The name hung in the air between them, a single, impossible word that seemed to suck all the sound and light from the world.
Guanyin.
Yingluo felt the world tilt, the razor-thin path beneath her feet swaying like a reed in a storm. She stumbled, catching her balance with a jolt that sent a fresh wave of agony through her exhausted muscles. The name was a bell tolling in a memory so old she'd thought it lost. A dusty temple in the poorest part of the city, the smell of incense and dying hope, a statue with a thousand arms and a face of impossible, serene compassion. The goddess who heard the cries of the world.
A bitter, hysterical laugh almost escaped her lips. She heard our cries, all right. And she threw us into a box to answer them.
