47 There’s Always a Way

“Wuu wuu!” Lilith whimpered, a life‑size plush toy hemmed in by bishops, their sleeves like circling cranes and their eyes bright as winter stars.

The Majestic Court’s bishops were old as mountain cedars, many older than her dragon great‑great‑grandfathers, their breaths steeped in incense and frost.

On the mountain there wasn’t much to do; wind chimes, whispered prayers, divining oracles, and stitching hymns, days beading together like rosary seeds.

Live up here for decades, and even the most devout feel boredom creep in like fog over pines, soft and everywhere.

That’s when Lilith appeared, a stray moonbeam in their hall; most elders had grandkids and great‑grandkids, hands itching to dote like spring rain on sprouts.

Lilith wore a lovely face, shy like a doe in grass, too embarrassed to run, so the bishops layered around her and teased her like a precious granddaughter.

Hopelessness hit first, then stillness; heaven didn’t answer and earth stayed mute, and the Little White Dragon could only endure their bustling care like a kettle on the boil.

They fussed over her, colder then warmer, and those old hands went straight for her pride—her carefully kept white hair—plucking and patting like magpies after silk.

When they finally had their fun, the Little White Dragon lay slack‑eyed in a chair, the light gone like embers after rain.

Her long hair had become a maze of ornate braids, little loops hanging like fruit on a weeping willow, and the knitted nun’s habit wrapped her like dusk and lightning both.

“I want to go home…” Lilith sagged deeper, voice thin as mist; she’d braced for stern catechisms and sharp questions, not elders playing like merry children in spring.

“Now, now, little girl, have some tea and breathe.” The Archbishop, the worst offender with the gentlest smile, set steaming milk tea to her lips like a hearth in snow.

“You squealed like we’d eat you. It was only a braid, not a wolf,” she said, a laugh hiding under her solemn tone.

Wolves aren’t half as scary as you, Lilith muttered inside, then lifted herself and wet her rasping throat, a reed cracked by two nights of storms.

Last night’s egg‑laying had wrung her voice raw, and today’s yelping had scoured it more; she felt words slipping like fish through numb fingers.

“Let’s talk business.” Warmth first, steadiness next; after a sip, Lilith sat up, cleared her sandpaper throat, and spoke in a small, trembling thread.

“If I want the truth of the world, I need to know whose hands hold it.”

“Our findings say every god knows the world’s truth.” The Archbishop’s levity folded away like a fan; she straightened, stable as bedrock.

“The gods created this continent. Old gods fell, new gods rose, the Main God’s might split like a river into channels, but the chain of knowing never broke.”

“So I just need to commune with a god and ask?” Lilith’s hope flared like a lantern, wary of the wind.

“In principle, yes. In practice, thorns everywhere.” The Archbishop frowned, the line cutting like a ridge against the sky.

“First thorn: talking to a god isn’t easy. Our Majestic Court hasn’t reached the God of the High Mountain in years; even His true name drifted from people like pollen.”

“But for you, that hurdle’s lower,” she added, a glance like a key turning.

Lilith nodded. She’d spoken with gods more than once; counting the Star Canvas, she’d talked to this body’s mother and her mother’s two mothers, three moons over one sea.

Yet none had told her the secret bedrock beneath this continent, the truth lying like a sun behind clouds.

“The harder thorn is next: how to make a god tell you the truth.” The Archbishop’s words fell like measured bells.

“Gods are generous. They don’t refuse a faithful hand. But gods are merciful. They won’t give a blade to a child.”

“For ages, dozens—perhaps hundreds—of gods never told any congregation this. They only whispered to a few remarkable souls, a cup at a time, sometimes more.”

“That means, to Them, most lives shouldn’t know this storm,” she said, a soft sorrow like evening rain.

“Child, knowledge is a burden too,” the Archbishop sighed, breath white as snowfall.

“Not everyone can bear that mountain. Everyone deserves the sun of simple days, and too much knowledge steals that daylight.”

“I understand. I must prove to the gods I can carry the weight of knowing.” Lilith’s heart tightened like a bowstring.

Like a Hero braving trials before treasure, a scholar chasing truth must prove she has the right to hear the last bell. “But how do I prove it?”

“Answers don’t live in other people. Ask yourself.” The Archbishop chuckled, warm as bread.

“In the end, only you will stand before a god. You can’t catch someone else’s wisdom like a falling leaf.”

“Still, help me a little. Otherwise I’ll need, oh, a few hundred years to earn a god’s nod.” Lilith shrugged, rueful as a cat in rain.

She didn’t think herself that clever, and her grit was a candle in wind; alone, success felt like mirage heat over stone.

“Yes, yes. That’s why we’re here.” The Archbishop ruffled her hair like sunlight on ripples, approval bright in her eyes.

“You’re a quick one. The road of knowing is long; you must learn to draw water from other wells.”

“We’ll question you, child,” said a bishop beside her, stroking a goat‑long beard like a snowy vine.

“We ask, you think. The gods are the ones who get answers. That’s always the way.”

“Shouldn’t we get the answers ourselves?” Lilith frowned, confusion a knot in thread.

“Think more,” the bearded bishop said, still combing thought like wool. “Not your first question. Set it aside.”

“Fine,” Lilith nodded. “Then what’s my first question?”

“Don’t be hasty. Haste is a poor horse,” he chuckled, eyes twinkling like frost on pine needles.

“Not always, Chel. Not always,” the Archbishop said, gentle but firm. She turned to Lilith.

“Child, what do you think is most important for a seeker?”

“Wisdom. Extraordinary wisdom is humanity’s greatest treasure.” Lilith answered without blinking, the word ringing like steel.

“Good answer. Not always right,” the Archbishop said, nodding, then casting the next stone.

“Then what holds up wisdom?”

“Perseverance, I think.” Lilith said. “Only tireless grit lets great wisdom work, like an engine under a ship.”

“Is grit alone enough?” the Archbishop asked, the question a lantern over deep water.

“Not quite. It lacks… something. A spark. A bit of drive.” Lilith bit her lip, thinking, thoughts fluttering like moths to a lamp.

A little spark…

“Curiosity!” The Little White Dragon seized the word like a fish breaking the surface.

“The thirst for knowledge is the scholar’s core and truest virtue,” Lilith said, voice steadying, eyes bright as morning dew.

“Yes. I like that answer.” The Archbishop’s approval settled like a shawl. “Curiosity pushes scholars into the unknown like wind fills sails.”

“And in you, I see a curiosity that doesn’t gutter.”

“But curiosity alone won’t do. I have to prove I’ve got the strength to carry it,” Lilith frowned, the road rising like a cliff.

Everyone who seeks the world’s truth brims with curiosity; the question isn’t the fire, but the hearth that holds it.

“Yes. Step by step,” the Archbishop soothed, words like stones laid on a path.

“It’s good to yearn for truth, but we can’t skip rungs. Even the finest prodigy climbs one stair at a time.”

The Little White Dragon felt her haste, then let it go like breath in cold air; she nodded and settled.

“Gods are merciful. They won’t harm their faithful. So we must show that knowledge isn’t a burden to us,” the Archbishop said, voice calm as a lake.

“And the best way to prove knowledge isn’t a burden…”

“…is to already bear enough forbidden knowledge?” Lilith’s eyes lit in sudden dawn. “But where do I find taboos on the level of the world’s truth?”

“That’s no easy hunting.”

“There’s always a way, child. Often the secret hides in your own marrow,” the Archbishop said, gaze gentle and piercing. “Who are you?”

“I am…” Lilith looked inward, like peering into a well at night.

She was reborn from another world—a crossing decided by gods, a comet chosen, now she knew.

She was the White Holy Maiden who purged the Taint; but the Taint was only power leaking from divine remains, a shadow of a greater sun.

She was a White Dragon; but a god’s child is still a child, and an unripe dragon may not earn the last truth.

She was a half‑baked necromancy apprentice; with those wobbly tricks, best not take them out in the wind.

She was an Astrologer who had glimpsed the Star Canvas; the Star Canvas’s own daughter, which meant the true visage of the Star Canvas opened to her like a mother’s face…

Wait—the Star Canvas’s true visage?

“I’ve got it.” Lilith smacked her forehead, a spark turning to flame. “Who’s the best Astrologer in Lamter?”

“Joseph Selnos. He works at the Star Canvas Institute on the summit of Hirisade Mountain, the highest peak in the Selnos Mountains,” the Archbishop said.

“I’m going to see him. I’ve got a way.” Lilith stood so fast her chair sighed; she wanted her hands on Lamter’s best telescope now.

“I can write to him. The Majestic Court may be waning, but we can still send one person to meet Lamter’s finest Astrologer.” The Archbishop called a nun for pen and paper.

“What do you need from him?”

“I’d like to borrow his stargazing equipment,” Lilith said, excitement rising like a spring flood. “I want to observe the Star Canvas.”

“How should I put it—‘the daughter of the Star Canvas wants to borrow your instruments to look at her mother’s face’?” the Archbishop teased, eyes smiling.

“I think that’s perfect,” Lilith shrugged, a grin peeking out. “But I’d rather go as an apprentice. Please tell him I’m coming as Lady Asterios’s student to exchange and learn.”

“All right.” The Archbishop’s pen moved like a swift swallow; she sealed the letter and passed it to the nun, then turned back.

“I think you’ll have your answer soon.”

“So do I.” Lilith nodded, confidence bright as a new star.