by R. T. Donlon
“Your mother would be proud,” said Jeras. “Let us carry out the final blessing.”
Velc passed Kyrah a torch. She lifted it into the air, spoke her mother’s full name one, final time, then dropped it at the base of the pyre. Flames lit the brush below in an almost instant burst of color, sending licks of fire up through the stalks of firewood.
“Goodbye,” Kyrah whispered. “May Xan treat you well.”
She felt the slowness of another tansij wave creep into her weary eyes. Suddenly, the tears behind her lids ceased, the longing for her mother tapered, and the glow of the pyre calmed her nerves. She stood watching its glow while the villagers—one after another—returned to their homes.
Velc approached her. Her father stood motionless only a few steps away. He, too, watched the fire with undiscerning eyes.
“You have done the right thing,” said her Teacher. “You could have gone astray. You could have allowed this to define you, but you didn’t. You have held true to the Portizu name and, for that, you should be proud. Your mother would be—”
“Do not address her now. At least not like that,” Kyrah interrupted with a cold, yet reserved over-the-shoulder glance. “She must be allowed to leave, to enter Xan.”
Velc nodded.
“Of course. My apologies. May she find her way to Xan.”
The flames reached the sky, shifting from shades of pale orange to fiery golds. Her mother’s body dissolved into the colors, dispersing and shimmering against the night. In a few moments, there would be nothing left to see.
“You must teach me,” said Kyrah, directing her words to Velc. Her voice, rightfully so, sounded morose, definite. “You must teach me how to defeat the Darkness.” She stuttered quietly as a wave of emotion caught in her throat. “I am ready to learn.”
Velc dropped his eyes.
“You cannot continue your training under false pretense. Vengeance leads to—”
“I am ready,” she interjected. “Teach me how to become a Warrior. Teach me taerji.”
The sound of the word caught Velc’s attention. His fierce demeanor suddenly calmed.
“Come,” he said. “Tonight is over. Tomorrow is a new day.”
CEREMONY ELITE (PRESENT)
The whistling of the trees came as no surprise. She had grown accustomed to it now, even from her open bedroom window. She often wandered the outskirts of the Northern Territory before dawn, huddling against her own legs in the early hours of days like these, sitting in a quiet spot, listening to those very sounds of waking life in the jungle.
And Kyrah always had a front row seat.
Every morning the first waves of insects rose from their nocturnal hideaways and spun into their first wisps of noise. To her, they looked so alive—a sea of blue dots with nowhere to go but up. They danced and swung in the obscuring wind high above the trees, swirling and forever dancing upward into the clear, cold sky. Sometimes she would stay for hours and watch as those same insects came toppling down from the clouds in frozen bundles of ice cocoons, layered in coats of opaque frozen water—enough to survive their sudden descent. All day the cocoons melted until it was time for rebirth, flying upward into a forever sky once again.
Sky flies, Kyrah thought. That is what her mother used to call them.
Most of the Portizu thought nothing of these insects—only a collective nuisance at best—but Kyrah had always seen the beauty in them. She could watch them for hours, sinking back into her subconscious, thinking back on her life and her childhood. That is when the memories of her mother came flooding back. She used to bring Kyrah here, wrap a strong arm around her daughter’s shoulders, and press the girl hard against the side of her chest.
“When I’m gone,” her mother had said, “I will never really be gone. You will look up into the sky and watch as the flies fall in their cocoons. A part of me will always live in them. Let this memory always give you strength.”
And it had. For years, Kyrah had drawn strength from those memories. Three weeks after her mother had spoken those words, she died.
I miss you, Kyrah thought. I miss you more with every passing day.
For the first time in weeks, Kyrah had missed the orchestra of sky flies. She stopped what she had been doing and ran to the window of her room. She only caught a glimpse of the cloud of flies heading upward. They disappeared into the sunlight before Kyrah could blink.
“You mustn’t carry anything with you,” her father spoke, approaching from the door. “Whatever you need, your tribe will be happy to carry it for you. It is imperative you arrive in perfect form.”
Kyrah nodded, silently clearing her throat.
“I know,” she said. “Portizu traditions.”
“Then why are you packing a travel sack?”
She paused before speaking. She had no true answer to her father’s question. Perhaps it was instinct? Impulsivity? She pushed her belongings away and planted herself on the straw mattress with her hands folded in front of her.
“It is a long trip,” she said. “I only meant to help the pack.”
Jae smiled quietly.
“Always thinking of others,” he whispered. “My daughter, the Warrior. Come with me. Let’s take a walk.”
They left the gates of the villages and walked to an open stretch of tall grass where a series of fallen trees had made a sort of makeshift bench. They would be alone here amidst the commotion of the journey to the Highlands for the Election of the new Warrior Elite. Jae sat comfortably, leaning his forearms against lap. There was a warmth in his eyes that Kyrah had always loved. She could see it now, glimmering against the morning sunlight. Since the passing of her mother years ago, that warmth only appeared in the rarest of moments.
“If you are elected Warrior Elite,” her father began, “you will not be returning to the village. You will be indebted to the Chieftain for five years time to prove your dedication. You know this, do you not?”
Kyrah nodded, but there was a part of her that did not want to believe it.
“You must let your village go. You must let me go,” her father continued. “You will someday come back, but for now, you must leave us behind and become the Warrior you are meant to be.”
The pair sat in silence for a few untethered moments. Only the sound of jungle noise filled the humidifying air.
“I will miss you,” Kyrah said. “…and worry about you.”
“A Warrior Elite does not worry about family. A Warrior Elite must show no sentiment of affection. Sometimes I think I have swayed you too close to your emotions—”
“Most avoid their emotions, but I embrace them. I choose when they come and go. The taerji state does not control me. I control it.”
Jae pressed a blade of sawgrass between his index finger and thumb, sensing the friction, admiring it.
“Perhaps you can be the one that changes things, but be careful,” he said. “The Highlands is a dangerous place.”
“Is there something I should know about the Chieftain?”
Her father shook her head.
“He is not the problem,” her father replied, “but he feeds into it. The Right Arm will stop at nothing to make sure you fail.”
“Curala the Forgotten,” she whispered.
She clenched her fists instinctually, remembering what had happened only days ago at the Palace doors.
“I will do what needs to be done,” she said. “The Portizu Tribes depend on it.”
Kyrah wanted desperately to remember the father figure from her childhood—the untamed Warrior of the North, the trained mercenary of the spear, the confident stubbornness of a man with everything he could ever want—but the years had proved too much to preserve such memories. Instead, she saw him as tired and alone.
They returned to the village as the last of the Northern villagers emptied the huts. Only Kyrah’s pack had stayed behind.
Dersx—a thick, bald man sporting a scragged beard—leaned against the corner of a fencepost down the road, using the tip of his
overworked hunting dagger to shave loose ends from his fingernails. He lifted his eyes from his work for a brief glint in the direction of Kyrah.
Approval, she thought.
Dersx had never been a man of words, but his actions told stories no words ever could. She returned his approval with a nod of her own, then bowed into marjhi.
Reana sat by herself farther down the road, whittling a branch into something like an arrow. She shrugged her shoulders deep into her posture and raised an empty look toward Kyrah that proved how lonely she truly felt. Kyrah bowed into marjhi, which seemed to lift the girl’s spirits. Kyrah had felt a similar emptiness as a child—being isolated by her Teacher—but still wondered how someone so meek as Reana could break the shell the Portizu demanded she do.
One day, Kyrah thought. One day she will do great things.
Taela—one of the strongest Warriors Kyrah had ever seen in the Hunt—kneeled against a series of supply sacks fifty yards to Kyrah’s left, checking the pile for the necessities of the trip. She shifted her eyes back and forth between piles of salted meat, wraps of firestone, Eldervarn brush and, of course, the pressed and folded warrior garments for the Highlands ceremony. Each of Kyrah’s pack were required to wear them—a symbol of pride for doing a part in the cultivation of the Portizu’s next Warrior Elite. Taela glanced up toward Kyrah.
“We are proud of you, Young One” she said. “I think I can speak for everyone.”
Kyrah bowed into marjhi and, like Dersx and Reana, Taela accepted with unwavering gratitude.
Then there was Razz, perched atop the North’s southernmost hill. He had always been the most stubborn of the pack, but he had also proven himself to be the fastest to adapt, the quickest to change when change was most needed, and of course, the most willing to help another Warrior in need. For the next five years, if Kyrah were elected as the newest Warrior Elite, Razz would lead the pack. Her father would step down and allow the new reigns to take hold. No one questioned Razz’s future rank—a testament to his Warrior values.
Razz dug his jagged teeth into the skin of a tree fruit. Even from where Kyrah stood, she watched as its juice rolled down his chin and dripped to the ground. He wiped it away with his sleeve each time. No smile caught the eyes of Kyrah, not even a glimmer of change flitted across his face. He simply sat with his legs splayed against the hill, watching her.
“It is time,” her father said from behind her. He carried two sacks—one was his and the other for his daughter. “Lead us.”
And she did, as proudly as she ever had.
She could hear the crowds of the Portizu from miles away, surging into intense tsunamis of noise that bore down on the rest of the Lands in a constant hum. She had dressed along the way—a sleek, white tunic matched with a swathe of fabric hanging from her neck and tied in front with a golden sash. Taela had tied Kyrah’s hair into an entwined display of braided strands, pulled tightly around her scalp, enough to accentuate her feminine features.
Razz had found a wild hare as they passed through the Flatlands and killed it. He pooled the animal’s blood in a drip catch, enough for tribal paint.
“A Warrior must present herself as a Warrior,” he said. “Allow me.”
He used his fingers to draw deep red rings on either forearm. They were perfect arcs across her skin. Through those rings, he drew a single line from the circle’s top to her hand. The result was something resembling a perfectly circular bell.
“Now stay still,” Razz said, admiring his work. “It must dry before we continue.”
The symbols meant two things—Master of the Kill. Leader of the Hunt.
“Let’s see Curala the Forgotten beat that,” Razz scoffed.
They walked for miles through the Flatlands and the Mountains until the jungle opened into waves of Portizu people cheering with arms raised and shoulders flexed. The Highlands had come alive.
Kyrah’s heart suddenly began to race.
A bellowing horn sounded, then a resounding, deep voice.
“Your Chieftain!”
It was Merasda Trena. She could see his stern, glaring eyes scanning the surface of the crowd. The people roared with excitement, thousands of bodies jumping and bobbing in unison as Chieftain Al-We Ultara took to the throne at the front of the raised stage. Only two empty chairs joined him—one for the Right Arm, relinquishing his position, and the other for the Warrior Elite elect.
Chieftain Ultara raised both hands with palms out, requesting quiet. The people hushed. Only a few restless mumblings broke the silence.
“Today is a special occasion for our Tribes,” the Chieftain began. His voice carried surprisingly well against the afternoon Highland breeze. “In the wake of such tragic loss—the loss of Velc Tahjir—springs forth a new and celebratory process. It is one meant for only the best of us. It is a position for the exceptional, for the ones among us that accept the worst of challenges and the seemingly impossible tasks that plague our lands time and time again. Today we elect our new Warrior Elite.”
The roar from the crowd’s excitement created a sort of boom that pushed like thunder.
“Our first candidate needs no introduction. He has served you for countless years and has done so with grace, elegance, speed, strength, and skill. He has proven that the Portizu way is his only way.”
The King paused, building the suspense.
“Curala Shuth!”
Another deafening roar exploded from the mob.
From the farthest corner of the crowd, she saw people split in two. The cheers died as Curala moved efficiently through the sea of people. He held his longsword in one hand and flexed the other in true Shuth fashion, although from where Kyrah stood, he was barely visible.
“He is what we need—a true Warrior!” someone blurted from the crowd.
“He’s a disgrace!” said another.
Each had been uttered in the same breathing, but Curala paid no attention to either.
He approached the platform and tilted his head upward toward the Chieftain. He bowed into minjori, then took to the stairs one foot at a time. He reached the platform and raised a sullen fist. Across each arm, lifeblood patterns ran across his skin.
“Does that say what I think it says?” Razz whispered. “A little preemptive, wouldn’t you say?”
The perfectly placed set of triangles within circles, connected by horizontal and vertical lines down Curala’s upper arm to the elbow spelled out only one thing—The One Who Will Save.
“There is confidence in him,” Kyrah spoke through gritted teeth. “It is his choice to promote such things, but it may also be his demise.”
She allowed her anger for Curala to consume her for those few, fleeting moments.
Feel it, she thought to herself. Feel the pain he brings you, the hurt he wants you to feel. He will do anything to tear you down. Allow it to fuel you. Know, above all else, you are better. You are what these people need.
Then, as if her words controlled her destiny, she followed their orders and broke free from her struggle within. A bridge in her mind collapsed, separating all emotion from the stimuli. To know taerji is the Portizu tradition of the Elite election.
“It is time,” her father whispered. “Go. Be the Warrior we know you are. I love you, Kyrah of the North.”
He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, squeezed for affection, but Kyrah had already entered the state. She focused only on the remnant sounds of her Teacher’s voice scrawling through her ears.
When they look upon you on the day of your election, Velc had said, they will see a Warrior who has mastered the Darkness within her, who has mastered the art of taerji, who has mastered the separation of her own mind.
He had been correct about one of those two fronts.
The art of true taerji had never come easy to her, but she had mastered it nevertheless, and now, falling back into it always felt more like tansij rather than the inward desertion it was to most. Her vision cleared. Her brain settled into itself. She knew exactly why sh
e had traveled so far to get here. She knew only what was expected of her now.
Mastering taerji was one thing. Mastering the Darkness within her was another. It continued to be a problem and now, without Velc to guide her, she felt more alone than ever. There had been minor victories along the way, but for every step forward she took, there seemed to be several steps backward, also. The Darkness had become a true part of her now, knowing her every move and thought, understanding her next course of action even before she had time to process it. It clung to her chest like vines, growing stronger every day she could not find the energy—the courage—to suppress it. Soon it would be too late. Only the attar amulet kept it at bay.
Velc’s words melted away into nothing more than a focused silence. She kept her eyes focused only on the Chieftain raised onto the stage. The crowds roared once more as Curala took his seat to the Chieftain’s right, but Kyrah heard none of it. She heard only the thump of her heart beating calmly against her ribs and the sound of air rushing in and out of her lungs.
“Our second and final candidate is held in utmost esteem. It is because of Velc Tahjir that we have grown with her, believed in her, worked with her. She has prepared herself in ways that most of us could never imagine. Velc Tahjir, your former Warrior Elite, would have given her his full and honest blessing. Members of the Portizu, I give you—”
The crowd clung to the Chieftain’s sudden hesitation.
“Kyrah Laeth!”
The crowd ignited even louder than before. The air buzzed and thundered, but Kyrah took no notice. She placed one foot in front of the other meticulously, making certain not to stumble or lose her footing. The platform in the distance grew larger with each step. The sweat that had been dripping from her pores had evaporated and dried. The taerji lifted more than just a weight from her shoulders. It had built a sense of resilience. It had built a wall between her and the rest of the world.
She found the stairs at the far end of the stage’s crisscrossed, dark-lacquered beams and looked up at Chieftain Ultara.
