TWO | PRAYERS

For centuries, Aldnahir has been the land we inherited from our ancestors. The elders speak of how the First Clan, amassed from the survivors of various tribes, was forced to scour the earth in search of food. They crossed both land and sea, traversing over the Urlidain Mountains until they found the place we now call home. Formed by a glacier in the days of the Great Frost, the basin has become the lush, fertile womb of our civilization.

            Tile-roofed houses now plot its perimeter, structured upon three manmade levels overlooking a small, spring-fed lake. At its center is an island, the grass short and bristled where it protrudes from the dirt. A wooden bridge connects the lake to the mainland. My fellow clansmen and women mill about, some piling great pieces of wood to form the skeleton of what will soon be a bonfire. Others drape prayer flags, hand-sized squares of red fabric, on any supportive surface. They hang from the various Caelus trees and connect neighboring houses. Most impressive are the strands that stretch from the higher stationed houses to wooden poles staked into the mud of the lake’s outer bank.

            Tonight marks the first of a month-long festival, celebrating the return of Rathsmene, the ghost moon. Once every eighteen years, Rathsmene reaches her perigee to haunt the night sky. Duller than her sister, Fenlil, but no less beautiful, the two will dance around one another for thirty days until Rathsmene returns to her home in the spiritual world.

            Every eighteen years, she pierces the veil between worlds as the harbinger of change. To my people, she is the great celestial teacher and offers hard lessons to the newest generation hoping to come of age. Thus, it is upon her arrival that the young men and women of our village are tested. Should they fail, their trials will be doubly as hard upon Rathsmene’s next return.

            Tonight, I will be one of those whose mettle shall be put to its worth.

Eventide finds me sooner than I wish. The small knot in my stomach, once no larger than a kui berry, has grown to the size of a fist, turning at my insides and making it impossible to feel anything less than my own nerves. I haven’t an appetite and I only drink to keep my mouth from running dry.

            I watch from my window as my fellow clansmen and women pour forth from their houses, making their way toward the village center. Twilight hangs over Aldnahir, spreading her close curtain of deep, misty blue. Pale yellow stars wink in the darkened parts of the sky opposite the orange remnants of the setting sun. Torches take up her mantle, slowly appearing along the hillsides as if waking from a dreamful sleep.

            There is a knock outside my room, and I turn just as the door is sliding back along its wooden frame. Emesh enters dressed in an ivory colored thralas, the ceremonial garb of Sebrosi men consisting of loose-fitted trousers that wrap around the waist and a sleeveless, gold-embroidered tunic with a plunging neckline. His feet are outfitted with the coordinating sandals made of smooth, polished wood and long leather laces that tie around the calf. Around his wrists are cuffs of the same ivory fabric. Gold powder marks the areas beneath his eyes and coats the plump flesh of his bottom lip, shimmering in the dimming light.

            “I thought you would be dressed by now,” he says stepping further into the room. I admire how the ivory of the thralas compliments his tanned skin. “The festival is about to begin.”

            “I know,” I say, turning back toward the window. I’m afraid to look him in the eye for fear that he will see how nervous I am. “I just needed some time to think.”

            “Caelus,” he says, and my name sounds like home in his mouth. “The journey you take tonight shall be yours and yours alone.” I feel his hand on my shoulder, warm like ocean water heated beneath the sun. I turn away from the window to face him. “No matter the outcome.”

            “I know,” I say, wishing it were so simple to accept his words, but little do we humans learn of how to let go of the things we cannot control. “But I cannot forget the blood of Spirit Dancers runs in my family. As it does yours. Does that not weigh on you?”

            “It does,” Emesh admits. “But I do not let it consume me. My fate will be different than those who came before me, whether I am a Spirit Dancer or not. So shall it be for you.”

            “Well, you are a better man than I,” I say, releasing a pent up breath. The twisting in my stomach has worsened, spreading like an infection up toward my chest.

            “Come,” Emesh says, taking me by the hand. “Let’s get you dressed.”

            Emesh pulls me away from the window, his fingers hooked around mine. When we stop, he turns back toward me and looks into my eyes. The green of his lift me up and carry me away, and it helps to dissolve the tension in my gut.

Untying the belt around my torso, Emesh lets my shirt fall open. His warm hands slip beneath the fabric, finding the landscape of my chest. The callused pad of his thumb glides over my nipple, the sensitive bit of flesh sending a pulse of electricity down to my groin, filling me with a mortal ache.

            Sliding his hands up along my shoulders, Emesh coaxes the garment to the floor, where it pools around my feet. He takes a small step back, his eyes swallowing my bared skin—roaming it, seeing it, as if committing my body to his memory. Closing the gap between us, his arms wrap around me and I lose myself in his light. With him, I feel protected and safe. With him I feel rare. As if I’m the only one in the world.

Leaning in close, his lips brush along my neck until finding the base of my ear. “You are radiant,” he whispers. “Never forget that.”

            His thumb traces the contour of my bottom lip, slow and smooth as if feeling the curvature. My mouth opens for him, just barely, allowing a finger to slip inside. There is something intoxicating about having a piece of him inside me, as if a piece of myself has found its way home. Emesh explores the wet warmth of my mouth before sliding his finger free. My body shivers as he trails the moistened finger down the length of my torso, over peak and valley of flesh and muscle; its shape and strength owed to him.

            I have trouble keeping the air in my lungs as Emesh slides beneath the cover of my garb and takes me in his hand.

            “I thought—” I say, fighting against my breathlessness, “You were meaning to help me dress.” Heat rises in my cheeks and a warmth spreads throughout the vessel of my body, generated by Emesh’s touch. He works me in his grip, weakening my ability to stand so that I now lean against him.

            “Emesh,” I say, now the one to whisper, my lips so close to his. “Emesh.” I try to warn him, but he steals away my protest as his mouth presses against mine. The feeling growing inside me builds to an uncontrollable amount, like a cup capable of only holding so much water. I shudder, a ripple moving through my body, and I spill into him.

            Sweat beads on my skin and I feel flushed, my heart beating like the wings of a thrush. Emesh kisses the edge of my hairline, his clean hand clapping me on the cheek. He smiles, and it is the sort that is my undoing: easy, free, confidant.

            “How do you feel?” He asks. The low, resonant timbre of his voice sounds like a mikas drum.

            “Hungry,” I say, surprised by my own answer.

            “Good.” He smirks, walking toward the wooden wash bin on the opposite side of the room.

            “What does that mean?” I say, asking the back of him, hearing the sound of water splashing. “‘Good?’”

            “It means I’ve done my job.” Emesh turns, wiping his hands on a soft towel. “You were looking quite nervous. I thought you might wet yourself.”

            I open my mouth to protest, but it’s then that I realize the knot in my stomach has vanished. Part of me wants to be angry with him for being so cunning, but it’s difficult to find fault in his method. He saw I was anxious for tonight’s ceremony and he knew how to help me put that anxiety to rest.

            “Now,” he says. “Shall we really get you dressed? Hikma and the others must be wondering what’s keeping us.”

            After washing up, Emesh helps me into my thralas. It is the same bone white color as his. I slide into the trousers that blouse slightly at the thighs. Long strips of fabric hang from the sides, long enough to touch the wood paneled floor. My Master-at-Arms assists in wrapping them around my waist, securing the pants in place by tying the ends into a knot at the small of my back.

            The traditional sandals work much the same way: straps of leather that wind up from the ankle to mid-calf, tying over the fabric of each pant leg. Slipping into the tunic, the design adorning the front is different than Emesh’s. Though stitched from the same gold thread, the decoration on mine is of two cranes mirrored in flight. Their wings stretch along the upper chest of the tunic, fanning out along the ivory cloth to frame the hem of the v-shaped neck.

            Emesh retrieves a small, square box made of Caelus tree wood from across the room. It fits easily in the shape of his palm. He opens it to reveal the gold powder inside.

            “Eyes closed,” he says, and so I do. The pad of his finger strokes the underside of each eye, and then I feel his thumb once again tracing the shape of my bottom lip. “There. Almost done.”

            “What’s left?” I ask, opening my eyes. Emesh closes the powder box and sets it down. He reaches behind him, untying the stone pendant that hangs from his neck.

            “I want you to have this,” he says, now fastening the necklace onto me. “I found it one day in the shallow of a glacial pool. Brasa, to complete my training, sent me off into the mountains with naught but a stone cup filled with spring water. My task was to not let the water freeze. Three days I spent beneath the open sky without a wink of sleep and only the clothes on my back. I had to keep my mind sharp, focusing on the water I held in my hands. Though my body froze, the water did not. But it was no simple task.

Brasa said the test would help me find my true strength. He was right. For as much as I had learned from him, there is a time when a pupil must move beyond the knowledge of his master and find the answer for himself. I questioned more than the purpose of my test in those mountains. My mind had tried several things to deceive me—to convince me I was not strong enough, and minimize my worth. There is no worse enemy than one’s own mind, and only once you learn to combat it do you unleash the power of your true potential.

That is my wish for you, Caelus—that you would learn to conquer your mind. You believe your intellect is your gift, but it is only the vessel. Your sensitivity and your heart are what make you strong.”

My fingers roam over the smooth stone, feeling the grooves cut into the surface. “I don’t know if I can accept this,” I say. It is too great a gift.

“I want you to have it,” Emesh says. “It is my way of being with you at all times.” He presses his hand against mine, both of us holding the pendant the way Hikma instructed us to hold the calligraphy brush. As he leans forward, I can smell the oil on his skin. He presses a kiss to my forehead. “May it give you the strength it has given me.”

Prea pops her head in, the gold powder on her face making her tanned skin shimmer.

I find Emesh in the paper mill, standing beside Hikma, one of our village elders. She hovers over a wooden vat, her nut-brown skin draped in the ceremonial white robes of our people. Her fine, black hair is pulled tight against her head, shaped into a large bun that resembles the wings of a butterfly. Cinched across her midsection is an eikona, a thick piece of fabric worn during high rituals and depicts an image of Sebrosi culture. Purple and gold lotus blooms cover Hikma’s eikona, the stitch work exemplary of her talent.

            I watch as she removes the deckle from the vat, carefully extracting the thin, fibrous sheet of paper from its mould and setting it to dry. Emesh stands further along the table, the muscles of his arms flexing as he works the water reed culms into a pulp. The two work in seamless tandem, Emesh spreading the pulp into the mould as Hikma presses out the paper.

            “Caelus, set these with the others, won’t you?” Hikma says, and both she and Emesh look up in my direction. I can see on her expression she knew I was here the whole time while my presence appears to catch Emesh by surprise, and I can’t quite tell if my intrusion is welcome.

            I step forward, sliding my hands beneath the elongated rack of freshly pressed paper to carry it outside. I set it beside several others to dry in the afternoon sun. When I return inside the mill, Emesh has shifted duties to the deckle and mould while Hikma dries her hands with a rag.

            “Come,” she says, scooping the air. “I am glad you are here. You can help me with the ink.” I glance over to Emesh, but he continues about his work as though I am not there. My heart sinks as all I want for him is to notice me.

            Instead I follow Hikma to another workbench. She drops three charcoaled sticks no longer than a finger into a stone mortar, sliding it along the table toward me. She hands me the pestle made of smoothed, grey marble. I grind them down into a fine, black powder. Hikma’s soft, fleshy hands wrap around mine as she takes the mortar from me, emptying the ash into a second container. She adds a gum-like paste and a bit of fresh water to mix, carefully whisking the contents with a stiff bristled brush. They meld together into a silky, liquid black. The rich, dark quality of the ink reminds me of Emesh’s hair. I steal a glance at him, feeling a pang of guilt for having disappointed him during my training.

            “Emesh,” Hikma says in her throaty voice. “Join us.” The older woman shifts away from the wooden table, grabbing a calligraphy brush and a thin sheet of reed paper, or sivipa, from a nearby shelf.

            Hikma places the sivipa on the flat of the table between us and sets down the freshly made ink beside it. “Do you know how many synai our people have?” Hikma asks, looking to each of us in turn. Synai, developed by the First Clan, are the written expression of the heart and mind. It is how we communicate. Of course we both know the answer, but it is not the point the woman is chasing. “Several thousands,” she says. “And all of them can be written by the hand of an individual—except one.”

            Hikma takes one of our hands in each of her own, and then brings mine and Emesh’s hands together. The unexpected action forces us to look at one another. His striking green eyes make me wither beneath my own guilt. Touching him sends electric pulses up through my arm and throughout the rest of my body. There is a completeness and an ache I feel when I’m around him. Often times I look at Emesh and see what is missing in me, as if we are mirrors of each other—two halves of one whole.

            Hikma picks up the calligraphy brush with her free hand, placing it in mine and Emesh’s equal grip. “I want you each to write the synai for ‘earth’ and ‘sky’ without letting go of the brush. One stroke at a time, waiting until the other has finished. Emesh, you shall draw ‘earth.’ Caelus, ‘sky.’”

            We both look at the elder woman, wondering if she is playing at some sort of game, but the expression on her face is nothing short of seriousness. I let out a small sigh, giving a nod to Emesh to begin.

            His movement is steady and even, an echo of his weapons training, as he makes the first line of the Earth synai. I follow, beginning the character for Sky. It is a game of control, testing our ability to relinquish while the other is in charge; careful not to jerk the brush. Stroke by stroke, we move through the opposing symbols, with Hikma’s careful supervision.

            Completing the task, our hands break apart and I set down the brush. Emesh and I look down at the thin, cream-colored sheet of sivipa and the ink that now dries on its surface. Our two characters intertwine, complimenting each other, becoming a single, beautiful expression.

            “Caellath,” Hikma says. “The Eternity Knot. It is an ancient symbol, and a written promise of the Sebrosi to bind yourself to another.”

            I look at Emesh, both of us unsure what to say.

            “I have known for a while now, as I suppose have both of you. You are Soul Reflections. Your lives and hearts are intertwined.”

“Aldnahir has been fortunate to keep the peace it has, but we would be foolish to think it will last forever. Lowering our defenses will make ripe the opportunity for others to strike. Caelus? Are you listening to me? It would be my undoing to see you on the end of a blade.”

Aldnahir brims with the sounds of celebration. Flute notes drift along with the wind, which stirs the wooden chimes hanging from the Caelus trees. My fellow Sebrosi men and women gather around the bones of the bonfire, many of us wearing the traditional white and gold. The children wear thralas and eikona in shades of pale green and pink, signifying the vibrancy of youth.

            Sons, daughters, young lovers and expectant mothers, many of whom surround the bonfire to drape prayer chains over the unlit firewood. Lengths of string on which bits of folded sivipa are tied, prayer chains represent the hopes and dreams of many. Some will be well-wishes for those entering the Spirit Dancer trial, but most will be wishes for love and good health. The papers will be burned in the flames of the bonfire, and the prayers carried up to gods on embers and smoke.

            I wait for a young boy to take his turn, carefully assisting him up to the skeleton of the bonfire so he may set his family’s prayer chain amidst the wood before setting down my own. Prea arrives from behind me, her hair no longer in its signature, thick braid, but the knotted ceremonial plait of our people. One side of her head is woven together, reminding me of sheaved wheat, while the other falls loose over her shoulder. Gold powder highlights her amber eyes and the apples of her cheeks.

            “What have you written there?” Emesh tries to peer over my shoulder to see what I’ve written on the slip of sivipa.

            “Never you mind,” I say, jerking the paper away from his line of sight. I fold the sivipa several times until it is long and thin like a piece of straw. Following Hikma and the others, we tie our folded papers around a piece of string and lay the prayer chain over the unlit fire.

            “What?” Emesh says, looking wounded. “Am I not allowed to know?”

            “No,” I say, “You aren’t. I want it to come true.”