Darkness Risen (The Ava'Lonan Herstories Book 4)

by Emanuel, Ako

  “I can only tell you a little of what you want to know. The rest you must choose to find out for yourself.

  “Long ago, there were two sisters, one elder, the other younger by a matter of gran. The elder sister was given something precious, that she was to use for the good of her people. The younger stood at her right hand, to advise as she saw fit. Now the precious thing could be used for good or ill - and at first the elder sister used it for good. But possession of the precious thing brought something bad out of the elder sister, and she began to abuse her right to possess the precious thing. Her sister saw her errors, and tried to point them out, but the elder one was blind and deaf to all save herself and the precious thing. So when her excesses had grown too great, the younger sister challenged her. They fought for three turns without rest, and it seemed that the elder would emerge victorious. But the younger had righteousness and ritiousness on her side, and the righteous always have the favor of the Goddesses. By her own strength and by the grace of the Goddesses did the younger sister triumph. The elder sister was forced to give up the precious thing, and banished. But the elder’s daughter was given a choice: ‘The sins of the mother need not be the sins of the daughter,’ the younger sister said. But the daughter chose banishment with her mother, the elder sister.

  “You face a similar choice: the actions of the mother need not be continued by the daughter. The choices you make and the path you take will determine whether whatever actions in your ancestors’ lives will be perpetuated by you.

  “I can tell you this one thing more. What you need to complete your time of choosing is in the Ritious City. Only there will you be able to once again perform one of the Rites of Solu. You will know which one to perform when your choice is made.” He handed her the slip of papi’ras.

  “How much time do I have? And what do I do to sustain myself until then?” she asked as he resumed packing his things.

  “Until then you must rely upon the land and water to give you what you cannot get from the air or Av.” He summoned a different roll of papi’ras and it unrolled itself before her, revealing a map. “You know of the Av’Vales?” She nodded, struck speechless. “You must go to the nearest one and pluck from there four fruit - a gav’ulu, a cav’lapo, a guil’inchin and a curi’chin. Two of these fruit have the ability to concentrate and hold the light of Av to such a degree that they would sustain you. The other two do the same with air. Eat one and take its seeds with you. When you are in need of Av’s or Chi’s energy, whichever you choose, you must ask someone to make the seed grow rapidly to bear its fruit so that you might eat again. But the fruit are dangerous in their own way, and you must reach the Ritious City before you are forced to eat twenty of any of these. The twentieth will be the death of you.”

  The map disappeared the way it came. “That is all my Goddess will allow me to say. All that you need to doonce you get to the Ritious City is written there. Good journey to you.” He called his assistant back in so that they could finish.

  “But what if I do not go? What if I cannot go?” she pleaded.

  “That, too, is a choice you must make. But one way or the other, this will all end in the Ritious City. If you do not go, or do not make it in time, another will take your place and make the choices that you did not.”

  Silonyi held in a shudder of disquiet. That sounded too much like her mother’s threat that she could be replaced by another.

  The Priest summoned his novice and they finished their task and inclined their heads to her, received hers in return.

  “Thank you, Ejai’li. Can you tell me how long I have to decide?”

  He tilted his head slightly. “You have until no later than the first eve of the Festival. By then you must either be on your way or making peace with the Goddesses, unless an extremely powerful av’rito’ka can move you there in time. I wish you well, Highness.” He turned and left without looking back.

  “I wish you well, Priest.” She looked after his retreating back, her thoughts a jumble of all the things he had told her. When he was gone half a san’chron, she called for papi’ras and ink. Imraja appeared.

  “I am writing a correspondence to my mother, the Queen,” she informed the Voice, taking the sheets and beginning to write furiously.

  “Was the Priest able to be of help?” Imraja asked.

  “He was. He divined the problem quite readily. And he told me what to do about it, too.” She put down what Ejai’li had said and what had happened in the chi’av’an. With any luck she would have a reply in two turns telling her to begin her journey.

  “That lightens my heart, Highness. May I be of assistance?”

  “Yes.” She finished the letter and sealed it, held it out to the Voice. “See that this is delivered with all haste to our Queen. And make haste. Time is of weighing essence.”

  CHAPTER XIII

  the darkness, soft and flickering, turned...

  Av set. The after-zen rites had gone by in a blur, and Jeliya had slept through the small meal she was supposed to be allowed. She was barely able to keep her head up as they dressed her for her eve vigil, and one Priestess had slipped her some water, while the others looked away. But now she was awake, and alone in the Temple, surrounded by jars of gold nuggets and empty, waiting platters, and silence. The scroll of Invocation was before her.

  Jeliya picked up the first uneven golden nugget. She knew that she could not hope for a repeat of the eve before, where divine intervention had aided her in her task. Her av’rito’ka, on the way to recovering, had been depleted by the morn’s battle with the av’rita of the people.

  Her eyes burned. She felt a weariness in her limbs, as if they, too, were made of gold, but gold mixed with lead, heavy and worthless. She took a deep breath and looked around the empty Temple, then back to the clay jars and the platters around her.

  So tired. The marble tiles were hard and cold beneath the desi upon which she knelt. She was so alone, so alone. She held the nugget up again and summoned the thread-bare garment of her av’rita, used it to flatten the lump and make it into a ball. She flattened the ball and smoothed out the edges, so that the whole thing became a disk, which she slowly stretched to the proper size. As she worked, she chanted the mantra,

  “Goddesses, I Invoke thee

  As witness to my thoughts

  As judges to deeds I have wrought

  As guides to goals I have sought

  By this eve, blessed

  My Ancestors’ graven crest

  In purest gold by my behest!”

  Slowly, so slowly she wanted to weep, the image of a boabi in Av’s glory carved itself in relief into the soft metal. And the disk hardened, setting the image. She reached out and placed it in the center of the first platter. One done. Nine-hundred and ninety nine to go.

  “Goddesses, I Invoke thee...” her voice was hoarse as she finished the tenth. By fifty, her fingers were numb, and she had to whisper the words. She had to stop, for she shivered to violently that she could barely hold the next nugget. It clattered from her nerveless hands, which she pressed to her growling and cramping stomach. She was feeling that missed meal, and wished that she had sacrificed the sleep instead of the nutrients.

  “Ancestors,” she whispered, rocking in place, “please, lend me your strength. Goddesses, please, let me not fail you...”

  Tears slipped down her face, tears at her own weakness. I am not fit to rule, she thought, hopelessly. If I can’t finish a simple task, how can I hope to hold the safety of a million people in my hands?

  A warmth suffused her, and a gentle laugh seemed to echo through the Temple. A force outside of herself lifted her arms, and she stared at glowing hands, then at glowing fingers that flexed independently of her own.

  “Wha...?” she croaked, and the glow moved away from her, resolved into a translucent figure that looked like her, and yet not, features that held a familial similarity. Another appeared, and another, until fifty-three ghostly women were arrayed around her, each similar in one way o
r another to the next, all familiar in a far-off way. She had seen each face before, but not like this.

  Jeliya shivered again, and it had nothing to do with the cool air in the Temple.

  “You... are you...?” Words failed her and she just gaped.

  The first lady to appear cocked her head, her eyes twinkling.

  *:You called upon us,:* she av’tunned, and the even the words were warm, laughing, like the eyes. *:Did you think we would not answer?:*

  “But - but... I have called before, and... not this,” Jeliya sputtered. “I - I did not... aren’t I supposed to do this myself? Isn’t calling the Ancestors just - just ceremonial?”

  *:Everyone needs aid sometimes,:* the last to appear said, and her voice rang the most with uncanny power, as if she had stood at the right hand of Av the longest. *:Even when I battled for what was righteous, I came close to being bested; and after three turns of battle, even I needed to call upon Those whom were greater than myself.:*

  “Inzebau,” Jeliya breathed, looking at the shade of her many-times great grandmother, the First High Queen as ordained by the Goddesses. She looked at the one before her, the one with the laughing eyes. “So you must be...”

  *:Jenikia,:* the other chuckled. *:I see that we share a special bond beyond similarity of name.:* The smile turned sad, a sadness so vast, so like the deep well that Jeliya had felt in Gavaron that she caught her breath, and felt a river of tears that she had not the moisture to weep swell up inside her.

  *:Weep not for me, Daughter of my daughter’s daughter,:* the spirit of Jenikia shook her head, and the sadness vanished. *:My tale is done. My sadness is ended in the glory of the Supreme One. You have the choice whether to follow as closely in my footsteps, or to write your own tale upon brighter papi’ras. But come; you did not call on us to relive our tragedies and gladnesses. We are here to help you, for this is a special eve. But be warned. Twice you have been set a difficult task, and twice Others have intervened. The third, you can and must find the strength to do alone.:*

  Jeliya swallowed and nodded, speechlessly.

  *:Now you must do - we will follow.:* They arrayed themselves around her, their poses identical to hers. Every move she made, they shadowed.

  Jeliya picked up a gold nugget, and fifty-three others rose in ghostly, translucent fingers.

  “Goddesses, I Invoke thee...” their voices were ringing, hollow echoes of hers, and when her av’rita surrounded the gold, a warm whirlwind filled the Temple, a rush of sweeping av’rita that left her heady with the power amassed. As she shaped the nugget, so were fifty-three others shaped at the same time, and the task of nine-hundred and fifty became the pleasure of shaping nineteen. The last set was laid in the platters as the first rays of Av struck through the windows, and the shades wavered like silken mist, and faded before Av’s glory, starting with Inzebau. As each shimmered away, the medallion she held dropped into place on the last platter as ghostly fingers became nothing in the light of morn.

  The last to vanish was Jenikia, who set her medallion down and touched Jeliya’s face with warm fingers, like a desert breeze’s caress.

  *:Fight for him,:* she whispered as the light of Av moved toward her, sweeping away those who had come before her. *:Fight for him as I did not. I was wrong to let him be torn away from me. I was wrong to let him go...:*

  Jeliya felt tears spill down her face, laying down the last of the medallions as the Gadayi flowed into the Temple. She bowed and touched her forehead to the cold tiles.

  “Thank you, my Ancestors,” she whispered fervently. “Thank you for lending me your strength, ashe.”

  the light turned...

  The Priestesses got her ready for the turn’s trials quickly, again slipping her water when by tradition she should not have had any. They ushered her to the main entrance of the Great Laine where her mother waited, bare except for the briefest of pec’ta loin-cloths. Audola looked none the worse for her second eve’s vigil, but the expression on her mother’s face told Jeliya that she did not look quite as well. Nor did she feel it. Her av’rita was so low that she felt chilled even in the warmth of Av. Her stomach knotted with hunger, and a headache was beginning at the base of her skull. But she had to endure, for at the end of the Golden Way were the trials against her mother’s seven second best warru.

  “Majesties,” the Head Priestess said quietly, “it is time.”

  Audola touched Jeliya’s shoulder, as a mother, imparting what av’rita she could. Then she turned as High Queen and marched down the stairs, stepped onto the Golden Way, and with a slow stateliness that covertly delayed Jeliya’s need to follow, made her way to Festival Grounds.

  At a nod from the High Priestess, Jeliya gathered herself and proceded down the steps. At the bottom she paused, spread her arms, smiled, and stepped onto the Golden eWay.

  The first twenty paces were like dancing upon the wind, Av like wings on her back, the good-will of the people an up-lifting of song in her chest. At first the light of Av helped to warm her, and gave her a little burst of energy. The next fifty were a little slower, heavier, and her heart began to labor as a sheen of sweat broke out all over her body. Then something within her crashed, and immediately, she knew she was in trouble. Her legs felt weak, and the glittering sand threw the heat of Av back up at her, baking her instead of buoying her. Her arms again were lead over gold, and she let them drop to her sides. She tried to keep smiling, but even that was a drain on her as she strove another fifteen steps, then another five, and then one by one, willing her feet to step smartly on the path. Finally she abandoned all pretense and concentrated on walking, dragging the leaden weights of her limbs through unwilling slow-sand.

  Each step became more difficult than the last. Her breath rasped in her throat, and the glare of Av, instead of being sustaining, was cruel, punishing, where it should have been uplifting. Jeliya willed her foot to move yet another step - she could not, by tradition, stop, though the pauses between each foot-fall became the tiniest bit longer each time. Sweat was dripping slowly off her, not cooling her in the least. She needed water, for soon her body would be at the dehydration threshold and she would not sweat anymore, but overheat and possibly lose consciousness.

  No, she thought firmly, pushing those thoughts away. Such thoughts lead to defeat. She had to show that she was strong enough, just, to finish these trials, despite all that she had been through. Even if she had to crawl.

  Step. The masses around her were utterly silent, no mean feat for so large a body of people. Step. She could feel their eyes, as hot as Av’s kiss, and as heavy as a storm-cloud sky at Av’dusk. Step. Even their well-meaning offerings of av’rita as support had ceased, thankfully, leaving her to turn all her energy and concentration to the mechanics of putting one foot before the other.

  Step. She did not look at the end of the path. Seeing so many steps to be made might defeat her determination, making her just give up where she was. Step. Nor did she count the steps she made; there were supposed to be exactly one thousand, but to count them and get caught in the middle - that too, might undo her. Step. Instead she imaged the beat of a tuk’ni, moving her feet on each resounding strike upon its surface.

  And then her ankle, the one that had been injured in her long-ago fall from the ferr’flambeaux, turned. She stumbled and pitched forward to her hands and knees. A sound moved through the crowd. She allowed herself one deep breath to push the pain away before she pulled herself up, bracing on her knees, and took another step on the invisible beat she had been marching to. The collectively held breath of the masses was let out, and someone clapped on her next step. And more, step. Hundreds clapping, step. Thousands, step. Hundreds of thousands, step.

  The last of her sweat evaporated, and her throat, already raw, went totally dry. Step. Her lips went dry. Step... Step. Her nasal passages went dry. Step. And finally her eyes. Each blink became an eve-mare of sand-paper over her corneas, each breath the slide of dust into her lungs. Step. And where the offerings of av’ri
ta had not aided her, the clapping did, a thunderous sound that surrounded her and took over command of her feet, the sound itself seeming to do the stepping for her. Step.

  Jeliya could barely see the path through half-closed, grit-filled eyes. Her body sagged, the last of her reserves draining slowly away, a little bit lost and left behind in each foot-print.

  Step. She was done in. The path had defeated her. She felt her foot move and when she put her foot down, cramps streaked up her legs and across her back. She managed not to cry out as she went down...

  ...demon trushi pecked at her eyes, clawing, pecking...

  ...and then the hands of ice soothed her and the voice of peppermint cooled her throat...

  “...Well, you’re not dead,” the silver voice said, “at least not yet, anyway.” The voice paused, then continued, “You have to try, ky’pen’dati. Twenty steps. You can do twenty. Come, I’ll help you...”

  ...Something tugged at her, urging her up. With a soft moan of protest she moved with the force, pushing up onto her elbows, letting the helping presence take most of the burden. The silver voice kissed her legs and calves, taking the pain away, or at least blocking it. She gained her knees and managed to go forward using her hands, one step, two, dragging her body behind.

  “No, you must rise, ky’pen’dati. You must walk the remaining steps. Your people sympathize for you. Now make them admire you. Show them the strength upon which they may rely.”

  Jeliya whimpered silently but struggled to her feet and stepped on the sound of the clapping, which had not ceased. Now she did count the steps remaining, trusting the voice. Seventeen. Step. Sixteen.

  At twelve she went to one knee, her ankle totally swollen and too tender to even touch. She swallowed a cry of pain and hop-touched along, trying to put as little weight on that foot as possible.