by T P Sheehan
Joffren had told Catanya in the temple her blood was still her own.
“Then what will the chosen one—the Electus—receive that I have not?”
“From what we have learned from the other realms, the chosen one sacrifices themselves for the will of the Gods,” Joffren said in the formal voice that he always used for such discourse. “They inherit the blood of the dragon in place of their own, and the absolute power of that realm.” He then dropped his formal manner. “Can you imagine, Semsarian, having such power at your fingertips?”
Catanya was surprised Joffren spoke in this way. “Should we be craving such power, Semsdi—being the serving priests that we are?”
“Not at all. But it does no harm to wonder.”
Catanya looked at Joffren for a long moment, wondering about his history and what circumstances brought him to the priesthood. She wondered then what the Electus could mean to her people.
“Will the chosen one turn the tide on the war with the Quag?” she asked.
Joffren nodded, “Yes, Semsarian, I believe they will.”
“Then who, Semsdi, is worthy to receive the blood of the fire dragon?”
“In time we will know. The Electus will present themselves to us when the time is right.” Joffren spoke as though he had read it straight from his Murata Fara, but Catanya could see he truly believed what he was saying. Having experienced the bond she had formed with Rubea, she was beginning to appreciate his faith.
“How will we recognise them? How will we know for sure they are the chosen one?”
Joffren paused and looked Catanya in the eyes. “We will know, Semsarian. They will not be able to hide from who they are…”
Nights had been the worst for Catanya’s Anunya, tainted with strange dreams, often with visions of Magnus. They were always much the same as the dream she’d had after her cleansing—with Magnus riding to her on Balgur. In her dreams, Magnus was tall and proud and he smiled at her with confidence as though everything was right in the world. Catanya would wake wondering if the elders were playing mind games with her, maybe testing her loyalty to the priesthood. She resolved to never speak to Joffren of her dreams, nor her love for Magnus. At least, not until the time was right for her
to leave.
On the fourth morning Catanya’s fever broke for the last time. She left her room at sunrise feeling tired but was relieved the sickness was finally over. Peering across the grounds of the Romghold, she saw that the green training field teemed with activity. People were moving to and fro, setting up tents and tables and laying out chests and packages of all shapes and sizes stacked in rows beside and within the tents. The people themselves, both men and woman, were clearly not priests but dressed as artisans, mostly in neat white attire with sandals upon their feet. They moved with purpose. It was as though they were on a mission. Catanya was curious.
As she walked slowly toward the field, a priest exited the temple and came walking toward her. As he approached, he drew his hood back.
Austagia… Catanya stared blankly at him.
“Semsarian,” Austagia nodded politely, offering his hand in greeting.
Catanya was not sure how to feel about him. She still resented him but so much had changed—so much about her had changed—since last they met. She stood tall and kept her hands behind her back. She gave a slight nod but said nothing.
Austagia withdrew his hand and turned so that he stood beside Catanya and faced the commotion on the training field. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” Catanya replied, feeling she had taken her rudeness far enough.
“Have you recovered from Anunya?”
“I have. I don’t want to experience that again.” Catanya winced at her informal manner. She was not sure how to talk to him and it felt strange to be in his presence again. “You were not at my inauguration,” she stated.
“I intended to be. Alas, I was waylaid in Froughton Forest.”
Catanya immediately thought of Jael. She had been gone for weeks now, on a journey she said would be a measure of days. “Do you know of Jael’s whereabouts?”
Austagia shook his head. “No. I only hope she has not met ill fate.”
Catanya grew worried. “Is there really much in Froughton Forest that could threaten a Ferustir?” Catanya peered up at Austagia, shielding her eyes from the sun. He returned her gaze.
“There is, Semsarian. Do not go there. I will not let them send you there. That is something your parents would never forgive me for allowing.”
Catanya was surprised to hear Austagia make mention of her parents. It seemed so out of place in the Romghold. She thought perhaps her uncle deserved more credit than she had given when travelling to the Romghold with him weeks ago. Maybe, Catanya thought, amidst all the hard training she had emerged a more compassionate person.
“Semsarian,” a voice spoke. Catanya turned to see an elderly priest named Trax standing beside her. “Come. It is time for your fitment.”
Catanya pointed a thumb at herself. “Me?”
“They await you, Semsarian. Come.”
Catanya looked back at Austagia, but he was gone—already moved out of sight.
“Come, Semsarian,” Trax insisted, leading the way to the training field. Catanya ran to catch up.
“What are they fitting me for, Semsame?”
“Why, your Ferustir suit, young Irucantî!” Trax smiled.
Catanya smiled back and skipped a step as she walked. “Yes!”
“Semsarian?” Trax enquired.
“What I mean is, yes… yes they are,” she grinned back at him.
For the first time, Catanya was excited to step foot on the training field. The perfectly manicured grasses always looked soft and inviting but her cleansing had tainted that pleasure. Now she had a whole different reason to be there.
“Semsarian, this is Delik.” Trax introduced Catanya to a perfectly dressed man with the most exquisitely sculpted hair—both facial and on his head—she had ever seen. “He will be your chief tailor. He will oversee everything through design, construction and completion of your Ferustir attire.” Trax turned to the tailor, a serious expression on his face. “Anything less than perfection, Delik, will not do.”
“Very well, Semsü.” Delik bowed to Trax and did the same to Catanya. “It is an honour, Semsü.” He turned to the gathering of people behind him.
“These are my seamstresses—Kael, Ivy and Susannah.” The three women looked nervously at Catanya and bowed before her. Catanya smiled and looked to each of them, which seemed to accentuate their nervousness.
“And my fellow tailors, textile workers, armoury men, blacksmiths, healers and sorcerers.” Delik cast a hand toward fifteen other men and women who stood to attention and bowed formally.
Sorcerers… Catanya wondered what their purpose was in all of this. She turned away for a moment and whispered to Trax.
“All of this? Just to make my Ferustir suit?”
“Yes, Semsarian,” Trax whispered back. “They are the finest in all of Allumbreve. You will see.”
“And what is Semsü? ” Catanya questioned quickly. “He addressed us as Semsü.”
“It is the formal address to one of our order, from that of another.”
“Shall we begin?” Delik asked.
Catanya was led into the first tent. Delik left her with the three seamstresses who began the painstaking task of measuring and writing down every conceivable dimension—arm length, inseam, neck circumference and length of each individual finger. It went on and on. “Why so much detail?” Catanya enquired.
“Everything must be perfect,” said Ivy, the eldest of the women. It was the only thing any of them said to Catanya during the hour-long ordeal.
When finally all was measured and noted, Delik returned and led Catanya to the second tent where she was seated in a comfortable leather chair. A young man sat to her right and an older man to her left. They each took one of her hands and began to examine them closely. They twisted
knuckles, flexed fingers and used an arrangement of tools to take further measurements. Each of them were handed a small scroll of paper that the seamstresses had written measurements on previously. Both men examined and carefully re-calculated each of her finger, hand and wrist measurements and adjusted the notes accordingly. Relaxing into the role of being doted on, Catanya glanced to the young man to her right and caught him looking at her. He began to blush.
“What is it?” Catanya asked, curious as to what made him so uncomfortable. The young man shifted in his seat.
“It is nothing Miss Semsü, it’s just…”
“Talk, Dale!” the older man interrupted. “If you’ve something to say, son, speak your mind.” This seemed to make the young man blush even more.
“What?” Catanya asked again.
“It’s just… I’ve never seen an Irucantî so… I mean…” he stopped to swallow.
“So…?”
“So beautiful,” he said quietly. Catanya looked him in the eyes. He seemed to be drinking in the sight of her for a moment before he turned away, more red-faced than ever. “Father, I am finished.”
“Go then, set up the lathe. I shall meet you shortly.” The father finished with his own calculations and looked at Catanya. “I apologise for my son.” Catanya looked at the man in silence. “He is becoming a fine blacksmith. But even a lowly craftsman must take pause once in a while for the finer things in life.”
Catanya smiled at the older man. “There is nothing lowly about a craftsman.”
“It is certainly not as noble as the calling of the priesthood.”
Catanya wanted to reply that the “calling of the priesthood” was not of her choosing, but decided it was neither the time nor place to express her lingering bitterness. Instead she probed for information. “What is it you craft as a blacksmith?”
“For you? Weapons. A bow, arrows, throwing knives… and the more rudimentary parts of your lance.” He was looking closely at Catanya’s thumb. “But the latter takes far more skills to complete than I can do alone.”
“Is that why you measure my hands?”
“Precisely. Each knife, for example, will be weighted to suit you. They will feel as an extension to your hand. And your lance will feel as one with you.”
“That is certainly one of the finest things I’ve ever heard of,” Catanya said.
The older man smiled at her and considered her for a moment. “I can see what my son sees in you, young Semsü. You are truly unique. Perhaps in another time and place, fate would have seen you as suitor to Dale and a daughter to me.”
Catanya smiled. It had been a long time since she was paid such a personal compliment. She wanted to say, “In another time and place I have been spoken for,” but again, thought it inappropriate. Instead, Catanya politely thanked him.
Delik soon returned and took Catanya to a third tent where she was bled for a sample of her blood. The droplets were carefully tipped into a glass dish where one of the sorcerers cast spells to protect the valuable substance from contamination. Delik explained to Catanya how her blood would be unified with the fire-bronze used to manufacture her Ferustir’s lance whilst in liquid form.
“Once completed, your lance will ignite for none but you, Semsarian.” It was Joffren. “I will accompany you for the next stage.”
Delik led Catanya and Joffren to the fourth tent. “Please Semsü, be seated.”
Catanya sat in a reclined chair, but kept herself upright as she saw the two remaining sorcerers take position either side of her. She looked to Joffren who stood behind her—even closer than the sorcerers were.
“Joffren… What are they here for?”
Joffren nodded to Delik who stepped in to explain proceedings. “At any stage of your life, until this moment, it is possible you have encountered or been encumbered with spells or curses. Shale and Delmar will search your body and mind for such impediments and clear them. This allows you to fulfil your role of Irucantî untainted.”
“Impediments? Untainted?” Catanya looked at one sorcerer then the other, then turned about and looked to Joffren. “What is your role in this?”
“I will be watching proceedings closely. There will be no mistreatment of my Semsarian, that I promise you.” His face was stern. Catanya was convinced he would not let the sorcerers go astray.
“My memories. My past. What of those, Delik?”
“They will not be touched. You will remain the person chosen to fulfil the role of Irucantî, Semsü,” Delik replied.
“Very well.” Catanya lay back in the chair.
The sorcerers came closer and immediately got to work. Catanya found the elusiveness of their touch on her mind unsettling. It was so subtle that, without prior knowledge, she would not have been aware of their presence at all. Joffren, on the other hand, knew exactly what they were doing.
“They tread carefully so as to not interfere with your mind,” he explained. “It also gives them the point of advantage should they come across something untoward.”
An hour passed and the sorcerers were finished. They silently withdrew from her mind. Catanya felt a sense of relief wash over her.
“Did you find anything?” she asked.
“Not at all, Semsü,” the dark-skinned woman named Shale explained. “You have some gentle enchantments made when you were an infant by a blood relative—more than likely your mother. These protect against illness and harm and have become a part of you without hindrance. We felt it best to leave them alone.”
Catanya looked at Joffren. “That is all they saw, Joffren?”
“That is all,” Joffren confirmed.
Catanya entered the fifth and final tent after parting ways with Joffren. Delik also bid farewell. “I will leave you here with my healers. Please, stay as long as you like. It will take some time before we require you for your first trial fitment.”
“Thank you, Delik,” Catanya smiled. Delik raised a hand toward one of the three women in the tent who came to Catanya and touched the still tender skin over her left temple.
“We will repair your broken skin, Semsü,” she said, showing Catanya a piece of flaking skin that came away from her head where the markings were made.
Catanya wrinkled her nose at the sight, wondering what she must look like with her broken skin and dishevelled, partially shaved hair. The Irucantî always presented so perfectly yet Catanya had given no thought to her appearance since the Anunya process started. All she was concerned with was getting over the sickness.
“Oh!” Catanya exclaimed.
“Do not worry, we will make you radiant,” the sprightly little healer said. She led Catanya to a tall bed. The other two motherly looking healers waited beside a table of assorted creams, oils, wraps and herbal mixtures. Catanya lay on the bed and closed her eyes as the healers weaved their magic, exfoliating her skin, massaging her tight muscles and tending to her face and hair.
In the decadence of her treatments, Catanya slept. When she woke some time later in the healer’s tent, night had fallen. The tent was illuminated with lanterns and candles giving a peaceful light that supported her rested state. The table beside the bed was now cleared except for a square mirror facing her. Catanya examined her own reflection. She gasped and covered her mouth, then slowly pulled her hand away. The woman in the reflection was hardly anyone she knew at all. Her skin was flawless, her hair perfectly sculpted in a spiralling braid pulled neatly away from her left temple, over and across her right shoulder. The left side of her head shone with the soft oils that worked to accentuate the now-almost black markings that Rubea gave her. There were no doubts now—Catanya knew she looked like a dragon priest. And through the shocked expression on her reflected self, she saw the smallest of smiles come to her face.
Finding her usual priest robe draped across the bed end, Catanya dressed and left the tent, walked across the training field and back to her room. She settled into her bed for the night without any desire for supper. Within moments she was asleep, dreaming o
nce again of Balgur and the handsome rider upon his back.
In the days that followed, Catanya resumed her training with Joffren with an emphasis on learning how to embrace the enhancements Rubea had gifted her.
“You will see now how your abilities expand,” Joffren had said. Catanya did not understand at all and told Joffren as much. “You will come to see as your training progresses.”
Training continued and Catanya experienced improvements in her strength, her speed and ability to focus. She was not sure she could attribute it to her enhancements, but each day she was noticeably better than the last.
Over the next week, her training was interrupted several times by Delik summoning her for trial fitments. No two fabrics they draped over her body were the same. With each fitment the shape of the material seemed to be more bizarre and unrecognisable. At one point, a sorcerer was required to remove several enchantments from a hardened, fibrous fabric to allow it to be moulded in numerous sections over her body, only for the sorcerer to reapply the spells once the shape was refined.
It was ten days since it all began when Catanya was summoned for the last time. She had just completed sparring with Joffren where she bested him once after a hundred bouts, but not without receiving a sword cut through her right upper arm. Joffren applied a small bandage to the cut and accompanied her to the training field and into a separate, large pavilion.
Inside, Delik was waiting with the seamstress named Ivy and the sorcerer, Shale. Delik stepped over to her and presented her with a neatly folded and completed Ferustir suit.
When she saw the final result, Catanya was lost for words. It was magnificent. Dressing in it, she found it form fitting. Her extra training over the past ten days had made her taut and toned and the suit sculpted firmly to her body’s shape. Her personal Ferustir suit had hardened plates of armour made of a material she was not familiar with. It was smooth with a shimmering black finish but with a tightly woven burgundy pattern through it. The material was as hard as steel but when she tapped it with her fingers, it sounded dull like wood. It protected selected areas of her chest, shoulders, abdomen, back and upper thighs, with separate pieces of armour for her forearms and lower legs. The rest was left unadorned, allowing her to feel light and agile. Catanya was able to twist her torso from side to side, forward and back, the suit proving as nimble as she was. The more she moved the more the firmness eased until it felt as comfortable as any outfit she had ever worn.
