by J D Abbas
The girl’s lips pulled down into a pout, and a fierce tremor shook her body just before she burst into tears. Elena enveloped her in a hug as her confession sputtered out between sobs. “I never told anyone. Even my keepers didn’t know I killed him. They just thought he died on his own.” She sucked in a gulp of air. “His ... his hands were around my throat. I couldn’t breathe. Everything started going black. And then I felt it. I saw it. The power throbbed in my hands. And when I shoved at his chest, my hands sunk into him, and, and I squeezed the life out of him.”
Elena stroked the girl’s hair as she collapsed into her sorrow. Some of the girls scooted away from them as if afraid of her emotion, or perhaps afraid that she might be punished for what she’d said and they along with her, as often happened at Anakh’s encampments.
But other girls, mostly the younger ones, followed Elena’s example and offered a pat on the back, a hand on her hand, or a tiny embrace.
A flood of emotion gripped Mikaelin and pulled tears from his eyes. When he self-consciously glanced around at the other men, he saw he was not alone. The girl’s feelings permeated the room.
Then Mikaelin noticed two girls on opposite sides of the one Elena embraced. Both wore angry scowls and their hands pulsed with light. Mikaelin caught Tobil’s eye and lifted his chin toward the girls. Tobil nudged Keymar. As they watched, the girls flexed their hands into fists. One pounded her fists on the floor, and the house shook. Elena’s head popped up, and suddenly, all eyes were on the girl. She slammed her fists into the floor again, and a ripple of energy moved toward the walls.
The door flew open and Guardians flooded into the house, daggers drawn as their eyes swept for threats.
Elena gripped the girl’s hand and said, “He’s not here. Please don’t destroy my home.”
The light winked out, and the girl’s shoulders slumped.
“No, no. Don’t feel ashamed.” Elena patted her arm. “I’m glad you’re angry. I’m glad you want to fight. We just have to learn how to direct our anger.”
Mikaelin was eyeing the second girl. Her hands were still lit with power, and her scowl had deepened. She looked like a volcano ready to spew. “Elena,” Mikaelin said, trying to keep his voice steady and calm, “on the other side.” He nodded toward the girl, whose illumination had climbed up her arms.
Elena scrambled around the hunched girl and said, “Please, my baby is in here. Please, contain it.”
The girl, who looked as if she might be twelve, stared at Elena with lifeless eyes. “I can’t. And I don’t want to. I just want to be done. I want it all gone.” She raised her arms and flexed her fists. When she opened her hands, balls of light appeared.
Cherdhal stepped forward. “No, Zema. No.”
The girl turned away from him and gulped down the luminous spheres as she started to stand. Mikaelin and Tobil moved to intervene, but before they had gone three steps, Elena tackled the girl. A blue dome of light surrounded the two just before an explosion erupted. Percussive ripples swept outward and knocked the men off their feet. It felt like someone had taken a warhammer to Mikaelin’s head. His vision blurred and his ears rang. As much as Mikaelin wanted to help Elena, he could only manage to lift his chin.
When Elena struggled to her knees, the girl was gone. Bits of bone and puddles of blood were all that remained of the child. A sob shook Elena, her face locked in horror. Around her, shrieks and cries broke out.
Silvandir rose from the ground, where he had managed to cover Karaelena with his body. He handed the baby to Yaelmargon and stumbled his way to Elena. He knelt and swept her into his arms. “Are you hurt?” he asked, as he frantically pressed the blood-soaked places on her dress.
“Karaelena?”
“She’s fine.”
“The boys?”
“They’re good.”
Stunned, Elena shook her head, but it was more a wobble, as if all muscle and bone had fled. “I couldn’t stop her.”
“I know, my love. I know,” Silvandir whispered, as he continued to check for injuries.
A sob shook Elena’s frame. “She would have killed us all.”
“Thank Qho’el you knew what you were doing,” he replied.
“I didn’t, Silvandir. I didn’t. Someone inside did.” Her eyes were hollow, lifeless, as if all parts of her had fled, and she spoke from some great distance.
One by one, the Guardians scooped up their wards and retreated to the edges of the room, soothing their frantic cries and checking for injuries, while Cherdhal dropped to his knees and wept unabashedly.
Mishon and Terzhel hurried to embrace Elena. Terzhel gripped Elena’s vacant face. “Come back, Ama. Come back to usth.”
At the word ‘ama’ Elena’s focus returned. She gazed at Terzhel with a shaky smile. “You called me Ama.” She embraced the boys and kissed their brows.
When at last she straightened and took in the scene, she singled out the girl who had shared her story and the one whose fists had glowed, and beckoned them to come to her. She gave them a fierce hug. “This won’t happen again. I promise you. We will learn. We will grow. We’ll find answers. I promise you.”
She kissed the top of each girl’s head and whispered something Mikaelin could not hear. Then, with Silvandir’s help, Elena stood and returned to her seat. She swiped at the blood that slid down her face and managed to smear it more than wipe it away. She gaped at her hands, and Mikaelin knew she fought being swept into memories, memories he knew too well, memories he had absorbed along with her wounds, ones that would haunt them both for the rest of their lives.
Elena hitched a breath and sought out Cherdhal. “Her name was Zema?”
Cherdhal’s lip quivered as he nodded. “She was troubled, my lady.”
A sob squeaked out, and Elena fought to speak, but no words would form.
He gave her a stiff nod. “Not your fault.” Then, as if Cherdhal had just noticed the stares of the other children, he added, “We’ll keep fighting. Right?” He looked across at Mikaelin. “I want to help with their weaponry training, if that’s all right, sir?”
“Of course.” Mikaelin looked away before his tears betrayed him. He rubbed the back of his neck, then gripped it hard, fighting to regain control.
Elena cleared her throat. “For Zema’s sake, we will continue to meet and learn from each other. But I think we’ve had enough for our first day. It looks like we could all use some rest.” She scanned the terrified children, still curled in the protective arms of their Guardians, who also looked shaken.
“Will you girls promise me you’ll work hard with your trainers, not only in understanding the powers of the Jhadhela, but in your weaponry skills as well? I want you to become fierce warriors so that you need not fear ever again. Let’s focus our power and our anger on Anakh and the ones who serve her. I don’t want one more life”—her voice broke as she focused on the circle of blood on the floor—“to be lost. You are all so valuable and precious. Can we agree to that?” Her gaze went from girl to girl until each one nodded with determination.
A prescient shiver swept through Mikaelin. This was going to be one powerful army someday.
Chapter 45
Elena stalled at the threshold of the Qajh Dhorhelon, the Temple of Augmented Light, with Karaelena cradled in her arms. The day had finally arrived for Karaelena’s diagmatz, her naming ceremony and presentation to the light.
“Is it all glass?” Elena eyed the transparent floor with suspicion, took a tentative step onto its surface, then froze.
“Oh, no, dear girl. It is made of the finest and most sturdy gemstones,” Lamreth replied. With a chuckle, he moved past her and stomped on the see-through floor to demonstrate. There was no hollow sound, no quiver or tremor. “See, solid as a rock. No weapon or arrow will ever pierce these walls.” He swept his arm to indicate the rest of the temple, but Elena couldn’t take her eyes off her feet.
She could clearly see chambers below her, much as one would see the life beneath a thin layer of
ice on a lake, and it evoked the same sort of tension as when one steps onto those questionably frozen waters. Elena slid her feet instead of lifting them to step as she followed the elders toward the center of the temple, expecting the surface to crack and collapse at any moment.
When more of the men joined her, she clutched Karaelena close and braced herself. “Silvandir, grab the boys’ hands.” Her voice came out a high-pitched squeak despite her effort to sound calm for the children. The boys were sliding on the floor as if it were an ice rink.
“Ama, look!” Terzhel said as he dropped to his knees and pressed his nose to the floor. “There’th people down there.” Mishon plopped beside him and the two watched the men moving crates from one room to another in the lower level of the Qajh, thoroughly enthralled.
Silvandir and Charaq gathered the boys and herded them toward Elena, who wasn’t the least bit impressed by the subterranean activity and hadn’t moved more than a dozen paces.
Elbrion laid his hands on her shoulders. “It is quite safe, Sheyshon. Though it is transparent, it is stronger than any metal forged by men or the rock of the earth itself.”
Elena took a deep breath and shook her head in an attempt to rid herself of the vertigo that had seized her. It didn’t work, so she turned her eyes upward, immediately enrapt by the magnificent building.
The temple had thirteen clear walls on the main level. The transparent double doors through which they had entered were on the side that faced due west. She could see nothing that held the walls together. It was as if they were one continuous piece of clear crystal bent at certain points to create the idea of walls. Impossible, she knew, but that was how it appeared.
Each wall, at about the height of four or five men, slanted inward (again, with no joints visible) and came together to form seven balconies—well, towers really because they were each enclosed and self-contained, with their own spiral staircase leading to a final platform. Each of the towers held what looked to be censers, bells, lyres, and flutes of an unusual shape. The balconies faced each other across a span of nearly fifty feet and overlooked the central part of the sanctuary far below. The ceilings of the balcony towers slanted in once more to form one round, central spire that seemed to reach to the very clouds. It must have been two hundred feet from floor to apex.
At the center of the Qajh, directly below the spire, was an elevated platform upon which stood an altar. Behind the altar was an arched wall that reminded Elena of a pheasant’s tail. It also was made of clear stone, but each segment, which held a tapered candle, somehow reflected a different color. Blue, green, purple, red, all danced behind the transparent altar.
Lamreth stepped alongside her. “None of us knows the origin of this structure. It was here at the rising of Queyon from the ashes of Yabwana, but the histories are vague, leaving the impression that the Qajh just appeared, right along with the waterfalls of light.” He paused and gazed around.
“The walls are made of beryl. They must have been chiseled and polished into this shape. There are no joints, no supporting frame or structure. The seven balconies are each made of a different gemstone—all in their colorless form: diamond, sapphire, topaz, quartz, moonstone, and two others I cannot recall at the moment. It is difficult to tell which is which until the light touches them. Each will then create its own magnificent display, much like the back of the altar, although far grander. It will delight you,” he said with an enthusiasm inconsistent with his years, his face the essence of pure joy.
Elena smiled. She could see how this building might elicit such a response. The waterfalls of light and the Palace of the Elders paled by comparison.
“Why is there no pulsating light in the walls and floor like there is everywhere else in Queyon?” she asked, just realizing that difference. The walls were reflecting and bending the light that came from the Elrodanar or candles but had none in themselves.
“To know the why, one would need to speak to the architect,” Lamreth said with a gentle laugh. “We have not had that opportunity. It would seem that the Qajh stands as a vessel for the light. It reflects and augments it but does not possess it, in and of itself. We believe it is meant to be a picture from which we ought learn.” The Xiander, more sedate now, wore a beatific smile as he spoke.
An amazing picture indeed, Elena thought.
The temple stood on an ebon mound at the heart of Queyon, surrounded on every side by the magnificent obsidian mountains, which no light could penetrate. It seemed to Elena that they stood guard over the Qajh and gazed down upon it almost longingly, envying the light that flowed through it.
Elena laughed at herself. Could mountains feel envy—or anything else, for that matter?
She also had this eerie sense that they were somehow at the center of Qabara, and thousands of eyes were upon them—and not just Elrodanar or Guardian ones. Eyes from other realms. Eyes of animals. Eyes peeking out from inanimate forms—trees, rocks. Even the air itself. She shivered.
Elena forced herself to focus on their purpose for being here: Karaelena’s diagmatz. Their daughter was the required two weeks old now. The traditions allowed for this amount of time so that mother and child could recover from the ordeal of birth.
She glanced at Silvandir, who looked so proud to be presenting his two ladies before the community. Elena swore he stood three inches taller when they entered the temple. He was equally proud of their two boys, whom he had corralled. He smoothed their hair and straightened their tunics before he gripped their hands and moved them, oohing and aahing over this strange structure, toward the center of the Qajh.
Elena and their daughter, dressed in white for the occasion, awaited them. A briochella had made the gown for Karaelena. Although it was white, the fabric seemed to sparkle and dance with reflected color almost as if it were embedded with jewels. Another maiden had made a matching gown for Elena, which made her feel radiant.
They proceeded to a circular font platform, which stood about twenty paces in front and to the left of the grand altar. They climbed the three stairs to the top. Again, Elena found it dizzying and awkward to step onto the different levels due to the transparency, which made it difficult to judge depth. She stumbled on the last one, and Silvandir caught and steadied her. She blushed with embarrassment, but, in her own defense, the stairs were built for people of much larger stature.
Dozens of Elrodanar entered the Qajh behind them. They effortlessly climbed the invisible steps that spiraled up the seven balconies, where they lit censers and took up musical instruments. A sweet fragrance soon filled the temple entwined with the tranquil melodies wafting from the seven-fold towers.
Down below, the thirteen members of the Qadhar stood at the east end of the font platform. Silvandir and Elena, holding Karaelena, stood opposite flanked by Celdorn and Elbrion. Also with them were Mikaelin and Braiden, whom they had chosen as Rhulmhon, guardians of the soul, ones who would stand in Silvandir’s place should anything ever happen to him. Silvandir had chosen Mikaelin and Elena, Braiden. Next to her adai, she trusted him most. There were no Rhulmha—ones who would stand in Elena’s place—because the Qadhar had said were she to die, all hope and light would die with her. Also, she knew no women to name.
The other Guardians lined the walls of the Qajh, standing as sentries, girded with full weaponry. Even though they were within the confines of Queyon, Celdorn still felt it was wise to err on the side of caution and, with all that had happened, be as prepared as they could.
At the center of the raised platform was an ornate font, carved from clear sapphire in a shape resembling a flower in full bloom with a large basin resting at the center and four petal-like shelves spreading toward the four points of the compass; each concave petal held a crystal bowl in its palm. The one nearest the Xiander contained water, the next soil, the one in front of Silvandir and Elena, a white powder, and the last was empty.
Lamreth stepped closer to the font and invited Silvandir and Elena to join him. He held out his arms for Karaelena. Elena fo
und herself reluctant to place the infant in his hands. Something within her still mistrusted him, but she forced herself to give her up nonetheless.
“My friends, we are gathered here this day to witness Silvandir and Elena’s presentation of their daughter, Karaelena Bethuleah, to the Jhadhela, to hear their vows to raise her under the teachings of Elgharmoth, the sacred writings and laws of Light that rule the realm of the Shalamhar, which the Elrodanar study and the Guardians enforce.”
Lamreth raised Karaelena into the air, chanting unfamiliar words in Elnar. Then he lowered her into the center bowl.
“Will you remove her clothing?” Lamreth asked of the parents.
Silvandir stepped forward, but Elena grabbed his arm, stiff with fear.
“Be at peace, Elena,” Lamreth said gently. “It is only so that her dress is not ruined. No harm will come to her.”
“It will be all right, my love,” Silvandir assured her.
She nodded ever so slightly but did not move. Celdorn took her clenched fist into his hands and held it, tenderly stroking the rigid fingers until they relaxed.
Silvandir picked up their daughter and cradled her in his left hand while he unfastened her dress with his right. She was so tiny, and his hand so large, that she fit neatly into his palm. He carefully pulled the dress over her head and kissed the blond curls that emerged. Next, he removed the cloth wrapping her loins and handed her back to Lamreth to which Karaelena offered no objection.
Silvandir stepped back and put his arm around Elena. Her smile had long fled, and she watched Lamreth warily.
“Karaelena, you have come through the waters of birth,” Lamreth said as he submerged her body into the basin filled with water. “The water of life is sacred. As we are formed in the womb, it embraces us. Throughout our lives, it sustains us. Without it, we would perish,” he continued, taking water in his hand and gently spilling it over her head. “May you always bless the water for its gift.”
