Page 44 of Starside

The tall man places a hand on his shoulder. His voice is deep and resonant, as if he’s speaking inside a well. “Pelas. Remember. Sometimes we learn more from the questions asked than the answers given.”

He turns to Zane. “You are correct. Silver is the color of the gods. Only those of us who are given permission from them are permitted to wear anything that approaches it.”

The color isn’t silver, really. More like a very light gray.

“You—you speak to the gods?” I ask, trying my best to sound casual.

The immortal looks at me as if I’m a foolish child. “Of course not. The texts are the closest we get. But the first scholar. He … he was a friend of the gods. Level Ten wear robes from his own collection.”

Pelas looks at the other immortal’s robes with something like longing.

“I’m Ellis.” The tall immortal moves to the side and motions us forward. “We’re always pleased to have guests pass through. Shall we prepare food? Drink?”

“You … eat?” Kira asks.

Behind her, Pelas shakes his head and angrily scribbles IDIOTS in his notebook.

“Not often,” Ellis says. “For pleasure, mostly. How often do you eat, mortals?”

I frown. “You don’t know?”

His smile is almost pitying. “Our study is typically reserved for … our own kind.” A gentle way of saying that our short, mortal lives don’t matter. Not to them. “And your knowledge was taken to your own land during the Great Divide.”

The Great Divide. Is that what they call the period when the gates were erected? Our side might have books, but there are hardly any people who can dedicate their lives to reading them. Knowledge has been kept within certain families. And all information about Starside faded away—literally—a long time ago.

Ellis leads us down plain stone hallways with just a few cressets holding flames for light, and into a dining room, with a long oak table, and simply carved seats. A small group of immortals with darker robes scurry to meet him, their heads tilted in reverence. “Get our guests food,” he commands.

They bow, then run back into another room with hardly a glance in our direction.

Ellis positions himself at the head of the table. Pelas sits five seats to his right. He roughly motions for us to sit at the other end.

We do, even though we’re still dripping wet. Word of our presence must have spread, because a few more men in robes walk in and take their seats.

They all look expectantly at us. Then the questions begin in earnest.

“What does the other side look like nowadays?”

“Barren, mostly. There are hardly any fertile patches left,” I offer.

Desperate scribbling.

“What do you eat?”

We turn to one another. “It varies based on where we live,” Kira says. “My side, to the west … we eat mainly fish. We’re by the coast.”

“I’m from the mountains,” Zane says slowly, studying them, hand not far from his ax. “We eat pheasants. And roots that grow up high.”

“Fascinating. And you? Where are you from?” Ellis is looking right at me.

I swallow past the knot in my throat. “I’m from a place that doesn’t exist anymore. But—we used to eat mostly grain. And there was a single, giant fruit tree. It would feed our whole village, during infrequent blooms.”

I grip the side of my chair as an image flashes through my mind of that fruit tree on fire.

“I … moved to another village as a child. There, I ate scraps. Pieces that were handed out at the town square.” Or that I stole. “I foraged too. Mushrooms and such.”

None of their expressions change.

“Do people die of hunger on that side?”