by K. M. Tolan
“Well, you certainly look more like an Ipper than I'd ever believe a Dathia Suria could.” Yora stopped combing. “I've scheduled you for physical qualification when your Change has run its course."
Mikial twisted around to stare at her. “What?"
“The Shandi told me how much your body's changed,” she said, turning Mikial's head back. “We both need to know how much.” Yora resumed combing. “Not that I would expect you'll ever see combat again."
“I'm still Dathia,” Mikial grumbled, glancing down at her side-skirts. “Sencia still heals. Halan still makes things. What am I supposed to do?"
“Just what you've been doing, Mikial—path finding.” Yora shook her head slowly. “I just wish I knew where it's taking us."
“I keep asking the same question.” Mikial ran her fingers along the crimson brocade that recorded her battles from Bramble Ravine to Keper. “Several weeks on my back isn't worth this dress."
“That's why it's a gift.” Yora pulled out a pair of black dress shoes.
“Who am I getting dressed for?"
“Breakfast with the Tasur and Tasuria."
It was a pleasure to finally leave the confines of her room. Mikial's suspicion that the Shandi had placed her in the Mental Studies wing was confirmed as she entered the hallway flanked by Yora and her Surian Guard. Mikial found that she had been next to the Tasuria's office all along. Several Shandi peeked out from doors along the corridor, exchanging whispered exclamations as they caught sight of her. Nodding back to hide her nervousness, Mikial waited as Yora announced her.
Yora beckoned her into Sencia's study and closed the door behind her. Past Sencia's desk, Mikial saw both of her rulers on the balcony waiting for her. Both were in the formal attire of their sect, Tasur Halan Ellis wearing the Cothra cinnamon tunic and pants tied by his brown-and-blue belt. His ash-colored hair was actually combed back, though Halan retained a suppressed smile for the occasion.
Standing next to Halan in her cream-colored Shandi robes, Sencia regarded Mikial's approach with a wary alertness. “Would our Holding's new Suria care to share breakfast with us?"
“I would be honored.” Mikial stepped through an open sliding glass door. She paused as her eyes caught on a painting that leaned next to the door. It was a younger rendering of the Great Suria, Corias Charrid. An uncertain smile crossed Corias’ face, as if she too pondered the future. It spurred memories in Mikial that she had all but forgotten. “I saw her."
Sencia glanced at her husband and came forward to regard the portrait alongside Mikial. “You said as much in your reports. The crypt in Kioranna."
Mikial shook her head. “No, when I thought I was dying during Change. It was a dream, I guess. I told her I was dead, but she didn't believe me."
Sencia looked at Mikial for a wordless moment before she spoke. “Belief will be a precious thing for us all."
“That painting is the Cothra sect's gift to you,” Halan said. “After all, you two have something in common."
Mikial turned to Halan. “We share the same bloodline, if what the Kiorannans told me is true.” Puzzled, she watched as the Tasuria brushed past her and went to her desk.
“Breakfast can wait,” Sencia said with a shaken voice. She picked up a small rectangular box from the desktop. The black lacquer finish was emblazoned with the crimson wheel-and-dagger symbol. Stepping back out, Sencia held it before Mikial. “Open it."
Mikial hesitated, Sencia's anxiety slowing her own fingers. She unclipped the tiny lock and lifted the lid. Halan's arms were immediately around Mikial as she almost collapsed. Mikial's next breath came as a gasp, her eyes frozen on what was coiled inside the black velvet lining. “Can't be possible..."
“Seven other Holdings have repeatedly said the same thing,” Halan said. He gently guided her to a wicker chair on the balcony. “You had best sit."
Obeying, Mikial lifted the belt from its container. Its white borders signified her stature as a Suria. The top band of the belt was red, of course. No surprise that her second band was Ipper blue. Shandi yellow was next ... followed by Cothra brown. “Four,” Mikial spoke aloud, shaking her head.
“You are a Great Suria,” Sencia said, her words a mix of fear and wonder.
Halan scraped another chair beside her and sat down. “No one listened to Corias, Mikial. They didn't want to hear what she tried to tell them. Perhaps we can do better this time."
Mikial let the belt slip from her numb fingers, fighting an urge to hurl the box over the balcony. Her voice shattered into half sobs. “I can't even believe I'm Suria—let alone this!"
Sencia knelt down beside her. Her dark eyes softened with understanding. “I can show you the closet I hid in, Mikial. You would probably fit, I think.” She gently removed the box from Mikial's lap and closed the lid. “We are all scared. No one's sure why this happened. What it means that the next Great Suria is a Dathia."
“Min Saja followed Corias Charrid,” Mikial said with a shudder. “What follows me? The humans?” Tears streaming, she looked desperately into the Tasuria's face. “What if I make the wrong choices?"
Sencia set the box aside on a glass breakfast table. “Both Corias Charrid and Gile Tassomon came on the advent of great change.” Her expression firmed. “It's not a question so much about what you will or won't do, Mikial. You are meant to be our guide.” Sencia looked across the hills. “It's what we do that matters. Starting now."
[Back to Table of Contents]
* * *
Twenty
Nibbling on honey-shell crabmeat freshly imported from Kinset, Mikial let her toes wiggle in the plush blue carpet of the Surian suite in Sky Camp's Presentation Inn. As splendid as her dress uniform was, Mikial felt far more comfortable in the blue sleeping gown that had been a gift from Paleen, similar to the one she gave her years ago.
Mikial looked at the portraits of previous Surias that adorned the crescent-shaped rear wall of the reception area. A much younger Sencia looked back at her from the blue marble panels, her dark eyes alive with wonder and excitement. Mikial regarded the space waiting next to Sencia's gilded frame, that was halfway up the wall at the end of the third row. Someone was going to need a ladder.
Mikial plopped down on the floor next to a gold-cushioned sofa placed beneath the pictures. While driving down Valleyway Road from the hospital, the highway now lined with black-and-red banners, Yora had explained some of the traditions she would endure. Like spending her first night here alone. Her Surian Guard moved in her baggage before she had even left the hospital. Also, she could not tell anyone, except her personal dance trainer, how many colors she had in her belt. That secret would also be revealed at her Presentation Dance. Mikial did not doubt that Sencia also needed as much time as possible to prepare the Tamerid for a Great Suria.
Sighing, Mikial wished she had been better prepared for what she had become. She looked around a room that was taller than it was wide. The design was meant for intimate meetings, such as the one she faced tomorrow night. That time was reserved for Surias forced to renounce even a Second Promise. Mikial looked over at the white double doors. Dalen would be her guest, a reunion she anticipated with foreboding.
Reaching over the crystal top of the oval table, Mikial plucked another sweet crab filet from the black porcelain serving bowl. A generous spread of dishes offered cakes, fruit, and an assortment of other meats. All surrounded by enough green garnishes to feed three Surias. Wishing Paleen was here to share the bounty, Mikial stood up to conduct a more private inspection of the quarters Surias stayed in until their Presentation Dance.
The reception area was the first of three rooms, each connected by a short hallway along the front of the inn. Mikial paused midway to the second room, gazing wistfully out the glass doors that led to the terrace. Yora had cautioned her to stay indoors, so as not to incite the already zealous crowd of well-wishers. The square around the Great Hall's hemisphere was a sea of red lamps held high by celebrants whose muffled voices carried through th
e thick glass.
The city of Sky Camp blazed like a multicolored jewel, each street a necklace of bright colors. The Hall was lit up in crimson lights. It reminded her of a huge egg waiting to hatch. Mikial stepped into the next room where sheld floorboards took the place of carpets. The dance she would give in the Hall would have its incubation in this room. Mirrored walls extended three times the depth of the reception area, stretching the width of Presentation Inn's top floor. Ceiling lights were miniature replicas of the cloud chandeliers suspended from the Great Hall dome. Mikial tapped her foot and listened to the return echo across the polished dance floor. Yora had the honor of helping her craft a Grand Pattern. She leaned back against the mirror with a growl. All along she thought it was just the Shandi trying to tie strings on her. Now Jia was at it too. Shaking her head, Mikial turned from the studio. Of course she had felt the Ipper watch her. She just had not guessed the reason why. How could she? How could anyone? Mikial glanced back at the dance floor with a wicked grin. Let Principal Jia Yeffer watch her tomorrow.
Her mood brightened as an idea seeded and grew. Mikial walked into the bedroom, shutting off the silver lamp in the small room. She pulled a chilled wine bottle from a bucket next to the nutwood bed, and pulled the forest green comforter off a mattress she found too soft to sleep on. Mikial gripped a thick pillow with her teeth. Slowly moving aside the heavy teal curtains to the left of the bed, she opened the glass door behind them and let the night air and festivities embrace her. Mikial made her observation nest in the balcony's darkened corner, unseen by the crowds below.
Extending a forefinger claw, she removed the cork from her wine bottle and took a drink. The wine was excellent. Almost as good as that she had tasted in Kioranna.
She was still gazing across the Great Hall's crowded plaza when dawn rose like a bright promise. From somewhere above Mikial on the inn roof, a tenor voice sang out First Greetings to the bleary-eyed celebrants below. Afterwards, a scattered few on the plaza started to jump up and down amid renewed cheers. Others pointed, and Mikial realized that she finally had been spotted. She wrapped the blanket around herself and stiffly got to her feet to salute them with her empty wine bottle. Their responses rolled in echoing waves off the surrounding buildings, breaking the morning's relative calm. Laughing, Mikial returned to her quarters before Yora had her ears for instigating a riot.
Mureak arrived within a chime with a breakfast of fruit and eggs, along with a set of tan practice chiras. It was not too difficult to guess who her next visitor would be. Mikial got dressed for dancing, but in her mind the chira was just another set of armor for the fight she was about to wage.
Yora arrived in a white smock and loose gray pants that helped soften the official air around her visit. She carried a large red leather folder. For a brief moment their eyes caught on the past, an uncomfortable pause erased by Yora's determined smile. “Good morning, Suria. It's time to discuss your Grand Pattern.” She glanced around the reception area with a nod. “I've never been up here before. It looks quite nice."
“It's quite lonely,” Mikial returned as her Strike Commander peered out the large windows.
“Time for reflection, and a gentle test of courage for the new Suria.” Yora gave her a sardonic look. “Some customs make a poor fit for a Dathia.” She set the folder on the table where Mikial recently had finished breakfast. “Being your instructor has its privileges, not that it isn't obvious what your second color will be. Your ear fans are coming along nicely, by the way.” She unzipped the folder and pulled out a large sheet of paper from the binder within. “The Grand Patterns are simple enough, Mikial. Essentially, each pattern is a flower with a petal for each color in your belt. Let me guess. Two petals, or am I to be surprised with three? Parva bet me twenty favors it's three."
Mikial's throat almost closed on the answer. “Four."
“Now that would be something,” Yora said with a laugh.
“Four, Yora."
Levity drained from Yora's countenance as she absorbed the seriousness in Mikial's voice. Putting a hand to her chest, Yora dropped down upon the gold couch. “Creation!"
Fear brought a snarl to Mikial's voice as her worst expectations took form. “Yora, if you can't look beyond what I've become, then who will? I'm still me!"
“Your claws are out,” Yora muttered.
“Yours as well.” Mikial knelt down and closed her hands over Yora's until their claws receded. Together they sat in silence, watching through the windows as birds scattered from their rooftop roosts. In the plaza below, people still waved and cheered.
“Eighth Force will have their work cut out for them trying to keep the streets clear,” Yora commented with a sigh. “Incidentally, they're the ones who hung all the banners between here and High Keep."
“I thought the Cothra did that."
“I saw Commander Keel himself climbing ladders,” Yora chuckled. “Your own Strike is handling security here at the inn. Parva sends his best, by the way.” Yora gave her a beleaguered look. “Four petals in your pattern. You must be terrified."
Mikial's eyes narrowed. “It's what it's going to do to those around me that scares me."
Yora gave her a hug. “I'll get over it.” She stood up, the gleam returning to her dark eyes. “My husband and two children expect me to produce a Grand Pattern like none other. I don't intent to disappoint. On your feet, Great Suria, we have work to do!"
Taking a breath, Mikial regarded the heavy red volume Yora brought. “All the traditional Grand Patterns are in there, I suppose."
“All thirty-five of them. You get to pick the variation."
Mikial's lips pulled back as she picked up the red book, and walking over to the balcony entrance near the dance studio, pulled aside the door and flung the book over the edge. Turning, Mikial faced Yora's stunned expression with a grin. “How's that for variation?” Mikial slid the door shut on the renewed shouts from the plaza. “Jia told me she wants change, Yora.” She gave her dance teacher a mischievous grin that would make Paleen proud. “Lets give her some change; something Principal Kyian Sell will choke on, too!"
To Mikial's surprise, the calico Dathia's shock transformed into an eager grin. Yora folded her arms, indicating none of the argument that she expected. “All right, Great Suria. How offensive do you want this dance to be?"
Mikial gave Yora a measured look, wondering what kind of fire she just lit in her instructor's eyes. “How offensive can you make it?"
Yora's voice rose. “Surian Guard! I want body paints brought up!” She looked over as Mureak opened the outside door and peered in. “Go over to the Great Hall and get me a draken, and lots of drawing paper too."
“Draken?” Mureak gulped. The black-haired Dathia looked at Mikial like she had gone mad. “Blade dancing?"
“Why not?” Mikial said with an approving nod to Yora. If there was one thing that would offend the Ipper, it was the fast tempo and inherent danger of the Rha Keeran dance style. Only the Datha could perform it safely at the speed it called for. The Ipper could not perform it at all, and scorned the style as base and inelegant.
It was late afternoon before her instructor was finished with her. Her sweaty body shuddering with exhaustion, Mikial found relief in a wide basalt tub in the bathroom connected to her bedroom. “They will throw us both out of the Holding for this,” she snickered, sinking into the hot water.
Yora looked in from the bedroom. “Maybe that Kiorannan mother of yours has some extra rooms.” She gave Mikial an apologetic look. “One day solace, one night..."
“Mourning,” Mikial finished. “I know. Dalen will visit me this evening."
Yora nodded with a soft smile. “A Suria can marry only from among the Surs. That's how our leaders are chosen for us. I'm very sorry, Mikial."
Mikial slapped uselessly at the water. “Who isn't?” She looked over at the closet. “The Cothra sent me an entire wardrobe that I haven't even seen yet."
“Well, I saw a green dress in there that almos
t matches these lovely bedcovers. I'll get it out for you."
“Thanks, Yora.” Mikial let the bath water close over her face, soothing the itch from her growing ear fans. Too bad that I have to come up again, she thought with a sigh.
* * * *
Waiting for Dalen that night was even harder than dance practice. The reception room table had been set for two, and dinner had arrived. The only thing missing was Dalen himself. Mikial studied the image staring back at her in the full-length mirror across from the tub. It did not look like her. An overly large and tanned Ipper was the best description Mikial could apply to herself. Her angular cheeks were couched in shoulder-length hair that had transformed from deep cinnamon to a light ginger.
It was hard to look at her ears and not feel displaced in another's body. Fine hairs spread out almost a hand's length along the top of each ear. Oddly enough, they retained a hint of her former hair color at the base, but quickly faded through her current hue to an almost translucent white at the tips. On any Ipper she would have thought it beautiful. On her, Mikial was not so sure. More than that, the fans seemed to have a life of their own, flicking up and back as if in indecision. If Paleen was any measure to go by, they were not quite finished growing, either.
The rest of her face, with the notable exception of her skin's transformation to a paler caramel, was what one expected from a Dathia. Sharp teeth were still set in a sturdy jaw, and there was nothing Ipper in the predatory slant of her eyes. Bands of deep forest green twined her shoulders, breaking up broad muscles as the fabric formed an embracing bodice. In contrast, her lighter-colored vest took on the color of a sunny meadow that swept out in a brocade of vines to form the side-skirts below. The dress returned to the deep evergreen of the bodice, only hinting at the powerful thigh muscles in its contours. Mikial risked a smile. She looked almost feminine, the bodice emphasizing the shallow curve of her breasts.
Mikial's heart caught as knuckles wrapped softly against the door. The scent was unmistakable, and wrenched at her heart. Giving a soft cry, she opened the door and wrapped herself in Dalen's arms. He wore a fine lace shirt beneath a cinnamon jacket. His Cothra's brass buckle gleamed over pants in which brown hues were as rich as tilled soil. Dalen's eyes settled on her for an uncomfortable length of time before he spoke. “You've changed,” he finally said with a smile. “Quite beautifully so."
