road or a crowd. It just needs the dam alone in the quiet, which is where it is for twenty-three hours a day. Mu Chen holds the one hour he’s down there. The Redactor has the other twenty-three. It can whisper its true fear into that silence whenever it wants, and the dam flinches faster every time, because the fear is real and the pattern is set.” She looked around at us. ”We aren’t going to out-visit it. There aren’t enough hours, and there’s only one Mu Chen.”

I did what I always do first, which is the wrong thing, which is offer to take it on myself. ”Then I’ll go down. At night. I’ll be the one who’s—”

”No,” Bai Qing said, and Yun Shu, and the Scroll, all at once, in three different ways of saying absolutely not, and I shut up.

”You’d just be one guard at one door,” Bai Qing said, softer this time. ”A single throat for the dark to reach for — the exact trap Su Yue warned us about, the exact thing that’s failed every single time someone tried to be the only light. You can’t defend the dam by being the one who defends the dam. We learned that at Reedmoor. We learned it a dozen times since.” She was quiet for a second, turning the idea over like she turns everything, patient as a stone. And then she said the sentence that started it. ”The dam is a candle, Lin Bo. That’s the whole problem. It’s a single point in an empty room, and the dark can always reach a single point in an empty room. We don’t guard a candle. We never have.” She looked up. ”We weave it. We make sure it’s never in an empty room in the first place.”

”It’s the definition of alone,” I said. ”It’s one thing, at the bottom of the world, in the deepest silence there is. How do you weave the one thing in creation that is alone by its own nature?”

And Yun Shu, who had been quiet, who does her best thinking in silence and her best speaking in one line, set down her bowl and said:

”You fill the silence.”

— • —

Here is what she meant, and it was so simple and so massive that it took the fire a full minute to breathe again after she said it.

The Redactor reaches the dam in the empty dark. In the silence. That is its whole path — the long quiet hours when the dam is alone at the bottom of the world with nothing but its own oldest fear, and a cold voice that knows exactly which fear to name.

So make the dark not empty.

Not a guard. Not a light. Not one more brave soul going down to stand at a door. A voice. The world’s voice, in the silence, every night, so that when the Redactor came down to whisper its true and terrible sentence into the dam’s loneliness — if you open too soon, you drown everyone you love — it would find the dam already full. Already held. Already listening to something else. You cannot isolate a thing that is never alone. You cannot catch in an empty room a thing whose room is never empty.

”The world sings to it,” Yun Shu said. ”The way the far shore sings the crossings. The way we sing the roads. Except not about the lost, and not about the dark. To it. To the dark itself. Every night. A voice at the bottom of the world so the whisper can never find it by itself again.” She almost smiled, just a dry flicker. ”You can’t guard a candle. But you can put it in a room that’s always full of people. The dark has spent ten thousand ages in an empty room. We fill the room.”

I thought it was the most beautiful idea anyone had had in this whole book, and I said so, and Ji Lan — who had been unusually quiet all evening, sitting close to Mu Chen the way she’d been sitting close to Mu Chen since his descent — laughed, once, short and unhappy, and said the thing none of the rest of us had wanted to see.

”It’s beautiful,” she said. ”It’s also impossible. Do you understand what you’re asking?” She looked around the fire, and the gallows humor was up, which is how I always know she’s about to say something true that costs her. ”You want the whole world to sing a lullaby. To the dark. To the thing every single person alive has spent their entire life being afraid of. The monster under the world. The end of all remembering. The thing that ate their grandmother’s name and their village and their child.” She spread her hands. ”People don’t sing to the thing they’re afraid of. You can’t just tell a world to love the dark. It’s spent ten thousand ages learning to fear it, and it was right to — the dark really did take everything. You want them to sing it to sleep like a frightened baby, when to them it’s the frightened baby’s worst nightmare made real.”

The fire was quiet.

”So first,” Ji Lan said, ”before anyone sings a single note — somebody has to make the whole world love the dark. Actually love it. Enough to sing to it in the night. And I want to be very clear about what that is.” She looked at me, and under the gallows humor was the oldest fear she has, the one she’s spent this whole book slowly setting down. ”That’s not a defense. That’s a telling. And it’s the hardest telling there has ever been. Harder than the three hundred and eleven. Harder than Su Yue. I have to take the thing the world has feared since before the first story — the villain of literally everything — and tell its true story so well that a world which has every reason to hate it comes to love it instead. In a season. Before the Redactor whispers the dam shut for good.”

”Can you?” I asked. Because there was no point asking anyone else. There has only ever been one person alive who could even try it.

Ji Lan was quiet a long time. And then she said the thing that told me she’d already decided, and that it frightened her, and that she was going to do it anyway.

”I don’t know,” she said. ”I’ve made the world love a lot of things it shouldn’t have. Sects. Shampoo. Me, for thirty years, which was the biggest fraud of all. But I never once tried to make it love something that deserved it and had been hated for ten thousand years instead.” She stood up, brushed off her knees, and looked toward the black mouth of the descent at the edge of camp, the one I go down every day, the one none of the rest of them had ever gone down. ”And if I’m going to tell its story true enough to make a world love it, then I can’t tell it from up here, from the outside, the way I’ve told everything my whole life. I have to go down. I have to actually meet it.” A breath. ”I’ve never been down there. I’ve told a thousand stories about the dark and I’ve never once been in the room with it.”

”I’ll hold the room,” I said. ”I always do.”

”I know you do,” Ji Lan said, and something crossed her face when she said it that I didn’t have time to read, because she was already walking toward the dark.