by A. C. Ellas
Visible from her kitchen window, a black equine lounged in her yard, pretending to be nothing but a horse and failing utterly. Two giggling Valer boys released a chicken into the yard. “Offering!” one said, and then they began pushing each other and laughing harder.
Vyld’s head lashed out. There was an explosion of feathers and a loud squawk. When the cloud settled, the avtappi could be seen holding the ex-chicken in his jaws. The boys made appreciative sounds and stared, stock still.
Vyld gracefully lowered his head and set the chicken on the ground. A forehoof pinned the corpse, the climbing claws hooking in. Then Vyld began to eat it rather messily. The boys began pushing each other again, and then ran off to fetch more friends and another chicken. Vyld was the greatest entertainment ever. Ten Valer boys gathered with the next chicken offering.
Asfalea chuckled to herself as she made bread. The house would be filled with the scent of baking bread when the Loftoni awoke. She prepared batter for both the dark sweet pumpernickel and the heavy rye that filled the belly and satisfied the soul. She kneaded the dough and formed the loaves, then waved a hand. The bread slowly rose. She smiled.
Despina came in and set out the soup and pastina. Elenna expertly finished off Ritsa’s weaving and held up the napkin.
“Good job,” Asfalea approved. “Ritsa has deft touch with patterns.”
“A set for the Loftoni that claimed Jisten, then?” Elenna asked.
Ritsa looked over in astonishment. “My napkins?”
“Yes, yes! He like, I know.” Despina patted Ritsa. “You taste pastina.” Asfalea leaned over to Despina, “Wait until see. Royal Loftoni. Four color wings. And he choose your Jisten. Good boy.”
* * * * The heavenly scent of baking bread woke Rak out of a pleasant dream of running around on a mountainside with Jisten, chasing goats. When he opened his eyes, there were four sets of light eyes that were not Jisten’s looking at him with concern. Rak stared at them, admiring the various shades of grey, one so pale it could only be called silver, one tinted blue, another green, and the fourth set almost identical to Jisten’s storm-cloud eyes.
He felt unaccountably shy in the presence of the women, and the only thing that kept him from hiding under a wing was Jisten’s arm draped over him. His internal clock told him that the sun would set soon, and he hadn’t called the altar yet. A slight change in the breathing behind him told Rak that the captain was awake.
Rak sat up and stretched, his wings snapping open to brush the walls of the small room. Five pairs of eyes were intently focused on them until his back relaxed enough to permit them to furl. Five soft sighs could be heard as the wings vanished behind Rak’s back, and Jisten’s warm hands stroked them soothingly. Rak pretended that he hadn’t noticed their reaction and investigated the stack of clothing beside the bed. He’d arrived wearing a sleeping robe and wrapped in a blanket. Yet here was the full set of formal temple robes appropriate to the raising of an altar. The women left when Rak looked at his robes, allowing him privacy to change.
“Sedrael and Orste will refuse Murson,” Jisten told Rak. “And they know to separate and find help should he attack them.”
“Thank you,” said Rak. He glanced at the closed door, and then said, shyly, “I hate to ask this of you, but these are formal robes. Can you help me dress?”
Jisten had the first garment in his hands in a second. “Of course!” Rak slipped out of his sleeping robe. “Thank you again. Formal robes are such a bother.”
Jisten’s hands were as gentle as they guided the silk of the first, and simplest, robe over Rak. The garment seemed to flow with his guidance. Even the wings gave no trouble, sliding through the slits of the first robe under Jisten’s hands. The outer robe, stiff with embroidery, gave Jisten no more trouble than the under-robe.
“What did you find out from examining your pendant?” Jisten asked. His hands smoothed Rak’s wings through the wingslits of the outer robe. Then he tucked the wingslit edges flat and gave them an extra stroke.
“The pendant was scorched, and hot to the touch, despite the thick wad of cream and gold silk it was stuffed into.” Rak shook his head tiredly. “It had to be Murson. The Goddess will go to any length to see the prophecy voided, even to exposing her hidden followers.” He began to wrap the green sash, muttering the instructional chant under his breath. Once he’d gotten through the tricky parts of the sash-tying process, he said, “Murson is very powerful, perhaps more so than Forael. I fear for my cousin.”
“And who knows how many more sun priests are really chaos priests in disguise?” Jisten said. “What if Forael, Dethrian and Photas are the few true sun priests left? They’ll be slaughtered.”
“That is improbable. Chaos priests are not known for their cooperation. There is never more than one. But you are right. Forael needs to know about the threat hiding in plain sight.”
“S’Rak, Murson overcame you,” Jisten said, his grey eyes troubled. “And made you forget what he did. Can you call for the help of your fellow priests?”
“My assistant should arrive soon, along with my personal guard. Anything more would require proof. But right now, I need to call the altar for the conjoined rites. Will you help me?”
“Me? But I’m just a Valer, not a Loftoni or priest or anything,” Jisten said.
“But you are my Valer,” said Rak, feeling mischievous. “And all you have to do in the ceremony is hand me a dagger.”
“Hand you a dagger?” Jisten’s eyes held suspicion. “For what?” “Calling the altar requires a blood price. Not a sacrifice, just a cut, and the night flames will heal me once the price is met.”
“Then I agree,” Jisten said.
“Thank you,” said Rak. He handed Jisten the sacred dagger. Rak walked into the central room of the cottage with Jisten at his side. He inspected the space beside the hearth. He’d remembered correctly, it was the right size. He nodded to Asfalea, and said, “Dhelion, thank you for healing me. Shall I call the altar now?”
“Yes, yes! Ritsa! Elenna! Here! Now!” Rak began his chant, with Jisten a warm, attentive presence by his side. When Rak held out his hand, Jisten gently set the dagger in it.
Ritsa gasped in horror when Rak cut his palm open and let the blood pour. Elenna comforted her. “It will be all right, you’ll see,” she crooned.
“Si’Yeni take grain, wine. Zotien, blood,” Asfalea said. Rak’s chant didn’t even pause during the byplay. And now, Power twisted, night flames danced, and the altar came, fitting perfectly beside the hearth with a finger-width to spare. Asfalea raised her own staff while Elenna tossed in the wine and Ritsa, eyes still on Rak’s hand, threw in the bread. The power from Si’Yeni’s hearth twirled and mingled with the power around Zotien’s altar.
Rak watched the mingling with great interest. “Sunset, to night, to dawn,” he murmured. Ritsa’s eyes were still locked on his hand. He turned his completely healed palm towards her so that she could see that there was nothing to worry about.
Asfalea smiled at him and lowered her staff. She walked with great dignity to the door and opened it. Outside, a crowd of Valers stood silently. “Done!” Asfalea raised her staff. “Finally, Zotien altar here!” The Valers cheered and then crowded into the house, the ones who did not fit inside clumping around the wide open windows so they could still hear.
Jisten tried to melt into the background before the rites started. “I’m not worthy,” he muttered but Rak gripped his wrist, preventing the Valer’s escape.
“Stay by me,” Rak ordered. “My Valer is more than worthy.” Asfalea celebrated the sunset rite, her aged voice still strong as she led the hymns. The sun vanished beneath the horizon, and Rak began the first hymn of the night over the final chant of the sunset rite. The two hymns complimented one another, forming a harmony that was as rich as it was unexpected. Asfalea’s farewell to the day ended and Rak’s chant changed to a paean of welcome to the night.
Rak kept Jisten close beside him as he conducted the rite. Fall of Night w
as mercifully short, and once it was done, Rak turned and offered to bless the Valers. The Valers shot Jisten shy or inquiring looks when they approached Rak, but quickly downcast their gaze again. Rak blessed each Valer in turn, but he was in physical contact with Jisten the entire time.
“Bwess me!” demanded a bold toddler from his mother’s arms. She shushed him, but Rak chuckled softly, blessed the toddler, and the mother, too. Quick as lightning, the toddler took a sodden piece of candy out of his mouth and smacked it into Rak’s palm. The mother gasped in horror and utter embarrassment.
Rak held up his hand, the candy prominently displayed. Night flames flared up, and the candy vanished. “Thank you,” he told the toddler in a serious voice.
The boy was astonished into silence at that. His mother took the opportunity to scurry away, before her child could do something more outrageous.
Jisten put his hand on the small of Rak’s back, wing draped over his wrist. Rak leaned against Jisten, his weariness and pain transmitting through the bond. Rak glanced up at the captain and asked, “How many Valers are there here?”
Jisten said, “Last count was just over a hundred. I’ll shoo away the second timers. You need to rest. Once this is done, I’ll escort you back to the palace.”
“Can I eat first?” asked Rak in a wistful tone. He hadn’t missed the preparations for what amounted to a feast, and his stomach was growling.
Jisten shook his head at each child sneaking back into the line. That cleared it out a lot faster. Once Rak had blessed the last Valer in the line, Jisten announced, “The high priest is hungry. Let us share with him!”
Chapter Nineteen: Midnight Rites
ªnatåra Atålio, Tålyssa Fångari
9th day, 2nd week, Telyssa’s moon Rak grimaced as he downed more morphea-laced wine. He didn’t care for morphea, but it was more tolerable than the pain that kept exceeding his ability to shunt it aside. It was almost midnight. He frowned. Jethain had been attacked, and purged again, during the midnight rite. Mursonknew that Rak could not skip that rite. His pendant had only slowed the chaos priest, and the man had proven able to defeat the thansymi, the captain, and himself with equal ease. The solution presented itself to Rak, and he admired the elegant simplicity of it for a drug-hazed moment.
“Tebber,” he said quietly, “please wake Jethain and bring him here for mass.”
* * * * Tebber was passed through by Fentri and Largo. They recognized him and knew he was no threat to the prince. Jisten and Jethain were sleeping. Tebber looked from one to the other, wondering which he should awaken first.
Jisten preempted the decision by awakening first. He jumped out of bed and had his dagger at Tebber’s throat. “S’Rak’s just as jumpy,” commented Tebber, unafraid.
Jisten sheathed the dagger. “Assassination attempts under our noses will do that.”
Jethain yawned widely from the bed. Tebber grinned. He’d known that Jisten wouldn’t actually hurt him. “S’Rak wants the prince to attend the midnight rites, sir. He says that since Murson prefers to purge Jethain while he is busy with the rite, perhaps if Jethain was at the rite, rather than in bed…”
“Jethain?” Jisten asked. “What say you?”
“An excellent idea,” Jethain said, and stretched.
Jisten offered a hand up to the prince, who took it with a grin. Tebber selected some clothes for Jethain, picking garments that were ruffle-free. Jethain dropped his sleeping pants but had to hold onto Jisten’s shoulder to steady himself while he stepped out of them. Tebber kept his knowing smile to himself and deftly assisted Jethain with his clothes.
Morth yawned from Jethain’s bed and moved to the warm hollow the prince had left expressly for him. Between Jisten as support and Tebber as aide, the prince was dressed with only a minimal pounding of his heart. Jisten checked his pulse and concern flitted across his face. Tebber caught the expression and chewed his lower lip. He didn’t think Jethain would let them carry him.
* * * * They walked to the guest suite, Morth padding alongside at Jisten’s urging. He didn’t want the death hound hurt by Murson. At this hour, the corridors of the palace were empty and oddly shadowed. Only every third gaslight remained lit through the night. Jisten kept closer than usual to the prince, ready to support him in an eyeblink, with Tebber on Jethain’s other side. Rak met them at the door to the suite and ushered them inside. He took Tebber’s place and guided the prince to the parlor.
“Mother misses the midnight rites,” Jisten said. “She mentioned that she attended them in the Vales with S’Rak’s mother.”
“She did seem to enjoy the conjoined sunset rite this evening, but there is only one of me, and two altars now,” said Rak. “I will continue to offer the evening rite for the Valers if your dhelion wishes.”
“I’m sure that she does,” Jisten said. “In the Vales, my people nap in the afternoon, so that they can attend midnight rites.”
“I will speak to the brethren and ask that more priests be sent, enough to staff a small temple.”
That worried Jisten. “S’Rak, a small Night Temple? In Karpos City? Perhaps in the borderlands near the Vales? Might be safer.”
“We cannot raise a temple until the winter solstice at the earliest, and we will not do so without a treaty first,” pointed out Rak. “I was thinking that if a few Movai would come, the full rites could be observed in the Valer district.”
Jisten relaxed. “That would be wonderful. An entire generation of children, including myself, has grown up without attending or learning the rites of Night.”
Rak flashed a smile at Jisten, but the captain wasn’t fooled. He could tell Rak was only up and about with the aid of morphea.
“Nice and dark.” Jethain looked around the chapel with curious eyes.
“I do serve the Lord of Night,” replied Rak.
“Where are the trumpets? Cymbals? Drums?” “ Trumpets?” mouthed Rak, shuddering. “Next you will tell me that there are lutes and badly written songs. We have no need of such flashy noise to celebrate the night.”
“They’re not all badly written,” Jethain replied. “But when every noble lady who can shriek is allowed a solo, they all sound bad,” Jisten added.
Rak’s expression was indescribable. “I am so glad that I am spared that.” “You know that singing a solo on Sundays is highly political,” Jethain reproved.
“That doesn’t help my ears,” Jisten countered.
Rak pointed to the simple bench on the back wall. “That is the only seating.” * * * * Jethain eased himself onto the bench. He had no illusions that he could stand through the whole rite. Jisten checked his pulse and Jethain shot his halfbrother an amused look.
Rak grinned at Jethain. Then he moved to the altar and began. Jisten sat next to the prince.. They focused on the altar and the black robed figure before it. Two servants, Tebber and a stable boy, slipped in a few moments after the rite began. Scorth muttered something about them needing a bigger closet.
Jethain recognized Kennit when the boy gaped at him in surpise. He was slightly surprised himself that Bharis was permitting the lad to attend, given that it was foaling season. But perhaps, since Kennit was the stableboy assigned to the avtappi, it made sense. It would also be a handy way for Bharis to pass on messages and requests to the high priest.
Jethain couldn’t help but notice the differences between Rak and Forael, between night and day rites. The noon rite and the midnight rite had almost nothing in common other than being the primary rites for both services. Dawn and dusk rites were performed by both, but they were optional. It was the followers of Si’Yeni, like the Valers, who put primacy on the dawn and the sunset.
Only Jisten attended the sunrise and sunset rites. Jethain was asleep for the sunrise rites and busy with court business at sunset. Once a week, on Sunday, the day most sacred to the Sun God, Jethain attended the noon rites with his father. That’s where he’d first heard Forael’s sermons and earned himself a beating. It was then that the crown began meddli
ng in affairs of the sun priests where it had no business. Forael’s power had been undermined by those fiery anti-slavery sermons.
Jethain found that the chants soothed his soul in a way that he hadn’t realized he needed. Jisten also watched with appreciation, although he watched Rak’s wings more than the altar. Jethain kicked him once, which was unfair because Jisten couldn’t kick back.
The displays of power were impressive, but Jethain had a strange feeling that Rak was holding them back, as if the multi-colored lightning wasn't being permitted to flash along the ceiling nearly as often as it would like to. Green lightning, and only the green lightning, crackled freely along the edges of Rak’s wings, though. Jethain elbowed Jisten when the captain sighed. Jisten pushed back.
“Disruptive sun worshipper,” Jisten whispered to Jethain.
“Crazy Valer,” Jethain shot back. Rak didn’t seem to notice the energy crackling along his wings as he turned towards Jethain and offered the goblet. “Drink,” said Rak. Jethain drank without hesitation. It tasted very, very good. He wanted to tease his brother for holding out on the good wine, but it wasn’t appropriate during a rite. Jisten’s grey gaze never left Rak as he drank from the cup.
Rak offered the goblet to Tebber and Kennit next. Each of them sipped of the sweet, strong wine in turn before Rak took a sip himself. He poured the rest onto a plate and black fire roared on the altar as the offering was accepted. Jethain watched the flames. They were fascinating and soothing at the same time. While the flames consumed the offering, power flared from the altar, filling them all with an ecstatic sense of the God.
Concluding the chants, Rak turned again and blessed each of them in turn, the tradition for those who witnessed, and partook of, the midnight offering. Behind him, the flames died away until only the vigil candle remained lit. Kennit and Tebber both slipped out as soon as Rak blessed them, but Jethain waited, wondering if his brother would give a homily. He was a priest, after all.
After a moment of silence, Rak said, “Unless you want to ask the God for anything, we are done here.”
