The Founding of Sølvskygge (Silvershadow)

Synnøve knew only nighttime. Early in her training, she became utterly untroubled by daylight, sleeping through the day as soundly as the dead. She attributed this to the strange, slightly bitter paste of tree nuts and berries fed to her by her mentor. And so, she awakened to darkness and laid down in darkness. But when her eyes flicked open, they were immediately filled with stars. The sky was replete with layers of the glittering motes, ribbons and swathes twisting and beckoning like a river promising travel to some far-off land.

The first months were spent drilling the names of the stars, monikers flowing for so many hours she felt as though she were speaking a different language. At times she glanced at the odd expressions on her mentor's face and wondered if, indeed, it was some kind of language to the giant, stoic womann. It did not help that the few times they spoke at length, the Mentor's answers were always cryptic, more metaphor than real.

In between lessons, they would fish, crouching on the shallow river rocks and using thin wooden spears. The Mentor moved with such slow, deliberate grace, it was almost as if she were casually watching the spearpoint meet the place she knew the fish was going to be. They ate the fish raw. There were never fires. Synnøve was never warm; nothing was ever warm.

One night, she stopped to listen to the quiet, the kind of quiet that could only fall in the dead of night, when the world is caught in that moment between breaths. The white snow shone in the moonlight, and the conifers scraped black fingers at the sky. The smell of everything was damp and settled. Almost as if caught in an embrace, pale Luna was kissing the edge of dark Sanguinis, both moons full.

She ached for a hot meal and mead, for the warmth of a lover, or the companionship of a parent, or anyone except her maddening teacher. She missed the comfort of wooden walls.

She endured this life because nowhere else had such a sky. Nowhere had this mountain air, so clear and high and free of the distracting lights of fires and lanterns, the northern sky so dark in winter. On the wide, placid river, the glimmering surface reflected a near-perfect mirror of the spangled expanse. Caught in those stars, she knew, was knowledge. Fate. The sweetness of mystery, her mentor had called it. And with it, the power to shape her family, her nation. Strength.

So she carried on.

Years passed, and Synnøve felt that she could almost taste the moonlight. She could close her eyes and feel the positions of the moons, almost sense their emotions, passions, and lusts. Every night she woke gently and simply, like a falling leaf alighting on the surface of a pond. She floated through darkness and finally arrived, touching the boundary of wakefulness so lightly and yet so completely that she almost felt as if she had never slept at all. Everything she looked at was cast in silver. She didn't know if she was on the verge of what she sought or simply going mad from the endless night.

When the Eye appeared, streaking hungrily across the sky with its penetrating black head, the Mentor seemed resigned. She bathed, for the first time Synnøve had seen, apparently unaffected by the frigid water.

She disappeared the next night, and when she returned, she was limping heavily, tracking a dark liquid through the snow. With a start, Synnøve realized she no longer viewed the world in color. The Mentor laid down, then smiled at her — another first, though it was with a grimace, blood running from her mouth. Her intense gaze dulled until it was empty.

Synnøve almost went mad with despair, knowing the finality of her loss. She sulked near the shallow cave that was their home, drinking the remains of the mead she'd hidden so long ago.

Eventually it ran out. Awash in misery, she lay back against the cold rock and howled at the sky, at the comet that had pierced everything familiar to her.

She howled and howled. A waning Luna looked down with her silvery light, casting long shadows, while a waxing black Sanguinis loomed. Synnøve gazed up at them, thinking of home.

Finally, long after she was spent, she picked herself up again, looked through the Mentor's belongings. She found an axe. She started chopping.