by T P Sheehan
Thioci was speaking with his elders, telling them what he had done. “I have chosen Magnus,” he told them. Magnus sensed deliberation from a source of power far more ancient than the living. It came from the ancestors of dragons. The voices were old and wise and they asked Thioci to explain his choice. Thioci told his elders what had come to pass. He told them of Breona—the Astermeer who carried the blood of the Ertwe dragons who gave her life to protect him. It was she who showed Thioci the virtue in Magnus and how Magnus had fought to defend them both.
After consideration of Thioci’s judgement, they agreed Magnus was worthy of choice. He was to be the Electus. It was then that one among them spoke with authority. His name was Balgur.
“I will show you the way to the salvation of your people. Your time is not ended. You carry the legacy of the Fire Realm.”
Magnus did not know what Balgur meant, but his body was overcome with convulsions of pain that took the place of any questions. Magnus’s mind fell into darkness but the pain in his body turned to fire, pulling him from the darkness, breathing life back into his lungs and pouring blood back into his body. Magnus began to course with new life but Balgur warned it came at a cost. An obligation. A fate had been thrust upon him.
INAUGURATION
Training with her Semsdi was relentless. Catanya had spent three days running, sparring and pushing herself beyond anything she ever believed herself capable of, yet Joffren always expected more.
“What is training if not to further your abilities?” Joffren had asked. “You must not allow comfort and familiarity to be that which you seek. You must continue to grow, Semsarian.”
“Yes, Semsdi,” Catanya replied as always, careful to conceal her resentment. In fact she had gone further than that—she had learned to dismiss any inklings of anger toward him or offense taken as it arose, knowing everything Joffren put her through was a step closer to becoming a dragon priest. Once a priest, I can do anything I want. This had become her personal mantra.
As the days passed, Catanya appreciated sleep more than ever before. She spent the nights in her room where she had earned herself a bed with a pillow and blanket, together with a washing bowl that she was able to replenish each evening and morning with hot water and fresh washing cloths.
Meals were taken twice a day at midmorning and evening in a common kitchen at the northern side of the Romghold. Joffren seemed to time their meals such that they ate when no other priests were present. Not that it made much difference, for the priests ate mostly in silence with only the slightest of murmurs heard in conversation or from those who worked in the kitchen.
On the evening of her second day of training she found a red, leather-bound book placed on the table in her room. The book itself was written entirely in Fireisgh. Catanya struggled with this at first, but she soon recalled the language she had been taught the basics of as a child. It told stories of the history of Allumbreve—the changes the lands had struggled through leading to the coming of the Second Age that brought the four realms and their dragon guardians. She learned of the feuding that led to war and the defeat of the other three realms of dragons. Catanya found the book interesting and would have liked to spend her days reading it. She would always start her reading by feeling the texture of the book and rubbing her thumbs over the embossed gold lettering on the red cover that spelled the words, “Murata Fara”—Heart of Fire.
She soon realised the small book made Joffren’s life easier, for each time she asked him a question about dragons or the reason behind certain beliefs or rituals the priests adhere to, he would simply answer— “Read your Murata Fara,” or where Joffren wished to make a specific point, “Page one hundred fifty eight, paragraph two.” Catanya would always follow up on his direction, spending the evenings reading the recommended passages and contemplating their meaning.
On the fifth day following her cleansing, Catanya woke to the attractive smell of soup. She turned over in her bed and saw steam rising from a bowl set beside a cup of herbal water on her table. It was the first time she had taken food in her room. She sat at the side of her bed and scratched her temples in a vain attempt to alleviate the confusion. Then she spotted a small wooden box sat upon the table.
Catanya sampled the soup. It was a delicate flavour of celery, carrot and fennel with more of the mysterious herb and spice she was becoming accustomed to. She finished the soup and wrapped her hands around the warm cup of herbal water, sipping lightly from it as she considered the box. Almost immediately she became distracted by something else. Hanging on the inside of the door to her room was a new robe. It was strikingly beautiful. Forgetting the box for a moment, Catanya walked to the door and ran her fingertips down the delicate fabric. She removed it from its hanger and laid it upon her bed.
The robe was pure silk of black, burgundy and white. Gold stitching separated the colours and matching gold embroidery weaved through the sleeves in patterns depicting vines climbing a tree. It seemed to Catanya to be a formal piece of attire and feeling the fabric, she believed it to be newly made.
“Hardly practical for training,” she said to herself. She put the robe on and felt its unexpected weight rest on her shoulders and flow to the ground, covering her boots. The robe had a matching hood that fell behind her back. Its gold embroidery followed the hood’s rim and continued over her shoulders and down the length of the robe.
There was a knock at the door. Catanya pulled on the steel latch and opened it. It was Joffren. He too was dressed in a formal robe similar to her own. His was predominantly black with ruby-coloured embroidery flowing throughout its silken threads.
“Are you ready, Semsarian?” he inquired in his usual formal demeanour.
“Ready for what, Semsdi?”
“Today is your inauguration.” Joffren nodded toward the box upon the table.
Catanya sat at the table and reached for the wooden box, turned the circular brass catch and lifted its lid. Within, were three items—a small steel blade, a palm-sized stone dish and a vial containing an amber liquid of some sort. Catanya considered the items for a moment. Then it came to her. Every hair on her neck and arms stood up at once and her breath was caught.
“This is to shave my head,” she declared.
Joffren walked over to her without saying anything and took the vial of fluid, removed its cork and poured it into the dish that he placed before Catanya on the table. Catanya could smell the scent of lavender. He took the blade from the box and ran his index finger gently across the blade, testing its sharpness. He looked at Catanya.
“Really? Why did you not tell me of this earlier?” Catanya asked, dropping her usual, formal politeness. She realised then that she knew this moment would come, even though she allowed herself to hope it wouldn’t, or at least not so soon.
“Such things are for you to know when you must and come only when they are meant to come.”
Catanya struggled to grasp the reality of what was about to happen. All the years of her mother plaiting her long flowing hair, and of Magnus stroking it lovingly. All that was about to change. Catanya thought hard about whether her playing along with the training had gone too far. Should I have fled the Romghold before now?
Catanya pulled herself back into the moment. It’s nothing, really, she told herself. This won’t change a thing. I know what I want. I know who I am.
Joffren walked to Catanya’s side. She sat upright and rigid with tight fists resting on her thighs.
“Jael would have liked to be here. She would have made touches to your presentation in ways that elude me. Alas, she seems waylaid with her task in Froughton Forest. However…” he stood back and examined her, “I did this for Jael when her time came. I am sure I can prepare you just the same.”
Catanya appreciated Joffren speaking in a more familiar tone for once. She forced a weak smile and took a nervous breath, releasing it again through pursed lips.
“Very well then.”
Catanya freed her loosely tied ponytail and let
her hair flow freely down her back and across her shoulders. Joffren gently tilted her head to one side and used the blunt side of the blade to form a part line above her left temple. Catanya felt the muscles in her thighs tense. The part of her that wanted to flee was working feverishly to make her do so. But there was another part of her that kept calm. Was it a naive, trusting part of her? Or perhaps it was a new side that wanted to know more about this life she had been thrust into. Regardless, Catanya steadied her legs with her tight fists, letting just her feet squirm beneath her chair.
Brushing the hair below the part line with the back of his hand, Joffren then used the blade to cut these lengths of hair short. Catanya fanned her fingers and felt the strands of hair fall over them. She bit her bottom lip as Joffren dipped his fingers in the dish of lavender oil and smeared it across the side of her head until it soaked into her scalp. Finally, he used the blade to gently shave the hair from Catanya’s left temple. His touch was so gentle that Catanya was confident he would not hurt her, but she still struggled with her thoughts about the sudden commitment she was making to the priesthood. When he was finished, Joffren took Catanya’s washing cloth and wiped the side of her head clean. Catanya shivered at the sensitive touch against the clean-shaved portion of her head.
“There,” Joffren concluded. Catanya stood, letting the hair fall from her lap to the ground.
“How do I look?” Catanya felt the side of her head with the tips of her fingers, alarmed by the foreign sensation of smooth skin.
“You look the part,” Joffren risked a smile. He walked around Catanya, brushing away any remaining bits of hair from the robe. As a final touch he pulled the robe hood up over her head. It fell across her face leaving her little vision beyond her feet.
“Will you do the tattoo yourself, Semsdi?” Catanya asked, lifting her hood to look at him. Joffren briefly touched the side of his own head.
“It is not really a tattoo as such, Semsarian. You will see for yourself. Come—let’s go.” Joffren walked out the door, holding it open for Catanya. Her mouth had grown dry and so she grabbed the cup of herbal water from the table and gulped down its remaining contents.
“Okay, I’m ready,” she affirmed, stepping out the door. Pulling her hood up again, she was greeted with a most unexpected view. From directly outside her room there were two lines of priests—at least twenty in each—forming a passage for her to walk down that led to the temple. They each wore similar but unique formal robes with their faces concealed beneath hoods as they bowed their heads. Catanya was speechless and began to feel dizzy. It was as if she had only now realised this was all a ridiculous dream and that it was time to wake up.
“Joffren,” she whispered, not knowing what she should do. “Where did they all come from? Why are they all here?”
“They have travelled from far and wide for your inauguration. This is your day, Semsarian.” He took her arm and led her to the start of the pathway where the first of the dragon priests bowed further, throwing a pink gladiolus flower at her feet. Catanya began her walk toward the temple, one step at a time. Each of the priests in turn bowed before her and laid the pink flowers at her feet.
“Gladiolus… the flower of strength, faithfulness and honour,” Joffren explained.
Catanya thought of these three virtues but could only really see herself abiding by the first one. Faithfulness and honour? I’m not so sure…
She was glad the hood of her robe covered her face, hiding how awkward she felt. Catanya climbed the steps of the temple where fire dragons stood at either side of the temple doors. To the left was Brue, standing tall and proud and to the right was Rubea—smaller but equally proud. They both shared their thoughts with Catanya.
“Welcome to our family, young warrior,” Brue shared.
“I am glad you are with us, Catanya,” Rubea added, excitement in her thoughts.
Catanya thanked them both, trying to think of flattering words in return when a sudden roar came from the training field. She drew her hood back from her head, disregarding the etiquette of the occasion. There were six dragons standing in the field, with more approaching from the west, from the north and from the east. Nine, ten, eleven… Catanya counted them, gliding toward the Romghold. Their thoughts saturated her mind, giving more praise in the fashion of Brue and Rubea. Catanya counted twelve in all as they formed a row across the training field and pointed their heads to the sky. They then released a collective roar and filled the morning sky with jets of flame. As the flames extinguished, the sky above the temple was left with hanging, oily black smoke that gradually permeated through the drifting clouds. Catanya found it hard to breathe. Joffren supported her, holding her arm.
“It is time to enter the temple, Semsarian.”
For the first time, Catanya walked through the arch of the portico leading to the tall, narrow doors that opened into the temple. Following Joffren, she entered the temple’s narthex before going through a further set of doors leading to the nave. This central chamber was void of all furniture except for an altar positioned in the centre of the floor, finished in the blackest, shiniest stone Catanya had ever seen. It was draped in burgundy fabric with gold woven scripture around its sides.
At the very back of the nave sat a broad stone plinth centred on the polished black marble floor. Towering above the plinth was a gigantic statue of a dragon carved from contrasting white marble. A bronze plaque at its base bore inscription too small for Catanya to read from the far end of the nave, except for the first line that read, Balgur Qewrum Fara—Balgur King of Fire. Catanya examined the immense size of the statue—it was far larger than any dragon she had encountered. Looking at the dragon’s large talons, she recalled the one she carried during her cleansing. They were of similar size.
“Was Balgur really that large, Semsdi?” Catanya asked.
Joffren whispered into her ear. “Look to the front right middle talon. That is the one you carried. The statue is true size, Semsarian.” Catanya felt humbled.
As if by contrast, the main room of the temple was smaller than Catanya had imagined, yet the vaulted ceilings seemed to climb forever. There were no separate rooms above the nave and so Catanya could see directly up through the numerous narrow steeples above. The room’s perimeter was lit with a multitude of small spheres of burning fire that were attached to nothing, but hovered above the nave, moving occasionally and by their own volition. The lights extended up through the steeples but not so far as to illuminate the ceiling, giving the impression of a limitless dark void that gave Catanya chills.
As she stood and took in the ambiance of the ancient room, the priests moved into the temple behind her, maintaining their two lines along the eastern and western walls of the nave. Above them soared the narrowest of windows—twelve on each side—finishing at sharp points and cast in stained glass of a dull purple hue. Catanya considered how the temple would appear less dreary if someone swapped the glass for a more radiant palate. She soon withdrew herself from the thought, realising she was losing focus on the proceedings and pinched her thumbnails into her forefingers, forcing herself back into the moment.
Once all the priests were assembled, Brue and Rubea entered the nave. Their talons clattering against the stone ground as they positioned themselves either side of Catanya and Joffren. Finally, two priests entered the chamber from a discretely placed door in the northwest wall of the nave. Catanya noticed there were many of these doors. Against the far eastern wall there were four such doors, and she calculated the third would lead to the healing room where she recovered from her torturous cleansing ritual.
The two priests who entered were dressed differently. Their robes were pure black with detailed embroidery of the same black colour that was hardly visible, leaving Catanya to wonder why whoever made them had bothered at all. The two of them stood at the front of the large statue of Balgur and drew their hoods back, revealing their familiar shaved heads, yet their tattoo markings were unique. Rather than being tattooed across the temples
, their markings covered their entire face and head.
“The High Priests of our order,” Joffren said. Catanya felt uneasy again, thinking she had made a bad decision not to run when she had the chance. The congregation of priests fell to one knee and bowed before the High Priests. Catanya went to do the same, but Joffren held her arm, stopping her and shaking his head.
“Not us, Semsarian,” he whispered. “We stand.”
Catanya noticed Brue and Rubea stood tall and proud, and so she did too. The High Priests waited, and after a minute’s silence, Joffren led Catanya to the altar, indicating she should lie down. She did as she was told, wishing Jael were there for reassurance, although she did not know why. Once settled, Rubea walked forward and positioned herself to the left side of the altar. Brue remained where he was and Joffren returned to his side.
“There is nothing to fear,” Rubea told her. Catanya was not convinced. The two black-robed priests moved to her right. One of them took a hold of Catanya’s hands and placed them crosswise over her chest. In this position, she felt like a sacrificial lamb waiting to be slaughtered.
Whatever it is I’m about to go through, Catanya feared, I’ve got a feeling it’s going to hurt. She took deep breaths, trying to resist the urge to pull her arms down and leap off the altar. One of the High Priests moved around in front of Rubea and inspected the freshly shaved flesh on the side of Catanya’s head. He nodded approvingly before stepping aside, allowing Rubea to move close to Catanya.
“What are you going to do?” Catanya asked the dragon, not even trying to mask her fear.
“You will be fine. I’m going to gift you with the marking of the Irucantî. I am very excited—it is the first time I have done so.”
