species by an overseer.”
“So you chose to become a munaqsri? You had a choice?” She didn’t know why that question was important to her, but it was.
“I was needed,” he said. “Everything in the world—bears, birds, insects, rivers, seas—requires its own munaqsri to facilitate its existence. Most species require several. Humans, for instance, have hundreds. Beetles, even more. Polar bears need only one, due to the small population size. But still, there is a shortage of munaqsri. Children of munaqsri are rare, and the world desperately needs all of us.”
That didn’t sound like much of a choice.
In a quiet voice, the Bear King said, “I did resent my father for my non-choice. Being a munaqsri . . .
We keep the world functioning, but we are not truly a part of it.” Life at the station wasn’t exactly ordinary either. Cassie shook her head. She couldn’t believe she was empathizing with him. Could they actually have things in common?
“You must be hungry,” he said abruptly, as if he’d said too much.
The Bear King led her down another spiral staircase, back into the banquet hall. At his command, the table sprouted another feast. It opened like a flower, bowls of fruit unfolding like petals. A stalk shot into the air and bloomed into a tray of breads. It detached and floated toward Cassie. Staring at it, she retreated.
“Do not be alarmed,” he said. He sounded amused.
The tray shook as if impatient, jostling rolls. She stiffened and took a croissant. She wasn’t
“alarmed.” She just had never eaten levitating food before. He took a muffin with his massive paw.
Gingerly, Cassie sat on the ice throne. The throne dwarfed her. Her toes brushed the floor. She was suddenly aware of how small and powerless she was inside this pristine perfection.
Steam rose from the dishes, and her stomach rumbled. She licked her lips, her mouth watering.
She’d never seen so much food before. And it all looked good. She shook her head at herself. The impossible had happened, was currently happening, and her reaction was hunger. Maybe she was adjusting to all the strangeness. Or at least her stomach was. She reached for a steaming dish of carrots in a white sauce.
The silence stretched, broken only by the tinkle and clink of the serving dishes as they jostled across the table. Cassie tried to picture her mother at the station, sitting down to a meal. She imagined her with Cassie’s favorite mug, as Owen flipped pancakes, and she pictured herself at age four at the table beside her. Again, Cassie’s eyes felt hot.
She tried to think of a question, an innocuous question, that would let her get some modicum of control back. Making her voice as cheerful as she could manage, she said, “So . . . what were you like as a young cub?”
“Very humanoid,” he said dryly.
She almost smiled. He really did have a sense of humor.
“My childhood . . .” He paused and regarded her as if weighing how he should answer. “My childhood was many years ago,” he said finally. “I am older than I appear, several centuries older.” Several centuries? She tried to digest it. “You don’t seem so old.”
“Thank you,” he said.
Several centuries?
“I had a good childhood, a human one,” he continued. As Cassie filled her plate, he told her about growing up straddled between his father’s mountains and his mother’s Norway. His mother, he said, had been an ordinary human, and she had raised him as a human. He had played with the other village children and had gone to lessons with a tutor. His mother had had hopes he would pursue law. Weekends he’d spent with his father learning about all the things not in his tutor’s books—
learning about magic and the responsibilities of the munaqsri, learning how a munaqsri used his power to fulfill his responsibilities.
“Your turn,” he said when he’d
“So you chose to become a munaqsri? You had a choice?” She didn’t know why that question was important to her, but it was.
“I was needed,” he said. “Everything in the world—bears, birds, insects, rivers, seas—requires its own munaqsri to facilitate its existence. Most species require several. Humans, for instance, have hundreds. Beetles, even more. Polar bears need only one, due to the small population size. But still, there is a shortage of munaqsri. Children of munaqsri are rare, and the world desperately needs all of us.”
That didn’t sound like much of a choice.
In a quiet voice, the Bear King said, “I did resent my father for my non-choice. Being a munaqsri . . .
We keep the world functioning, but we are not truly a part of it.” Life at the station wasn’t exactly ordinary either. Cassie shook her head. She couldn’t believe she was empathizing with him. Could they actually have things in common?
“You must be hungry,” he said abruptly, as if he’d said too much.
The Bear King led her down another spiral staircase, back into the banquet hall. At his command, the table sprouted another feast. It opened like a flower, bowls of fruit unfolding like petals. A stalk shot into the air and bloomed into a tray of breads. It detached and floated toward Cassie. Staring at it, she retreated.
“Do not be alarmed,” he said. He sounded amused.
The tray shook as if impatient, jostling rolls. She stiffened and took a croissant. She wasn’t
“alarmed.” She just had never eaten levitating food before. He took a muffin with his massive paw.
Gingerly, Cassie sat on the ice throne. The throne dwarfed her. Her toes brushed the floor. She was suddenly aware of how small and powerless she was inside this pristine perfection.
Steam rose from the dishes, and her stomach rumbled. She licked her lips, her mouth watering.
She’d never seen so much food before. And it all looked good. She shook her head at herself. The impossible had happened, was currently happening, and her reaction was hunger. Maybe she was adjusting to all the strangeness. Or at least her stomach was. She reached for a steaming dish of carrots in a white sauce.
The silence stretched, broken only by the tinkle and clink of the serving dishes as they jostled across the table. Cassie tried to picture her mother at the station, sitting down to a meal. She imagined her with Cassie’s favorite mug, as Owen flipped pancakes, and she pictured herself at age four at the table beside her. Again, Cassie’s eyes felt hot.
She tried to think of a question, an innocuous question, that would let her get some modicum of control back. Making her voice as cheerful as she could manage, she said, “So . . . what were you like as a young cub?”
“Very humanoid,” he said dryly.
She almost smiled. He really did have a sense of humor.
“My childhood . . .” He paused and regarded her as if weighing how he should answer. “My childhood was many years ago,” he said finally. “I am older than I appear, several centuries older.” Several centuries? She tried to digest it. “You don’t seem so old.”
“Thank you,” he said.
Several centuries?
“I had a good childhood, a human one,” he continued. As Cassie filled her plate, he told her about growing up straddled between his father’s mountains and his mother’s Norway. His mother, he said, had been an ordinary human, and she had raised him as a human. He had played with the other village children and had gone to lessons with a tutor. His mother had had hopes he would pursue law. Weekends he’d spent with his father learning about all the things not in his tutor’s books—
learning about magic and the responsibilities of the munaqsri, learning how a munaqsri used his power to fulfill his responsibilities.
“Your turn,” he said when he’d
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