The Age of Light (The Ava'Lonan Herstories Book 1)

by Ako Emanuel

  She let her thoughts wander to the High Queen’s response to Tokia’s challenge. Her withdrawal had indicated insult to Family honor. It said that the Heir was absent because of personal matters that tied directly to the honor and welfare of the High Family, perhaps even at the orders of the High Queen. Or the Av’rujo. And the fact that Tokia had issued challenge was an affront to the High Queen and her family and a direct challenge to the orders given the Heir.

  Soku frowned slightly. Slights to Family honor were tricky and complex in their ramifications and resolutions. The consequence of the challenge was that upon the Heir’s return she would have to produce sufficient evidence that her mission carried such import that it overrode her required presence at the Bolorn. This had the side effect that whatever that mission happened to be would be exposed, and also possibly putting the High Queen in an uncomfortable position if the nature of the assignment were sensitive enough. But if it were grave enough to warrant her absence, then the challenge was remitted and the sensitivity did not become an issue.

  There was the possibility that the purpose of the mission was not that significant, but that the Heir had been seriously injured in carrying it out. This was also acceptable, but just so, for if the Heir were hurt and could not be moved immediately, then her absence, of course, could be pardoned. There was also a combination of the two, a crucial but dangerous mission which had resulted in injury of the Heir. In any of these cases Tokia would be at the receiving end of the full brunt of the odium she had brought upon herself and would lose much. Unless she could prove that the Heir had been negligent, and that if she had been injured as a result of that negligence, then this was not sufficient reason for the Heir to be absolved. The lines were very blurred, depending on who could make the stronger case.

  What it came down to was this: that Tokia knew something, or seemed to, though it remained to be seen whether she knew enough to save herself, and that perhaps the High Queen was not on as sound footing as was comfortable. They would know after the Tures, the Realm-wide holiday, when and if the High Queen made an initial statement to the reason for the Heir’s absence.

  Soku put the subject to rest for the time being to relax, and begin on her hair. A pot of royal jelly made of olia oil and hybiscus sat at her feet. She unwrapped the mass and parted it down the middle, so that it fell to either side. One half became a fat bull plait while she concentrated on the other. Dividing that mass into two again, she began the tiny guinne at her scalp, moisturizing the hair at the roots and all down its length. She had forgotten how much hair she really had, for by the time she finished the quarter she had parted, her fingers, arms, shoulders and back ached with dull fire. She made no plaint - it was well that she remembered how others labored for her in service to the Tribe. But she was one, while the maddi that took care of her hair numbered four.

  She must have sighed, as she started the next quarter, for hands joined hers in taming the wild, lustrous mass. She glanced up to see her head maddi Kylia kneeling beside her, comb in hand, helping. Her expression must have shown a touch of consternation, for Kylia smiled and patted her hands to say that she did not mind helping and that Soku should rest. And before the Doan Queen could offer any form of protest, other hands soon joined Kylia’s, familiar hands. All of her servants and maddi seemed to be going about their usual tasks of their own accord, though it was not required of them this eve. The only thing missing was their singing and the soothing, ever-present chorus of drum-beat.

  Soku glanced around, expressing silent gratitude. She made a mental note to obtain t’jal’li jewelry and adornments in the Tribe colors for them all. T’jal’li were like badges of honor, given only to the most loyal and faithful of subjects. It let all the world know that they were favored by their Queen, faithful to their duty always. This would elevate their rank in the eyes of those of their community and mark them as exemplary. And when they moved on, they would have their pick of occupations.

  They finished quickly, putting the guinne up in a simple, comfortable style; and for once in a long time Soku found herself not having anything urgent to do. Indio, her favorite bather, chose that moment to come in with the light meal and the other servants retired as he silently suggested a more pleasant alternative to spending the eve in contemplation.

  the light waned, turned its back to darkness...

  In the center of the Palace another also washed her shimmering wealth of midnight hair, but in the liquid moonslight, rather than in water. The glistening mass of floor length, silken ropes of jet-black guinne were piled high and tight on her head as she strode to the Estern roof-court, twin dom’ma riding her hips. There, laid out in cream and lavender marble, was a practice circle. Audola stood quietly, shaking her hands to warm them up as the last moon, Lor’ima slipped shyly into the eve sky. She listened as the silence she had commanded spread throughout the city’lon of Ava’Lon, Ritious City of the Supreme One and the central seat of power of Ava’Lona.

  She had changed from court formal dress of light wrap, bustiere, pec’ta and mantle to a sheer lavender body-suit of gossamer, with light ornamental veils fluttering from waist to knee. The dom’ma had hanging tassels of deep purple and sheaths of black. On her feet were soft, calf-skin slippers.

  In a tangible wave the silence spread, rippling outward, blanketing everything until only the sounds of tasks silently being carried out and the calls of nature could be heard. Somewhere a child laughed and was gently rebuked though no word was spoken and no thought was shared.

  Audola drew the swords, and the ring of steel seemed to hang in the air before her, drowning, for a moment, the ring of silence. As the engulfing soundlessness descended again, the weight of all that had passed crushed heavily on her. She stood facing the Palace center, the dom’ma hanging limp, heavy, useless in her hands.

  Useless. With all my skill, I cannot keep my daughter safe.

  Her eyes, unfocused, watched the turning of light as it flowed in aqua swirls toward eve. She became still. As still as a frightened breath. Her servants knew this sign all too well when they saw it. The High Queen was deeply distressed, and showed it only through utter lack of distress, and utter lack of any other kind of expression.

  The swords flashed up, glowing like slices of the moons themselves, and they began the first sequence of sword-dance, the War’don’mi, and Audola was more an extension of them than they were of her. The blades pointed two points off of zenith in ready position. Her movements were fluid, flawless as she took her first stance, one sword pointing to Av’setting, the other parallel to the horizon. She then whirled and launched a furious attack on her unseen opponent. Her right leg swept a graceful arc through the softly darkening air, followed by the right dom’ma as the left swung low and flat to the ground. She landed on the ball of this leading foot, the left shooting out to the back and the twin swords slicing the space before her, a study of balance and grace, her body describing a gentle curve that extended through the swords.

  She was sick with worry.

  Though she did not show any sign of that or any other emotion as the air slid off her blades and pooled in invisible blood before her, within her heart she cried with frantic hysterical fright over her daughter the Heir. The Heir, who had not been heard from in over a ten’turn, disappeared without a trace, without a sound. The Heir, whose innocent little sojourn into the Western Border’lons had met with some unknown end, causing her to miss the Bolorn’toyo. The Heir, who, though she was powerful enough to create an av’tun that could span the entire Realm if she wanted, could not seem to find her way home.

  Her eyes remained dry. Her body remained relaxed, flowing as the stream of wind flows. Her breathing remained even. She was frantic with worry.

  Where are you, child? Where are you that you cannot even av’tun a message to me? What has become of you?

  Her mind whirled as fast as her dom’ma, but she could not cut through to the heart of the problem. She made a series of leaps that took her about the periphery of cir
cle, her left foot leading this time, the swords framing her like parentheses, the one in her right hand reversed to follow the curve of her forearm. The veils flowed out about her, floating, turning her into a flower that danced bell-down, with the deadliest of leaves.

  Her eyes remained dry in the darkening light. She moved to the second sword dance without breaking stride.

  She blamed herself, for this could have all been prevented. She could blame no one but herself. She could have forbade the Heir to go, could have insisted that she remain with her escort, could have had the Heir report directly to her. Any of a million things that would have prevented this. Any of one...

  Why couldn’t I see this coming? I am High Queen, Keeper of Ava’Lona, all wise and all powerful. So why couldn’t I keep my daughter safe? Why didn’t I refuse to let her pursue this mission of hers, that would take her to the far end of my Realm, and out of my reach? Why?

  She knew why. The rhythm of her dance quickened, beating out with her body what she could not accept with her mind. The swords became solid silver streaks, weaving a killing sinusoid as she turned to each point of the compass, stepping wider and deliberately sliding her weight from the ball of one foot to the other. Both blades were now reversed, making her arms into scythes. Sixteen of these steps took her around the circle again. She pivoted and ran four paces, sprang into a handless cartwheel and ended with a forward flip and roll that took her to the edge of the roof. There she froze for two heartbeats.

  She had let the Heir go, because the Heir, though obedient and dutiful, had been champing at the bit, straining at the yoke, yearning for a touch of freedom such as others had. Freedom from duty and responsibility, such as she would have gotten on Journey. But the Heir to the High Throne did not go on Journey, as such, where she would have complete freedom and all the joys and pains that went with it. The Heir’s Journey was dogged by guards, warru acting as not-so-unobtrusive protectors. For, yes, all royal persons on Journey had keepers, those that watched over them, but only as a last resort, the fail-safe if things went beyond their ability to cope with. Not so with the High Heir. No such chances were taken with the High Heir’s life - unless permission were given by the High Queen. She would not know the hardy, rough living that tempered the personality - without permission. The Heir’s Journey was no such thing, more like a vacation, which was not what the Heir had wanted. And the Heir could not, would not come right out and ask that the fail-safes of her Journey be nullified - that defeated the spirit of the whole thing. But if, for some reason, the Heir were out on a mission of some sort, and something happened that required that she leave the majority of her escort behind...

  She let herself collapse backward and rolled - once, twice, and on the second she twisted and came up with a thrust under the sternum with the right dom’ma. She whipped around with a savage slash to a nonexistent throat with the left dom’ma, followed through with a body cut that would have parted her opponent from collarbone to opposite hip.

  Audola knew this. And she knew that this ‘mission’ that the Heir had concocted, though it had a legitimate and specific purpose, was a substitute for Journey, a mild bending of the rules so that the Heir might glean a taste of what others of lesser rank bandied around frivolously. This was the Heir’s way of getting her Journey.

  Had Audola not done the same? Had not every Heir to the High Throne?

  That’s why I had allowed it. That’s why I agreed to let the Heir part company with her escort for a few turns. How could I have refused?

  She slashed both swords down in a diagonal parallel, then a horizontal parallel, once, twice, thrice, four times, her face pointing Weste. The pattern repeated to the Norae, Este and Sor’n.

  Her only taste of freedom - and what end has it come to?

  At least the Heir was not dead. Audola would have felt it - they all would have felt it. The entire Realm would have felt a great tearing, wailing moan of anguish had the Heir parted with her life to come into the arms of the God of Death.

  The High Queen paused for just an instant, her muscles singing, but her breath controlled, then began the fourth sword dance, against two opponents.

  The Heir was not dead. But she had come close. She had come close to death, had brushed the Hand of the Beloved Ans’ra, until some agent had pulled her back. Audola had sensed it, like a warm, slimy chill up her spine, when her daughter had walked close to Death. She had lost some of her control of herself the eve that had happened, tears of fright streaming down her face as her baby had looked the Beloved in the eye and smiled. She had stayed awake, praying to the Ancestors, praying to the Goddesses, praying to the Supreme One, Shalgo Imantu Solu, for the life of her child. She had prayed all the next turn, and the turn after that, and she was still praying...

  Please. Foremothers, hear me. Please keep my child safe until I find her...

  The blades became streaks of silver in her hands as she jumped and whirled to avoid a low cut to the shins, and lashed out with her feet. She in turn swept low, right foot leading, right sword parallel to it. The left was tucked in close, once more reversed. She duck-walked in a low squat, taking four fast steps and cutting up with one blade and down with the other, right-left and left-right. With a roll she was on her feet again, the swords extended and describing silver-white arcs as she brought her arms up and swung them down again. Her left leg went back, in a wide forward stance, the dom’ma out before her, curves pointed to the ground. Her knee came up and snapped a front kick, and she took a springing step and threw herself into three forward cartwheels that ended with a split.

  But the Heir was not dead. She was alive somewhere, hurt, yes, sick, yes, but alive. Alive. The fourth dance ended and the fifth slid under her dom’ma in quick succession.

  How was she hurt? My child, what has befallen you...?

  Audola knew she was hurt. She had to be. That was the only thing that would keep her from finding her way home, the only thing that would bring her so near to death. Only incapacitation could keep the Heir from av’tunning from wherever she was straight to her own suite of lains. Because the Heir was second to none in the wuman Realm, save Audola and the Av’rujo, in av’rito’ka, the power to wield the spirit of light. None could restrain her against her will unless they had managed to surprise her and put her down before she could react - which was near impossible - or they had found her in a weakened state and imprisoned her. For the Heir was not proof against accidents.

  So she was somewhere to the Weste, hurt, weak, at one point close to death. Someone had found her, vulnerable, and was nursing her back to health, but using her as a brit’ina, a bargaining chip. Could that someone perhaps be Tokia sul Ottanu?

  The threat of tears receded, was replaced by a hardness, a granite rage that did not register upon her features. It showed in her movements, which became even faster, harder, almost wild - almost, and she cut the moonlight before her as if she were cutting down the Ottanu Queen.

  Is that why Tokia issued challenge? Does she hold the Heir’s life in her hands and does she hope to force reparations from the High Family? Is she perhaps even hurting the Heir, bringing her close to death so that I can feel it?

  She wouldn’t dare. Twisted as her ways of Trade are, she wouldn’t dare use my daughter that way. She wouldn’t dare harm her...

  The rage boiled, outrage broiling, black thunder and shattering skies reflecting in her eyes that remained dry. But if blades could reflect rage, these were glowing mirrors. The living steel became a shield, her defense a ravaging offense that drove her non-attackers back. The steel again following her forearms, she slashed out bloody x’s in the shrieking eve air, her feet sweeping out semi-cirlces as she chased her thoughts around the training circle.

  The very thought went beyond outrage. The members of the High Family were not treated so, were not used as brit’ina, as bargaining figurines, first and second daughters abducted and held, to be Traded for concessions. And no one was mistreated as a brit’ina, most especially no one of the High F
amily. There were rules, even though the use of brit’tan’ti as a way of doing business was frowned upon and generally caused more damage to honor and reputation than the gain was worth; there were conventions.

  When a daughter was captured, in the tradition of brit’tan’ti, she was given the best suite of lains in her captor’s house. She waited upon hand and foot by preferred maddi and servants. She was pampered and cosseted, treated as an honored guest, and generally amused by the whole experience. Should she come to harm, the Family or Tribe responsible was immediately repudiated and stripped of all standing, concessions and Trade rights, in addition to paying tremendous reparations to the daughter’s Family. There was even the possibility of Outcasting. That end almost never came to pass in the practice of brit’tan’ti, and the threat of such dire consequences generally discouraged its use. No one ever deliberately hurt the brit’ina. The thought that any might do that to a daughter of any Family, much less a daughter of the High Family was inconceivable. It was less than that. It was beyond the realm of consideration. Audola considered it.

  As a bereaved mother, she considered the worst. And that was the worst she could think of. She beheaded her foe and carved a likeness of her Family Crest into the dark with flashing silver.

  Perhaps the Ottanu was merely holding her and nursing her back to health.

  But to use her as a brit’ina under such circumstances was beyond reprehensible - it would besmirch the integrity of the Ottanu honor and render the challenge void, for none would respect or tolerate such a practice.