by Emanuel, Ako
She turned, the blood singing like silver in her ears and her heart beating seemingly in perfect silver synch with the drums and chant/song, to face Ihrasal and Ihannu. Both were equally matched with the sword, though Ihannu was better with the boa.
Jeliya pondered this as she swung the sword, her arm burning slightly through a silver haze of battle-fever and adrenaline. The boa was not that different from the spear. But the styles differed, somewhat, because the spear was an edged and pointed weapon and the boa was not. She watched them integrate themselves into the beat, moving together, coordinating their movements. The boa was different from the spear. Fine, then she would meet Ihannu with spear and Ihrasal with sword, matching Ihrasal’s blade and Ihannu’s shaft.
They closed with her. As she thought, Ihannu had a tendency to use the spear more as a blunt staff, ignoring the point. So she attacked Ihannu with the boa style, forcing him to react instinctively as though she had a boa, too. Ihrasal was forced to compensate, so that their attack was coordinated. Then Jeliya switched to spear-style and the momentary confusion destroyed their perfect synthesis, creating a discontinuity that she could exploit. The dance showed her where in the boa-attack to insert a spear-style attack to cause the most confusion. It worked - though barely long enough for the drums to roll out of the dance. The Six backed away and she turned, just becoming aware of the sweat that bathed her body, and the breath rasping in her throat. She raised her spear and sword, and cried out,
“Una lai lai! I stand here!”
“One stands here!” the throngs thundered back, rising almost as one to their feet, chanting to her triumph. “One stands here!” For long moments they chanted and clapped. But then they quieted again, for there was one challenger left to go.
CHAPTER XIV
the light, silver with the song of morn, turned..
The silver-sweet strength drained away.
Jeliya did not even fell her legs fold. All she felt was the slam of the ground against her body. The world spun around a dazed haze of pain. The thong that held her braid had come loose, and her guinne made a great black fan around her.
Must get up, she thought fuzzily, attempting to follow thought with action. But pain streaked up every limb at the least exertion and she fought not to whimper. A rushing sound filled her ears. But she hung on to consciousness with a life-grip, even as the world tried to recede in blurry, velvety rings of red. There were far away flutters of sound. With a supreme act of will she made one leg move, despite the fact that it felt filled with lead and was laced with silver-bright streaks of agony. Her eyes tried to dim again, but she forced the world to once more grow large.
Got to - get up! she coaxed her exhausted body, which, at first, flat out refused to obey. Must show I’m worthy, she cajoled through a headache that blossomed with purple magnificence, and her body whimpered that it had reached its limit. We still have much to do, she insisted, and her body said that it was done.
She tried the one responsive leg again and the pain forked like lightning across her hips and up her spine. Tears started from her eyes. The leg moved a little, the sandaled foot making a slight, pathetic dragging sound in the solid silence. The pain was too much. And she was tempted, tempted to let it all go, to relinquish her grip on the waking world, her claim to the High Throne, her travails and troubles. Why keep fighting? The world would move on as it would without her. She sagged under the thought, just letting the light of Av beat down upon her, beat her down into the dust.
Because, something inside of her answered. She waited for more, but there was nothing, just because.
Because what? she wondered through the haze of malaise. Still no further answer, just the one nagging word, stubborn in its obtuseness, hanging over her, taunting her, as if to say that if she wanted to know more, she had to get up off the ground.
She dug her fingers, stiff and weak, into the dust-soaked ground, and the pain, almost alive in and of itself, flashed through her palms and up her arms, in warning.
No, she denied the pain, I have to get up.
Why? the pain asked. It is easier not to.
Because, she told it, and tried to move her leg again. It throbbed with molten silver, and the effort left her chest heaving, but she managed to get it into a position more conducive to getting up than to lying limp. The light of Av struck down, neither lending strength nor giving sustenance. It did nothing for the pain.
Stubbornly, she tried to move her arm. Freezing silver arched across her chest, stopping her breath for an instant. A grimace pulled her lips back from her teeth at the sensation, but when it passed, her shoulder was off the ground and her elbow was braced. There were tentative cheers.
Now what? asked the pain.
In response, Jeliya took a deep breath, and got a lung full of dust. She choked and coughed a weak, wracking cough, which only made the pain more dominant, more prevalent. Each cough brought silver-purple blotches around the edges of her vision, and tiny silver daggers in her sides. But she could not give up. Because.
The second deep breath threw cramps down her belly, but she pushed up against the weight of the air, her shoulders screaming in protest, and rolled over, her back a river of fire, and she gained her knees, she knew not how. With her dom’ma as a prop she sagged and was dimly aware of more cheering. But her body refused to move more. She raised aching eyes to Av, then bowed her head, praying for a reprieve, for the healing oblivion of sleep. For yes, she could rise. And yes, she could tell herself and the pain that she could fight. But telling did not make it so.
Why do you continue to try, to strive? the irritating non-voice asked. So much easier to admit defeat.
Because, she said, and the rest of the answer was there, waiting for her, to strive is to be alive. If I admit defeat, I might as well lay down and die. For love. For duty. For Ava’Lona, I must rise. And on the heels of the thought, she began trying to get to her feet.
A shaft of light shot down upon her from a cloudless sky, and seemed to gently press her back down to her knees, like an irresistible hand on her shoulder. She fought against it and then it was not so gentle, holding her down like a foot upon her neck. A burning anger began to gnaw at her, that even the light would try to make her submit, admit defeat. She directed the anger against the pain, throwing off the bonds of light and the shackles of her own weakness.
“Let me up!” she cried, surging to her feet, arms wide, dom’ma in hand. “I will stand and fight!”
The cheering faltered as a figure seemed to step out of the shaft of light, resolving into the form of a slightly glowing young woman with white, misty eyes and one hand on the Heir’s shoulder. The shaft dimmed with her leaving, the flickering of glory divided. The sounds from the multitudes died away altogether when another figure, male, emerged on the other side of the Heir, his hand on her other shoulder. She seemed to be frozen in place, stopped in a moment of defiant time, in her posture of challenge. More figures emerged about her, each with a hand on one of her shoulders, dimming the beam of light upon her, until the twelfth made it vanish completely. Twelve slightly glowing women and men stood in a ring around the Heir. Their hands dropped off her and they turned outward to the crowds and held out their hands as if asking for something, beseeching. The crowds of people shared looks. The question began to circulate - were these the twelve Deities? And if They were, what did They want?
Glances were cast at the High Family, in their pavilion upon the field. But they all were on their feet, standing stock still, as if rooted, as if also caught in a crystallized moment in time, their eyes riveted to the glowing Ones. And the glowing Ones only stood as They were, empty hands out, beseeching.
“Clemency?” someone said, half question. The figures turned toward the voice. A young woman stood out and turned to those around her. “The Heir needs a - a reprieve, but cannot ask for it herself. But - we, we can grant her clemency.”
There were grumbles, questions, and counter questions. If the Heir could not finish a simple physica
l challenge, was she still fit to rule? some asked. If she truly risked her life to try to find the cause of the Zehj’ba, did a simple physical challenge really prove anything? some asked back. There were arguments and counter arguments. It was obvious she had been injured or ill, some said. But in a time of war, would simple fatigue or injury inhibit her ability to rule? others asked. Even leaders had to rest sometime, some pointed out. But leaders should be more than ordinary people, others stated, they should be stronger, smarter, more powerful, more able to cope with adversity.
“She has,” the original young woman, the scout Itiri, said, and her voice was heard over all others. “She has faced adversity, faced the Beloved, faced all the enemies of the Realm, and still, she would stand and fight, to prove her worth to all of us here. I know, I was there. She is worthy. I say clemency!”
“Clemency!” more voices added to hers. “Clemency!” the crowds cried with one unified voice.
“No,” a weak protest came from the middle of the glowing ring. Jeliya struggled to speak. *:No, I can - can fight. Must prove myself - worthy...”
*:The People have spoken,:* a huge, soft, glowing voice over-rode Jeliya, speaking also to the multitudes, she realized as quiet descended once more. *:The challenge is done for this turn. The High Heir’s worthiness is undiminished.:*
As one They turned and touched Jeliya. She felt their light touch as a balm, each taking away some of the pain, but with it the drive to overcome the pain. For her body was at the breaking point, though she did not want to accept it.
“Clemency!” she heard dimly, even as she put up one last struggle.
*:Rest,:* the glowing voice said to her alone. *:You have proved yourself, and you will have challenges enough on the next turn. Trust us. Let go. Rest.:*
With a sigh, she folded to the ground once more, and let the world go.
the light turned...
The five warru conferred as the creatures in the cages around them came awake, howling and screeching and whistling. The feline companions pressed close to their legs, with ears laid back and growls issuing low and menacing from their throats.
“We are not in any Queendom,” the unnamed warru said in a quiet, sonorous voice. “No Queen would be so foolish as to keep such a place as this on her lons.”
“We cannot track down every indirect lead this way,” N’mbu’yi said, shaking her head. “We don’t have that kind of time. Han’vonda will drain herself of light pursuing av’tuns in this way. We need a better strategy to find the ones responsible for these atrocities. We are ten steps behind them, and following from the wrong end of a trail going cold. While we pick up the scraps of their scheming, they move to undo Ava’Lona.”
“Then let us start at a beginning,” Du’jidi said, a grim smile making him look sinister. “The use of Dio’gin pearls is the fatal flaw in our enemies’ plan. They all have to come from the same place. That, they cannot hide.”
“If our foes have been clever, even that evidence will lead no-where,” Ikan’be said. “We cannot even link this site to anyone.”
“No, but we can follow the pearls through Trade, as I told the Priestess,” Du’jidi countered. “The Trade of Dio’gin is very strictly regulated. They may have covered their tracks in all other respects, but the movement of the Dio’gin pearls from the Aheka Tribe’lon is clear. We will infiltrate the Trade routes, and hopefully track the corrupted pearls from the source. Let us leave this place. We will send others to deal with the animals here. We have work to do.”
The others nodded in agreement and the unnamed one began to build an av’tun as N’mbu’yi began to coax Han’vonda out of her rite. The younger woman blinked and sighed and sagged, drained.
The av’tun sputtered and died in a shower of sparks. Incredulous, the small warru whirled about, the twin dom’ma appearing in that one’s hands as the sound of feet on stone made the other three look up. Ikan’be cast his senses back beyond the doorway, then drew his own swords.
“About a hundred, maybe more,” he reported.
“Corrupt pearls?”
Ikan’be nodded. Du’jidi pulled out a pouch that bulged with round objects that chimed as they clicked together. He opened the pouch and selected one. Revealed in his palm, it was a pearl, about the size of a large grape, and pink, but different in some indefinable way from the ones that sat in the silk-lined wooden box. Here was a true Dio’gin pearl, uncorrupted, pure, a deep, wine-dark pink that was translucent as mist. By comparison, the corrupted pearls were hard and brittle-opaque. Infused with av’rita, the unsullied pearl amplified it and glowed with it from within.
“Get Han’vonda outside and punch through that ward-shield,” Du’jidi growled, putting the pouch away and moving toward the chest of evil pearls. “Get that av’tun up. Be ready to go through as soon as you see me come through the door!”
The others herded the exhausted Han’vonda out through the door, the only exit to the lain of captive creatures. On all sides warru and beasts of every description were converging.
The small warru looked up to Av, and an av’tun terminus of dagger points seemed to punch holes in the fabric of the air itself. But it was the av’rita wards that the daggers ripped through, and the av’tun twinkled into being. The others waited, weapons drawn, N’mbu’yi steering Han’vonda to the opening of the av’tun and standing guard.
Du’jidi appeared, lugging the wooden chest behind him with his de’siki looped through one of its handles.
“Now!” he yelled, and threw the pearl in his hand into the chest as he jumped away, his arms spread, to throw the other four into the av’tun.
The explosion behind them was so intense that there was no sound, only a blackness of light that shredded the av’tun about them as tissue on the jagged edge of Av. The smallest warru reached out with av’rita, trying to hold the disintegrating tunnel of light together. They all tumbled out onto a hard surface, where darkness was the only thing to be seen, felt, or heard.
the light, scalded and aching, turned...
Dariaku sat musing over the turn’s events. The intervention of the Deities had everyone talking, but he preferred to think quietly, to muse over the happenings by himself within his own mind. But the Goddesses stepping in - it was almost too much to fathom, and he found his mind shying away from the implications. So he turned to work, losing himself in the perpetual backlog of reports and scrolls that awaited his attention.
Then, as Av lazed in the weste, he felt a faint tug, as if being summoned by - something. He stood from the Trade work he was reviewing on his low desk and followed the call, wandering the halls of T’Av’li - until he found himself outside the First Voice’s suite. The doorway curtain was drawn, and the outside drum had a silk cloth draped over it, silently indicating a wish for privacy. He lifted the cloth and tapped on it anyway. Luyon himself came to see who was outside his door, his face hard and expressionless as stone.
“Dariaku,” he said, his voice as colorless as his face was expressionless, “what can I do for you? I am - occupied, so if it can wait...”
“Whatever you are doing - you need my help,” Dariaku said. Luyon stilled, looked at him steadily, his posture asking the question.
“I know you wish for privacy, but I was called here,” Dariaku elaborated. He pulled out the j’tal of the Goddess Ag’ko. “I - I think I can help.”
Luyon stared at the medallion for a long, breathless gran, then stood aside and held back the curtain. Dariaku stepped in, took in the circle of five unconscious warru and six slumbering felines, then centered on Han’vonda.
“What is going on?” he asked softly, not missing the special earring j’tal that marked the cream of the High Queen’s investigative warru. They looked the worst for wear, as if an av’tun had exploded around them. “Why are they here?”
Luyon looked at him impassively for a moment, then at the five sprawled over his couches. One moaned and stirred, his slightly blistered hand clenching.
“They were trying to tra
ck that corrupted pearl that eats av’rita, find out where it came from.” Luyon went to the man who had moaned, who opened his eyes without another sound. The First Voice raised him up and gave him water from a gold-rimmed, polished calabash. “They av’tunned here in what seemed to be an explosion, maybe half a san’chron ago.”
When I felt the call, Dariaku thought.
“I had not expected to hear from them so soon,” Luyon continued, helping the man sit up. “This is Ikan’be. Report.”
Ikan’be looked askance at Dariaku. “A Voice who is an initiate of Ag’ko?” he glanced at Luyon.
“Go ahead,” the First Voice nodded. So Ikan’be told of all that had happened since they had been called to the field of death, starting at the beginning. Of the ambush of the search egwae, of finding the Temple, of following the trail to a garden of abominations. By the time he finished, one of the other warru was awake and being tended to by Luyon.
“Is this related to the conspiracy against the High Family?” Dariaku asked, sitting down to mask his shock. His eyes were inexplicably drawn back to the attractive younger warru woman.
Ikan’be and the small warru turned their eyes to Luyon, search-lights to a target. They had not been privy to this information, nor had the leader had time to apprise them.
