“To live again after death is strange magic, and an even stranger fate. Would that things were different, Bartholomew. Would that we had never been reborn. But if we hadn’t…well. I have wondered, and pondered, and now I am sure. For better, for worse–The rest of the story could not exist without us.” (364)
There’s a pitiful irony in how quickly omnipotence dies without a soul, without virtue, without humility. The Omens spent their immortality defiling the corpses of diviners, discarding their remains in forgotten piles, right beside the stacks of dust-laden gold; gold imbued with the suffering these women survived for a decade only to be rewarded in death. Holy. They hoard their blood-leeched validation for no other purpose than to exhibit it in their museum of obscenities. Gods. They’ve been reduced to lifeless gargoyles, sequestered in their hollowed out tombs. Omniscient…all-powerful…fading away with their Aisling waters and ash-covered riches. They know naught. Love naught. Yet, the abbess, from her sanctimonious tower, finds the gall to sneer at Sybil’s acts of compassion, dismissing empathy as a worthless art, a service freely given; disgraceful, and beneath the morally superior. Though, it’s clear to this author that the only needless craft in this world is the callous greed embodied by these six reprobates. They glorified Sybil’s agony to keep her committed to their wretched cause. Fortunately, divine will intervened. Pinned beneath their abuse, she was coated with insight, fitted with a resolve to spare others from similar harm. Sybil gained wings, wrought in silver mettle. But the omens were never rewarded for their rapacity. In fact, they consumed their Aisling water and withered still because the omens renounced the humanity that makes one truly immortal. Yes, martyrs train themselves to bear hunger. However, it’s the misery they swallow like stone that riles a ferocious heart, awakening a creature that would rather go without than let others starve, that would rather drown and return than watch others endure. This is not the work of trauma, but a demonstration of one’s will to overcome it.
Nevertheless, as is revealed by the story of metamorphosis, rebirth is a violent business. Ghosts and gossamer take the form of swords and armor but there’s nothing romantic about this transition. Martyrs of love become encased in a coffin of their own anguish. They’re shoved into a grave of rotting flowers and oily water where they surrender to the assault of drowning. Only to wake on dry land gasping, coughing up spring and stone. A merciless struggle led to this liberation, but Sybil made it out alive and changed. The oppressive weight of having to perform for another’s affection is gone, and with it, the putrid taste of dishonest harmony and toxic resilience. But then comes the unforgiving blow of disillusion. Sybil was groomed to take pride in acquiescence, but it was while she was drowning that her heart writhed at the injustice of Aisling’s teachings. Even blind faith couldn’t bury what drove the diviner to sickness every day. This nightmarish tale of starved creatures forced to endure their hunger with grace as their generous gods hoarded wealth and gorged themselves on instilled resignation. Part of the shedding process is removing the blindfold, the belief in hollow words, the inclination to go hungry. Sybil endured for love that would’ve never been reciprocated, no matter how much she paid in hunger. The betrayal of that revelation is gut-wrenching and Sybil, for a time, is of the mind that her pain was for naught. But, pain was never the enemy. On the contrary, pain tried to protect Sybil, and her violent resistance almost led to her own irreparable conclusion. Alas, having the divine courage to set her pain free saved Sybil’s life and future diviners. Every breath Sybil draws, altogether cathartic and dreadful, comes with an understanding that she was failed by those who promised she was safe. Yet, despite their failures, despite what was foretold by her trauma, she became indomitable.
Regardless of what is divined, the story does change. Throughout the book, Bartholomew laments, “Would that things were different.” They can be. The abbess says “the story doesn’t change”. It can. And beneath stone, inside a black and watery grave, that might feel like another falsehood. But one truth is for certain. In fact, it’s noted on the very first page. “To tell a story, is in part to tell a lie.” Every story is tailored by the teller. Right. Wrong. Bad. Good. Love. Hate. The meanings change with each tale. But a recipient’s task has always been to sift out the contradictions, to separate what proves to be a work of fiction from what is real. The abbess, a mother and fraud, told her girls they were precious and loved as she held them under water and profited from their torment. Rodrick Myndacious, the irreverent and ignoble knight who champions expression and agency. He encouraged Sybil to honor what she needs, to do as she pleases. The mysterious gargoyle, Sybil’s brave squire, possesses a heart even cold stone couldn’t devour. Boy-king, devout and harmless in appearance, but ultimately corrupt in heart and mind. The delicate martyr, buried alive, returned to where she died, as a silver moth, and watched Aisling crumble at her feet. “Swords and armor are nothing to stone.” Is that a fact? Sybil, who bested stone again and again, would indicate otherwise. But some storytellers are content to feed a lie and take up the tradition of duplicity to defend their treachery. Others would much rather pen the truth and pursue righteous justice. Evil is a formidable force, but that doesn’t make overcoming it a hopeless cause. Malevolence will say change is a myth, that empathy just leads to more unnecessary pain because Gods don’t want knights to trust the great power that lies in compassion. Benji made the weak choice, and there will be others who will choose to do the same out of fear. Yes, the book ends on a solemn note, but it’s important to remember that knights can only defeat one evil at a time. Sybil managed to defeat six of them. During which, she found a family that remained at her side through every excruciating part of the journey. A fairy tale to feel safe and free? I think not.
Review 6 out of 5 I had to sit with this book for days…for days. It hurt as much as Leigh Bardugo’s Six of Crows, but not all pain is harmful, some pain signifies healing. This book will stay with me for a long time, I think. Gillig’s voice feels timeless, like she’s been doing this since we learned to put pen to paper. The writing is serene and paced beautifully.
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