Chapter Nineteen
Date unknown
Time unknown
Sélestere, Kalar
IT WAS ENDLESS. As far as the eye could see, in every direction Svetlana looked. The runa legras was endless.
Svetlana had thought after boarding the transport from Ban-Hezikal to Sélestere that at some point, her pupils would stop dilating at the sight of the pink landscape and the bright, turquoise sky. But for the life of her, she couldn’t tear her eyes away from them. She knew that Kalar was a world rich with vegetation—that much could be determined from the marbled blue and green colors she’d seen from orbit. But she was yet to see those blues and those greens. She was yet to see that familiar sight. The pastels before her were almost more alien than the aliens themselves.
Yigôzien had awoken Svetlana early that morning to inform her that a full crew of Kalarael glorifiers had arrived to help her achieve something called featherglow, a state of optimum physical beauty. The glorifiers approached Svetlana’s dolling up with religious fervor. First there came a ritual cleansing, which consisted of each glorifier ceremoniously pouring a bowl of water over her head while reciting chants about Shanras, the Purities, and something Ed translated as the valesprings. They then proceeded to dance, raise their hands, and shout praises in the Kalarael tongue as they gyrated around her while she knelt dripping in the gathering hole, which had been filled halfway with water. All the while this carried on, Yigôzien, Toro-shin, and Akàziendi watched in reverence. After a much more traditional cleansing utilizing soaps, shampoos, and oils, Svetlana was finally allowed to emerge from the water to proceed with the actual “glorification.”
And what a glorification it was.
Svetlana’s body was dashed and sprayed from head to toe with an assortment of spices and incense, to the point where she wondered if she was a guest of honor or the main course. Despite the solemnness the glorifiers attempted to maintain, they couldn’t resist occasionally reaching out to run their fingers along her skin and hair, often inhaling in pseudo-ecstasy at the way both felt. They were captivated by every part of her to the point where it started to get uncomfortable, though at the risk of disrupting one of their sacred processes, she let them marvel.
She was presented with a gown woven with gray and translucent fibers that had been tailored just for her. Some of the fibers, particularly those that dangled from her forearms and waistline, were so light and airy they felt like they were floating. The crowning glory of all of it was the gifting of a new half mask—one polished and streamlined, with angles and sharp curves that looked like angel’s wings clinging to her cheeks. It worked as well for her as the steel blue, less stylistic mask she’d been given on the space station, but its level of sculpted elegance made it look as much a fashion piece as something designed to help her breathe. The final piece of the wardrobe was a pair of shoes that were something like a cross between boots and sandals, sliding onto her legs almost up to her knees but consisting purely of leather straps and lacings.
The last part of Svetlana to receive treatment was her hair, simply because the Kalarael seemed to have no idea what to do with it. They tried wetting it, pushing it back, sculpting it with a thin, clear paste only to have to wash it all over again and start anew. It was during this process that Svetlana realized that for all of the technological savvy the Kalarael possessed, they lacked some of the most basic, primitive tools known to man: brushes and combs. With down feathery hair like they possessed, these tools simply weren’t needed. At long last, and after much debate, the glorifiers came up with a solution. Laying Svetlana face-up on the floor, they spread her hair flat in all directions behind her, divided sections into ribbons, and literally painted them with a glue-like substance that dried to remarkable elasticity. It enabled the glorifiers to roll her hair into literal ribbons that were arranged and set about like a floral display, all held together with a single, silver clip. When she finally had a chance to look at herself in the mirror, she was amazed at what she saw. With her wardrobe, the elegant half mask, and the equivalent of an exotic, alien perm, she looked as sumptuous and luxuriant as she’d ever looked in her whole life. If nothing else, the getup assured her that she’d carry herself daintily just to avoid messing it all up.
Svetlana knew little of Sélestere, the city that Yigôzien was ferrying her to, other than that it was a city of what seemed some significance. Yigôzien, Akàziendi, and the glorifiers were making the trip with her, leaving Toro-shun to watch over Wuteel and Kraash-nagun. Ed, Mishka, and Tauthin, were allowed to accompany Svetlana, the Ithini’s presence invaluable when it came to helping Svetlana communicate, the canrassi the equivalent of her trusty steed, and Tauthin having been recognized as a being of importance to her.
Throughout the ride, Yigôzien explained to Svetlana what the Celebration of Shanras would entail. Despite Svetlana’s genuine desire to listen, she found that after hearing about so many different customs and procedures, she began to drown them out in her mind, focusing more on what she could see outside than what Yigôzien was telling her. Eventually, the hovering train’s velocity slowed, prompting Svetlana to sit upright in her chair. They were approaching Sélestere, Yigôzien explained.
Placing her face as close to the window as she could, Svetlana searched for any trace of the city. To her surprise, she saw only a collection of primitive huts and adobe structures—far less than what seemed deserving of such a revered place. She was about to walk to the cockpit to get a better view when a sudden, downward shift kept her in her seat. Blinking, she watched as the hovering train descended into a tunnel, the bright blue sky disappearing above her as darkness took over. “Where are we going?”
“Many of our cities are partially subterranean,” Yigôzien answered through their connection with Ed. “Most of Sélestere is underground. Many in our species do not fare well beneath the Daystar, particularly those clans with lighter skin tones, such as my clan, Viil-Astrul. With prolonged exposure to the Daystar comes skin irritation.”
How strange that a species so advanced in medical technology—enough to be able to scan Svetlana’s body one day and present her with tailor-made breathing apparatuses the next—was at the mercy of something as simple as sunburn. “When you say clans, do you mean like races within your species? Is that how you differentiate them?” She had seen an assortment of skin tones among the Kalarael—some light, some dark, some blue, purple, or orange. There were even subtle differences in physical features, with some Kalarael seeming more vulpine, while others were more feline. Their ethnicities seemed far broader in scale than humanity’s.
“Yes,” Yigôzien answered. “There are nine clans in all: Viil-Astrul, Ugara, Amaester, Nepthatash, Lysenthra, Voolrevan, Fa`reyashinti, Reshbahim, and Sunistra. Each has a distinct physical appearance. We as a species are careful to avoid sexual intermingling, as to not dilute each clan’s natural splendor.”
How ruthlessly devoted. “Could a clan such as yours not just put on layers of clothing to stay on the surface longer, like the darishu?”
“We are an expressive people. We would never wear something that would hide too much of our bodies from view.” After a brief pause, her smile widened. “But do not think us a species that thrives only underground. There are many city districts and structures, such as Ban-Hezikal, that are above the ground—and even entire cities, for those clans with darker skin tones. We in Viil-Astrul must simply remain inside these places for a majority of the time. In fact, this is why to stay at a place such as Ban-Hezikal is considered a luxury. In a suite such as yours, we may behold the sights of Kalar from the safety of the buildings for as long as we desire.”
Once again looking out of the window, Svetlana watched as yellow tunnel lights streaked past. At long last, and so sudden that it almost made her jump, Sélestere came into view.
Any vision Svetlana had of a bustling, futuristic metropolis was shattered as she beheld Sélestere. There was no neon cityscape. There was no network of flying cars or automated machines doing the bidding of a technologically superior species. Besides the hovering train she was riding on, there was almost nothing resembling technology at all.
Instead, what she saw was an endless expanse of lantern light, so widespread and numerous that it gave the entire cavernous realm an amber glow. She saw crude structures of clay and wood. There was a river—a bona fide, underground river, flowing right through the center of the city. Pressing her hands against the glass, she looked up, down, and in every which way. The way the structures were built in abstract spires, the way the lantern light played on every angle and level of the city…it was the most tribal—the most magical—city she’d ever seen in her life. Like she’d just stepped through a portal into some enchanted fantasy. Inhaling softly, she whispered, “My God.”
Behind her, Yigôzien’s canine eyes dilated. “You are seeing now the beauty that is the Kalarael. Even I, who have visited this city countless times, am enamored by it.”
“It looks so…” Shaking her head, she struggled to find the word. It stayed lost to her.
“Sélestere is a city dedicated to the preservation of our past,” Yigôzien said, “showcasing where the Kalarael have come from and where we will go. You will not see the sights here that you have seen in our space station or at Ban-Hezikal.” Her smile widened. “I have spoken many times about our species’ abundance of customs. You will find these customs on full display here. They are engrained in the hearts of these people. As an invoker of custom, it is something I very much appreciate.”
All Svetlana could do was shake her head in wonder. “I was not expecting this.”
The structures themselves, which ranged in size from huts to what looked like large communes, seemed made out of wood. With so many lanterns about, it was a miracle the whole place hadn’t burned to the ground. She pointed out the window as she looked back at Yigôzien. “Are these all wooden structures?”
“All of these structures are built from petrified wood. It is strong and easy to maintain, while retaining a look that pays homage to our origin.”
“So you were originally from the surface?” If trees were involved, she had to assume that.
The invoker’s whiskered smile widened. “We have spent most of our existence in cities such as these, utilizing the trees that grow beneath the earth.”
“Beneath the earth?”
“Yes,” Yigôzien answered. “While many trees draw their strength from the Daystar, many beneath the ground are nourished by the valesprings.”
The valesprings. She’d heard them use that term during her glorification process. “What are the valesprings?”
Gesturing with her elongated fingers to the window, Yigôzien answered, “In order to provide the Kalarael with life, the Purities created a system of waterways that run beneath the surface of the planet. In times of tribulation, the valesprings sometimes overflow to the surface as a sign from Kukira. These waterways contain nutrients not commonly found on the surface. You were cleansed with such water. Surely you must feel their effects on your skin?”
Eyes narrowed a tad suspiciously, Svetlana ran her hand along her arm. Indeed, it did feel smoother than normal. But was that just because Yigôzien had planted the seed in her mind? “I do not know,” she answered, honestly.
“In time, you will feel it.”
She hummed in thought. Looking back out the window, Svetlana watched as the train continued at its leisurely pace. “Where are we going?”
“To the Jubilation Grounds. It is where the Royal Assembly awaits your arrival.”
Sitting a bit more erect in an effort to stifle her ever-budding jitters, Svetlana looked out at the passing city sights. What a place this was. What a magical, enchanting place. She could see Kalarael citizens moving about the city streets. Even from far away, their flamboyant, tribal wardrobes stood out among the hearth-like illumination of the city. After angling her head to get a clearer view of what was beneath them, she could see a parade of Kalarael moving across the city. There were so many of them. She leaned back and stared at the back of the seat in front of her. These Kalarael were on their way to see her. To see Svetlana, the one sent to them by the Purities themselves. The Fury of Shanras. Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply through the mask. She fought to steady herself.
Ed’s thoughts emerged in her mind. You are nervous.
She wished she could lie—but he’d never believe it. Yes.
Why does being viewed with such reverence disturb you?
It doesn’t disturb me. It did. It is just…they are treating me like royalty. I have never been anything close to that.
You are such a contradictory species. You long for respect, yet when you receive it, your instinct is to reject it.
How could he understand it? She didn’t herself. I wish I had an answer. We are what we are.
As are we all.
Looking out the window again, Svetlana’s eyes widened when she saw a massive fire burning in the middle of an arena-sized clearing. It had to be forty meters across. Pressing her finger to the window, she looked back at Yigôzien. “What is that?”
With eyes the brightest blue, the invoker answered, “The Sacred Embers.”
Svetlana allowed her gaze to settle on the flames.
“In times of celebration,” Yigôzien said, “the Sacred Embers are fed coremilk from the bosom of Kalar. This was done today, in anticipation of your arrival.”
“…coremilk?”
Ed’s impromptu re-translation cut in. Gas.
As in fossil fuels?
It would seem the closest comparable.
Unaware of the interjection, Yigôzien continued. “Coremilk has sustained the industries of the Kalarael for millennia. We harness it purely, and with it, we have grown from villages that looked much like Sélestere does now to a civilization that reaches for the stars. There is a vent passage for coremilk beneath the Sacred Embers that we are able to regulate as we see fit.”
In other words, they turned up the heat like a gas furnace. She watched as the hovering train began a long, sweeping orbit around the Sacred Embers. It was as if the pathway the train was on was designed to showcase the massive firepit. Perhaps it was.
“That area around the Sacred Embers—those are the Jubilation Grounds. There, we will celebrate your arrival with a proclamation and feast.”
The train decelerated just as they came around the final turn. Yigôzien’s large, vulpine eyes glowed brighter. “Prepare yourself. This celebration is one I never thought I would see in this lifetime.”
That makes two of us, Svetlana thought, though the thought remained hidden. Briefly, she looked across the train aisle at Tauthin. The Bakma had been silent throughout the journey, his own eyes glued to the window on his side of the train. He must have been taking it in as she had.
Finally coming to a stop in a wide tunnel, the hovering train released a brassy reverberation. All around Svetlana, the Kalarael on the train rose to their feet. “Come!” Yigôzien said, reaching exuberantly to pull Svetlana to her feet. “The celebration awaits!”
Before Svetlana knew it, she was being pushed along among the throng of glorifiers and darishu. Her hands clung to Ed’s and Yigôzien’s—the former to not lose him and the latter to not get lost herself. Knocked about from all sides, Svetlana was thrust out of the train and into the tunnel hub.
“Your war beast!” Yigôzien shouted. The next thing Svetlana realized, she was being handed Mishka’s harness as the canrassi emerged from its own train car. “You must mount it at once!”
Gripping Mishka’s harness, she yanked herself atop him as quickly as she could. With this much frenzied excitement on the ground, there was no place she’d rather be than atop the canrassi—though even he was notably agitated at all the goings on.
Her heart was pounding. This was it, whatever “it” was. She was about to be thrust into the spotlight—or the hearth light—of Kalarael celebrity. At this stage of the game, it might as well have been worship.
A blue-skinned Kalarael bumped into Mishka, his eyes bright yellow as they locked onto Svetlana. He gasped at her in awe. Svetlana had no idea what to say. Only a taken aback, “Itsukae,” escaped from her—an utterance of sheer habit by this point. Upon whipping her head back to find Yigôzien, she saw that the invoker and Ed were following closely behind her. Tauthin was nowhere to be seen.
“The procession will lead us to the Jubilation Grounds!” Yigôzien said, her voice shouting over the vigorous crowd. “There, you will take your place before the Royal Assembly!”
Procession? If this madness was a procession, then Mishka was a white horse. As far as the eye could see, Kalarael lined the street that led from the train station—some reaching out to touch the hem of her garments, some falling in adulation on the road’s stone-paved surface. And the noise! From the maniacal yodels of the worshipful to the rolling vibrations of what felt like a million footsteps, there was so much noise. It felt like this alien crowd was about to tear her apart. There was but one thing she wanted to do: get to wherever it was they were going as fast as she could.
Rushing up from behind her, two lines of darishu appeared, surging ahead with their shock staffs at the ready. The crowd parted before them as for the first time, some semblance of order emerged from the chaos. She could feel the nervousness emanating from Mishka beneath her. Hand reaching into his fur, she stroked it rapidly, but assuredly. Glancing back, she looked for Ed. He was keeping pace, running alongside the darishu. She also spotted Tauthin being escorted by his own darishu. Gaze turning forward, Svetlana surveyed the area.
Crude structures—houses, perhaps—lined the roads with no real sense of order. There were no skyscrapers here, no discernable districts. For the first time, she was able to tell that the little floating light orbs were small, bioluminescent lifeforms, perhaps Kalar’s equivalent of fireflies. The place had an earthen smell to it, but other fragrances were adrift, too. They reminded her of cumin and nutmeg. Ceremonial incenses, perhaps?
The procession continued up the winding road and into the clearing that formed the Jubilation Grounds. It was massive—the size of several athletic fields. The Sacred Embers blazed in their full glory—a towering flame that reached toward the cavernous ceiling. The heat was not nearly as intense as she had expected. Perhaps force field technology was in play. There was a spacious boundary between the Sacred Embers and the growing crowd. As they began to parade her around the grounds, she craned her neck to spot their final destination.
A table. A massively long, strikingly rustic table. It was elevated on a flattened mound of earth. What must have been a hundred chairs lined it, though only on the side that offered a view of the Sacred Embers. At the table’s very center, towering above everything around it, was the tallest chair Svetlana had ever seen. There was nothing ornate about it. There were no encrusted jewels, no intricate designs, no patterns. It was just big.
As they neared the table, she found herself in awe at the rapturous crowd. This went far beyond anything humans would have done for a person. Kalarael shrieked, they yodeled, they fainted, they flailed in emotion. It looked like the whole of the city had flocked there en masse. There were no monitors, no devices like cameras of any kind that she could see. If someone there wanted to catch a glimpse of her, they would have needed to get close.
By the time the parade came full circle, the entire Jubilation Ground was standing room only. Suddenly, a loud voice reverberated across the grounds. It seemed to fill the entire cavern, as if originating from a speaker system. She had no idea what the voice said; it went uninterpreted. Whatever it was, though, it caused the crowd’s ear-piercing adulations to settle to a murmur.
Svetlana set her eyes forward again as they approached the table, along with the many Kalarael lined up in front of it. Unlike the crowd behind her, these Kalarael stood in an orderly fashion. They were among the most vividly decorated she’d seen; their skin was painted in bright colors, they wore ornate garments, their down feathers were primped up like headdresses.
I am connecting you to Yigôzien, Ed relayed. A second later, Svetlana sensed Yigôzien’s presence.
The invoker wasted no time. “You approach the Royal Assembly,” she said, her delicate Kalarael tongue translated into English. “You shall meet them in order of ascending significance, concluding with Darishukan Korlustus, High Priestess Linjan, and lastly, Queen Chechera and King Xi’qirian.”
“Queen?” Svetlana asked, blinking. “King?”
“Of course. Would they not attend such a momentous ceremony?”
She’d had no idea if they would. She’d had no idea that the Kalarael were led by literal royalty at all. She’d assumed that the term Royal Assembly was more traditional than anything else. Closer toward the line, Mishka tromped, the beast’s massive paws churning up dust with every step until Yigôzien gestured for her to dismount from the beast. She did so as a darishu took hold of the canrassi’s reins. Scrutinizing the line of Kalarael, Svetlana leaned toward Yigôzien again. “These are all members of the Royal Assembly?”
“Yes.”
“How many of them are there?”
Eyes brightening, the fox-eared alien smiled at her. “There are one hundred and seven in total, including the king and queen. It is rare that they are gathered in one place as they are today—a testament to the occasion at hand.”
“And I will meet them all?”
“Of course. We would dare not deprive any the opportunity to greet the Fury of Shanras. For the purpose of brevity, I will handle all introductions. They will each be allowed to perform a single bajuine—one of their choosing.”
Bajuine. The word for those interpretive gestures they were so keen to make.
“It is a great honor for each of their tribes to be able to choose what bajuine to present. Each will have significant meaning, if not for you, for them.”
How Yigôzien managed to keep track of so much in her head was beyond Svetlana in and of itself. “Do you know every single one of these individuals in the assembly?”
Yigôzien nodded. “I must, as must any invoker. Names and their conventions are of the utmost importance in our society, as I have explained to you. To know one’s name is to commit a part of them to your spirit. It is of great significance.” As they approached the line, the invoker’s voice quieted. “Though it would be customary at an occasion such as this for bajuines to be exchanged, I am aware that you do not know any with which to reply. Instead of a bajuine, you may reply with, ‘Itsukae.’ I will explain the word’s significance to each who hear it.”
The word’s significance. If Yigôzien only knew.
“We begin,” the invoker said. After clearing her throat as she approached the first of many in line, she proclaimed proudly, “To the Fury of Shanras, I present: Orindebo, songmaster of sorrows, fohr’devinder Nepthatash. You may present your bajuine.” The indicated Kalarael—a turquoise-skinned, green-plumed specimen—extended his arms in both directions before leaning backward, then forward, then down to the floor. Before him, Yigôzien smiled. “Casterista kon-vulane, a bajuine that conveys exhaustion yet satisfaction at the end of a long journey. It is a reference to his own life, all of which has led him to this moment and the satisfaction he feels to set his eyes upon you. An appropriate bajuine for the occasion.”
If she said so.
Yigôzien turned her eyes to Orindebo. “The Fury of Shanras will now greet you with a customary phrase of harmony and oneness.”
Harmony and oneness? Is that what they thought, “It’s okay,” meant? Behind her half mask, she tinged red. Mustering her dignity, she dipped her head toward the Kalarael. “Itsukae.”
Orindebo’s body quivered, his ecstasy impossible to hide behind his bright, yellow eyes.
And right on to the next, Yigôzien stepped. “To the Fury of Shanras, I present: Bilanstra, songmaster of jubilation, fohr’cravish Amaester. You may present your bajuine.”
Another songmaster, another bajuine, another explanation by Yigôzien as to what Svetlana was supposed to be seeing. Another, “Itsukae,” another tremble of adoration. If there was a hundred and five more of these to get through, this was going to take a long time.
Then another. “To the Fury of Shanras, I present: songmaster of conflict, Reshauané fohr`zieas-gal, Viil-Astrul.”
Then another. “To the Fury of Shanras, I present: Fasana, ministress of provision, fel’shestriya Ugara.”
Then another. After ten or so Kalarael down the line, their names and appellations began to blur—at least, until she heard a title she knew.
“To the Fury of Shanras, I present: Zin`Tesha, invoker of custom, fel`ismereis, Nepthatash. You may present your bajuine.”
The turquoise-skinned, feline-favoring invoker began her performance, which was as crisp and precise as any she’d seen from Yigôzien. Hearing Zin`Tesha’s appellation, it didn’t surprise her.
“Sinester del-athera juapiene,” Yigôzien said, “an expression of humility at the apex of one’s ambitions, which have come to full fruition. A meaningful bajuine.” Once more, she smiled. “The Fury of Shanras will now greet you with a customary phrase of harmony and oneness.”
Dipping her head, Svetlana said, “Itsukae,” to which Zin’Tesha dipped her head lower. Just before Yigôzien could take another step forward to greet the next in line, Svetlana addressed the Kalarael before her again. “So you are also an invoker of custom?”
What she heard next startled her. All around—in every direction—the Kalarael in the assembly gasped. Zin`Tesha’s already large eyes widened further. Even Yigôzien beside her looked stunned.
A startled sensation swelled within Svetlana. What did I just do?
After staring at Svetlana for several extremely long seconds, Yigôzien faced Zin’Tesha again to translate to her Svetlana’s words. A brief exchange ensued between the two before they set their eyes back on Svetlana. “She humbly answers that she is, and she offers you praise for the blessing of your words.”
“The blessing of my words?” Svetlana asked Yigôzien, voice lowered despite the fact that no one around her could understand her anyway. “Yigôzien, what did I do? I only recognized her title as one the two of you share.”
“You blessed her with the honor of additional words—words none with whom you’ve spoken have received.”
That was it? “But was what I said really that…” Glancing back at the ones before Zin’Tesha, she saw that they were all staring at both she and Svetlana. More alarming were their eyes. Half of them were bright red. “…significant…” What would have been a question trailed away as she realized the ramifications of what she’d done. “Are they angry at me?”
“Their anger is directed toward Zin’Tesha for being the recipient.” In other words, they were jealous. Now it was Yigôzien’s voice that trembled—her eyes darkening, a sign of fear. “We must continue. There are many invokers of custom—one for each clan. Is it your intention to address them all individually?”
“No.” Not hardly. Not anymore.
Yigôzien replied, “I believe that is wise. Please. We must move.”
Turning her gaze one more time toward Zin’Tesha, Svetlana beheld the dark yellow hue of her irises. Yellow was the color of both reverence and fear. The darkness made Svetlana fear it was the latter. She followed Yigôzien to the next in line. “Was my speaking additional words to her really that significant?”
Solemn in her answer, Yigôzien said, “Her life will never be the same.” Not missing a beat, she came to the next in line. “To the Fury of Shanras, I present: Harshastica, invoker of custom, fel`corabult, Sunistra. You may present your bajuine.”
And so she did. As did the next. As did the next. Svetlana was introduced to one Kalarael after the other, all the way down the line, only Zin’Tesha receiving more than a single, “Itsukae.” For as much as their names and titles blurred together, she was sure she would never forget the name of the one she’d so “blessed.” She hoped that that blessing hadn’t come at the risk of peril by the others’ jealousies.
At long last, after what felt like an eternity of repetition, they drew near to the end of the line—near to the ones she knew were worthy recipients of her words. En route to them, she’d been introduced to artists, invokers, and advisors of every make and model. There were ministers and ministresses for commerce, agriculture, and law. There were invokers for not only custom, but worship and judgment. There were even individual Kalarael who oversaw aspects of culinary art. More than anything else, all things aesthetic and expressive saw representation. If there was a gaping hole to be found, it was in that of military counsel. Not a single Kalarael on the row thus far—other than a single songmaster—dabbled in conflict or war.
But that was about to change.
“To the Fury of Shanras, I present: Korlustus, darishukan, fohr`koratian, Reshbahim.” This time, there came no instruction to perform a bajuine. On the contrary, it was Yigôzien who performed one. Svetlana didn’t need to ask why. The Kalarael’s title made it easy.
Darishukan.
This was the leader—or at least, the overseer—of the darishu. His skin was dark, burnt orange, and he was covered with crevices and scars. Unlike most of the assembly, who wore garments of leather and fabric, Korlustus’s outfit was sleek, polished metal. Ornate patterns and symbols were carved into its silver and red surface. As for his feathery mane, it was bright silver—almost white—with no other coloration of any kind. His eyes, a medium shade of yellow notably less bright than the Kalarael before him, locked onto Svetlana’s with the closest thing to sternness she’d experienced. The words he spoke, coarse and guttural, were precise in their enunciation. They felt right to the point.
“Darishukan Korlustus greets you nobly,” said Yigôzien, a tad breathless, “and wishes to convey his most ardent regard.”
It did not seem most ardent. Svetlana was thankful that her half mask hid her poor attempt at a smile—for there was a distinct, forced tolerance in the eyes of the one beholding her. “Please convey my gratitude,” she said in reply, eyes never leaving the darishukan’s even though she spoke to Yigôzien. She dipped her head, a gesture Korlustus returned in kind.
His gaze drifting from Svetlana, he craned his neck to see past her. Svetlana followed his gaze, where she saw Akàziendi assume a rigid posture. Immediately, Akàziendi dipped into a bajuine.
A brief dialogue began between the two, the darishukan’s firm, short words making a clear distinction between commander and subordinate. The exchange’s conclusion left Akàziendi dropping to a single knee and removing her helmet. So long had it been since Svetlana had seen Akàziendi helmetless, she’d almost forgotten what the violet-skinned darishu looked like. Few Kalarael she’d met matched the luster of her black and purple down feathers—or their relatively short length.
“The darishukan has instructed Akàziendi to remove her helmet,” Yigôzien said, “as your protection is currently in the hands of his personal guard. Her obligations have been temporarily alleviated—for only this occasion, of course.”
In other words, she’d just been put at ease. Korlustus’s eyes returned to Svetlana, where they lingered before Yigôzien moved on. “To the Fury of Shanras, I present: Linjan, high priestess, fel`embrissia, Viil-Astrul.”
A representative of Yigôzien’s own Clan Viil-Astrul. That must have been a great honor to an invoker who cared as much about her role as Yigôzien did. The trend of older Kalarael continued, as Linjan showed the most wrinkles by far. By contrast, her down feather hair was perhaps the brightest she’d seen, consisting of streaks of orange, green, yellow, and red that were practically neon in radiance. Dressed in garb that was appropriately tribal, but still highly decorated, she looked the part of shaman.
As had been the case with Korlustus, Linjan spoke to Svetlana in the Kalarael tongue. Afterward, Yigôzien translated. “The high priestess sees the glow of Shanras in your eyes. There are no doubts that you are given to us by Kukira.” Linjan smiled pleasantly, which Svetlana returned in kind.
The next in line was the queen. She was young, her saffron yellow skin devoid of the wrinkles of the two Kalarael who preceded her. She was bewitchingly beautiful.
“To the Fury of Shanras I present: Chechera, queen, fel`iositep, Amaester.”
Chechera’s down feathers looked like silk, blowing in a breeze that Svetlana could scarcely feel herself. The brightest purples and golds streaked through them, and her eyes were darkened by an excess of eyeliner that made them look far larger than they actually were. Despite her youthfulness, there was wisdom in her bright yellow eyes—and perhaps, a tinge of compassion.
The bajuine that Yigôzien performed was grand, sweeping, and downright lengthy. It was by far the most elaborate Svetlana had seen her offer—though in present company, that could be understood. Chechera spoke, after which Yigôzien translated. “She says they are honored by your arrival and look very much forward to what you have to say.”
Simple. Purposeful. Polite. The mark of someone who knew the significance of the position they held while still realizing the importance of what was literally staring them in the face. Svetlana said simply, “I also feel honored. I eagerly await the chance to speak with you.” Yigôzien’s translation was made, and the queen smiled and dipped her head.
And that left the king.
“To the Fury of Shanras I present: Xi`qirian, king, fohr`vikuliv, Amaester.”
The same clan name, the same saffron yellow skin tone as the queen. Seeming to pick up on Svetlana’s note of that, the invoker chimed in again.
“The king and queen are always chosen from the same clan. Clan Amaester currently controls the Sovereignty—though representatives from another clan will be selected to succeed them. The same clan never holds the Sovereignty twice in a row.”
As soon as she finished her brief aside, Yigôzien faced the king and performed an identical bajuine to the one she’d performed for Chechera. As for the king himself, he was a strikingly tall Kalarael with almost blindingly bright white and red down feathers.
Both Xi’qirian and Chechera’s garments were made of leather, but were so decorated with jewels and ornaments that they bordered on gaudy. For being presumably the two most important Kalarael on the planet, Svetlana found their outfits the least cohesive of any she’d seen. Whereas other Kalarael wore garments that seemed to stylistically flow, theirs were so busy as to be distracting, possessing an excess of neither form nor function.
The king addressed her. “Welcome to Kalar, Fury of Shanras,” translated Yigôzien.
Dipping her head, Svetlana smiled and offered her thanks. The introductions were officially over.
Stepping forward from her place in line, High Priestess Linjan placed her hand on Svetlana’s shoulder. Locking her now-blue eyes with Svetlana’s own, she smiled and spoke. Though her words were untranslated, they were spoken with warmth. Giving Svetlana’s shoulder a gentle squeeze, she then regarded Yigôzien. After a brief word between them, Yigôzien addressed Svetlana, her eyes radiating with blueness. “High Priestess Linjan has requested that you follow her to the front of the Assembly, that you might be anointed before the gathered.”
Before any more explanation could come, Svetlana found herself ushered away from her place before the king and queen, escorted by a pair of Korlustus’s darishu toward the front of the massive crowd. Casting a look back to Ed, she felt alarmed when she saw that he wasn’t being permitted to follow. Neither was Tauthin, who had been under strict darishu escort and essentially out of the picture during the entire introduction sequence.
Upon reaching the center point of the lined assembly, Svetlana was rotated to face the crowd. Gently, she was guided down to her knees. Though not instructed to bow her head, Svetlana did anyway—it just felt like a proper gesture to make, and it was better than staring down this yellow-eyed crowd. Behind her and to the hushed masses, High Priestess Linjan spoke.
“Kalar’s children—seekers of the Purities—chosen of Kukira, I stand before you a humbled servant.”
Despite the fact that Linjan was speaking, the translated voice in Svetlana’s head was Yigôzien’s. Svetlana could only presume that Ed was using the invoker’s understanding of what she was hearing as his chosen conduit for communication. It made more sense than him trying to tap into the high priestess’s own mind. She listened as Linjan continued, the gathering before her stone silent.
“Our people have seen many trials in recent times, from the Great Famine that has stricken Clans Voolrevan and Reshbahim to the arrival of the Khuladi and Bakma at the very gates of Kalar. We live in constant threat of the Kalareim, whose intrusions into the Realm grow more brazen with each passing year and whose leader, Tributurian, has amassed an army formidable enough to challenge even the best of the clans’. I have seen the fear of Istéres in the eyes of each and every one of you. I have shared that fear, myself. But today, my beloved, is not a day of fear.”
Even in that tiny introductory statement, there was so much for Svetlana to digest. A famine, an amassing enemy, invaders from the stars. These problems sounded so…familiar. So human. Linjan continued.
“I weep daily to Kukira on your behalf, that she might call upon the Godwinds to deliver us a blessing in these dark and dangerous times. It pleases me to say that my weeping prayers have been answered, for the blessing we have received is one that even I could not have anticipated. We have received not only a blessing from the Godwinds, but the hope of the Purities themselves—for I say to you, my beloved, that today, the spirit of Shanras walks in our very midst.”
The spirit of Shanras? Well that’s a weird thing to say.
“For the being that kneels before you may call itself an ‘Earthae,’ but I have looked into its eyes. I have perceived their radiance. Such serenity could only be achieved by Shanras itself. I say to you that this is not merely a lifeform from another world. This is Shanras Incarnate!”
Shanras Incarnate? As in, Shanras in fleshly form? Eyes widening, Svetlana froze in terror.
Above the murmurs of a million worshippers, Linjan continued. “The spirit of Shanras resides in this vessel that calls itself, Svetlana, Fury of Shanras. It is that aspect of Shanras—that righteous fury—that Svetlana embodies. It is the chosen expression of Shanras as it walks among us. For a time, it was restrained by the forces of Ophareim, in the form of the Bakma. Now freed, it has revealed itself to us that we might look upon it and have hope.”
Svetlana’s heart was palpitating. Sweat drops formed at her brow. She channeled her thoughts to Ei`dorinthal. Connect me with Yigôzien—now!
You are already connected with her, master.
I mean directly, not a translation!
A feeling of affirmation came, and she felt Yigôzien’s presence emerge. Immediately, she addressed the invoker. Yigôzien, this is wrong. I am not the incarnate form of a deity. You must make her stop!
Adoration swelled throughout the link, projected unto Svetlana from Yigôzien herself. Do you hear what the high priestess says? To be Shanras Incarnate—what an honor!
I am not Shanras Incarnate! If I was, do you not think that I would know? She is wrong.
Linjan continued on, though Svetlana’s focus was now on Yigôzien, who spoke again. You are not the first Incarnate to walk among us. None have known they are Incarnate until the revelation. It is not surprising that you were unaware until now.
She wasn’t unaware until now. She wasn’t Incarnate at all. You must listen, please. I am not Shanras, or an Incarnate, or a being from the Godwinds, or however it works. I am an Earthae who was taken captive, much as you were. Do you actually expect me, a lifeform from another world, to be the chosen vessel of a Kalarael deity?
Kukira chooses her vessels—it is not our place to say what she can and cannot do. You are Incarnate, whether you realize it or not.
Yigôzien, that is ludicrous! How can you be so certain of something of which you have zero evidence?
Linjan has seen it!
And what if Linjan is wrong?
For the first time, frustration swelled in the connection, the invoker its source. Linjan has been chosen by Kukira to be high priestess. Kukira would not select a high priestess that cannot interpret her signs. That Linjan has seen it is evidence enough. You are Shanras Incarnate, whether you choose to believe it or not. That you fail to understand it does not make it untrue.
It was getting hard for Svetlana to remain motionless—frustration was building in her, too. Look, I know how much faith you put in your religious customs—
These are not customs, the invoker interjected. There was heat in the connection now. A righteous temper. Linjan is not declaring you Shanras Incarnate because it is customary. She has done so because it is truth—irrefutable, infallible. To deny it is to call Kukira a liar.
This is not about Kukira. This is about Linjan being wrong! There was no other way to say it. I cannot say it in any other way than how I am saying it: I am not Shanras Incarnate. I do not even share your faith.
Once more, the connection was interrupted—but not by Yigôzien. A warm, wet sensation suddenly came to Svetlana’s shoulders. As she flinched, the liquid dribbled from her shoulders, one to the other, down the sides of her arms. When she realized what must have been going on, Yigôzien made it clear to her.
You are anointed.
Anointed. Chosen. The incarnate of a trinity she scarcely understood and most certainly didn’t believe in. She realized as the oil ran that nothing she believed truly mattered now. They weren’t going to wipe the oil away, pat her gown dry, then take it all back. Linjan wasn’t going to suddenly say that she was mistaken or that she’d misunderstood—that Shanras was not, in fact, kneeling before them. Svetlana was past the point of no return. As the oil ceased and Linjan placed her hand atop Svetlana’s head, all Svetlana could think was, What have I done?
In actuality, she had done nothing to encourage this. She’d only been kidnapped by Bakma, broken free, then returned a pair of Kalarael to their homeworld. And now, here she was, anointed in a way that seemed all too human. All too flawed.
“We recognize your Incarnate blessing, our Life Bosom—she who speaks into being, who directs the Godwinds,” the high priestess said, her hand pressing down atop Svetlana’s ribbons of hair. “We worship the beauty that is yours and yours alone.”
My God, I am so sorry. Svetlana’s eyes transfixed on the ground beneath her, where droplets of oil fell. I did not want this, nor did I ask for it. What am I to do?
“In our time of great need, you have sent forth your serenity. You walk among us with great purpose. I anoint this vessel—this Earthae form you have predestined—as your holy temple while you walk this, our hallowed ground. Shanras guide us, your elect to inherit the forever that awaits. Shanras guide us.”
The crowd—the great multitude—repeated the phrase. The words, even in Kalarael, reverberated through the cavernous city. Then…silence. The loudest, most frightening silence Svetlana had ever heard. The crossing of a threshold.
At long last, Linjan spoke. “Send forth the invoker of custom and the chosen protector.”
Glancing to the side—the first movement she dared to make—Svetlana watched as Yigôzien and Akàziendi were escorted to the front of the assembly. Both their eyes gleamed yellow. Was it reverence? No. It was tinges of fear. This beckoning was not expected.
Only after the pair was placed at Svetlana’s sides—Yigôzien to one, Akàziendi to the other—did the high priest continue. “I anoint these beings as Servants of the Incarnate—one to provide counsel, the other, protection. The three of you are bonded for eternity, inseparable, united in purpose in the service of Kukira. You shall forever be sisters, not only to one another, but to the chosen vessel of the Purities. May harmony be your eternal companion. So it is decreed, so it is the will of Kukira.”
Turning her head to Yigôzien, Svetlana saw that the invoker was hyperventilating. As the warm oil was poured on her shoulders, her eyes fluctuated between the brightest and darkest of yellows—reverence and fear equally represented. Svetlana’s gaze followed the bowl as it was carried to Akàziendi for her christening. But it was there, in looking at the darishu chosen as her protector, that Svetlana saw something different. There was no hue of reverence in Akàziendi’s large eyes. The yellow there was dark—nearly black. She was rigid. Terrified.
“What is your name, my child?” Linjan asked as the last trails of oil fell from the bowl.
Breathily, Akàziendi answered, “Akàziendi, darishu, fel’Ziendi Voolrevan.” Though Akàziendi spoke, the translated voice in Svetlana’s head remained Yigôzien’s.
Returning her attention to the assembly, Linjan said, “By Kukira’s will, I present: Yigôzien, counsel of the Incarnate, fel’dinstra Viil-Astrul, and Akàziendi, protector of the Incarnate, fel’Ziendi Voolrevan.”
New appellations. Did this mean that Yigôzien was no longer an invoker? That Akàziendi was no longer a darishu? The thought that all of this was predicated on a lie—a mistake—was…there were no words for it. Her heart thumped as Linjan continued.
“May the Spirit of Shanras forever dwell with us.” Lifting her hands, Linjan said, “Let us proclaim our celebration to Kukira!”
The cavern erupted with wails and shouts of acclamation. So loud was the volume, it made the ground tremble. The next thing Svetlana realized, she was being lifted up from her knees by Korlustus’s darishu. A brief glance to one side revealed Yigôzien, whose bright blue gaze and ecstatic smile indicated her exhilaration. On the contrary was Akàziendi, whose eyes were as dark and amber as they had been all the while. A far cry from the emotions of the invoker, the darishu looked outright troubled. Svetlana scarcely had time to contemplate anything, as she and her two new “sisters” were led by the hand to the feasting table. Before she knew it, she was being seated in the massively large chair she’d seen upon her arrival and surrounded by the Royal Assembly—the king and queen at her right and left, respectively, followed by Linjan and Korlustus.
As it turned out, there were no seats specifically for anyone else in her party—not her alien comrades or newly christened sisters. Instead, each was given their own chair behind the table, presumably out of sight and out of mind. With all the players and pieces in their place, the Celebration of Shanras began.
Never in Svetlana’s wildest dreams had she imagined a sight such as the one she beheld next. Line after line of servants ushered in platters and goblets of every size, each holding foodstuffs that were as varied and colorful as the Kalarael themselves. Yigôzien explained via connection that all of the food had been “approved for her biology,” so there was no concern on the Kalarael’s part that they would inadvertently kill their new Incarnate goddess with an allergic reaction. Just the same, Svetlana opted to take small bites just to be safe. There were meats, fruits, vegetables, or at least what seemed the Kalar equivalents. The flavors were so odd in the sense that she’d never tasted spices or seasonings like these before, but familiar in that, well, a feast was a feast.
Then, of course, there was the actual celebration. Relegated to the role of onlooker, all Svetlana could do was observe as group, after group, after group of Kalarael took turns whooping and gyrating in front of the towering Sacred Embers, which appeared turned up to maximum fervency. They threw their hands up, they shrieked and shimmied, they danced like ancient Pagans. Some twirled with torches, some blew fireballs like circus performers. All the while, those around her—the king, queen, and the rest of the Royal Assembly, spoke jovially amongst themselves at Svetlana’s right and left.
Yigôzien maintained her composure as best she seemed able, chiming in throughout the event with tidbits of information about specific dishes and the various performances that were playing out. Svetlana quickly found herself drowning in information, until at long last she had no choice but to tune the invoker out—easier said than done when the link between them was telepathic. Ed, seeming sensitive to her plight, lowered Yigôzien’s mental volume. As fascinating as it was to get a full dissertation on every dish and dance she was witnessing, it wasn’t what Svetlana wished to focus her thoughts on. There were much more pressing matters at hand—namely, in the fact that these beings thought she was their deity in bodily form.
At no point—not during the eating nor the observing of the performances—did Linjan’s anointing leave her mind. She wanted to get the high priestess alone. To explain, as best she was able, that she was not the Incarnate of Shanras. That back on her own planet, she was more accustomed to being anointed with porridge than oil. That this was all a mistake. It surprised her that at no point during the celebration did any of the Royal Assembly—not even the king or queen—speak a word to her. Perhaps that was one of their many customs—that of leaving deities be unless there was a distinct purpose. There came a point, however, in what felt like the second or third hour of the proceedings, that Svetlana could contain it no more. Would it be possible for me to speak to Linjan? she asked Yigôzien through their connection.
Yigôzien’s whiskers twitched. “You may do whatever you wish.”
“I am sorry. I did not want to defy custom by acting out of turn.”
“Your customs are our customs, my goddess. It is yours to tell me what you wish, not mine to tell you what you may wish for.”
Her goddess. This was going to get old—and dangerous—fast. How could such an advanced species be so utterly foolish? After swallowing her frustration, she said, “Please inform the high priestess that my companion, Ei`dorinthal, will connect with her telepathically. Warn her that there may be mild discomfort.” Now that she was thinking about it, the Kalarael seemed to handle Ithini connections better than humans did.
“I will do as you wish,” Yigôzien said. Performing a bajuine, she stepped away from Svetlana’s chair to approach the high priestess.
Svetlana steeled her eyes ahead, where the celebration was ongoing. Ed, I want you to sever my connection with Yigôzien once I am connected to Linjan. What I have to say to the high priestess, I do not want Yigôzien to hear. She didn’t want a third wheel chiming into what was bound to be a very uncomfortable conversation.
I understand, master.
Master. How better that sounded than “my goddess.”
Seconds later, Yigôzien approached. “I have spoken with the high priestess.” As she talked, Svetlana leaned forward to look at Linjan, two seats away. The elder Kalarael was already looking straight at her. “She awaits your connection.”
“I will sever my connection to you while I speak with Linjan,” Svetlana said. “Please do not be offended—what I must say, I must say to Linjan alone.”
“I understand, my goddess.”
Before Yigôzien could detect Svetlana’s disdain for her new moniker, the connection was closed. Ed’s voice filtered through. I will now connect you with Linjan.
The mental click came to her. The high priestess’s presence was felt. There was no need for Svetlana to speak, so she merely relayed to the high priestess her thoughts. High priestess…I appreciate all you have bestowed on me. It is something I never imagined I would receive, not in this life or any other. But there is something I must say, and when I say it, you must listen.
For the first time, the interpretation of Linjan’s voice emerged in her mind. I will listen. It was old. Wavery. In a strange way, it was almost melodic. Svetlana wasn’t sure if it was a true projection of the high priestess or a liberty taken by Ed, but there was a distinct level of calmness to it. It was a far cry from the awe of all the other Kalarael she had met.
Focusing her thoughts, Svetlana relayed, This may be difficult for you to hear, but it is truth that must be spoken. I know you believe me to be an Incarnate—a vessel of Kukira and the embodiment of Shanras in physical form. I assure you, though, that that is not the case. Your god is one I do not recognize and most certainly do not feel. While I am honored by what you have done and while I certainly accept that I may have been sent by the Creator of us all to accomplish some broader purpose, the role of Incarnate is one I cannot accept. It would go against my own faith to do so. It would be a sin if I did not confess this. It would be akin to me elevating my own status to that of the God that I worship.
Mental mouthful or not, making the confession was the right decision. She had no clue what Linjan’s reaction would be, but there was no way Svetlana could have justified saying nothing or even playing out this role for any period of time. Her only hope was that somehow, Linjan would accept it. Whether she did or not, though, was not Svetlana’s responsibility. In her confession, her hands were now clean.
A sense of clarity came to the connection. She wasn’t sure if it was from Linjan or Ed. When the high priestess’s voice reemerged, it was in the same calm tone she’d used before. You are wrong in your thinking.
And there they went. I assure you, I am not. I would know if I was an Incarnate—I would feel something. But I do not. I feel as I have always felt. Shanras is not in me.
The high priestess angled her head, though her blue eyes remained fixed. It is not in that belief that you are wrong.
Not in that belief? If not in that, then…?
You are wrong in thinking that I believe you are Incarnate.
Hidden by her half mask, the corners of Svetlana’s mouth sunk. Staring bewilderedly at the high priestess, Svetlana said, I don’t understand.
You are a gift from Kukira—of that, there is no doubt, relayed Linjan. But I am aware that you are what you call an Earthae, and nothing more.
Unable to restrain a physical reaction, Svetlana leaned her head a little bit closer, as if that would somehow impact the connection. Queen Chechera, who sat between the two, seemed to notice the silent interaction between them. The wide-eyed queen stared at Linjan and Svetlana with curiosity. In the midst of her own confusion, Svetlana waited for Linjan to elaborate. It did not take long.
Our people are facing many trials in this present time—none so dangerous as the Kalareim. Some clans have long been hesitant to engage in an active military campaign against them. They fear the cost of chasing down the Kalareim, who are nomadic by nature, is too great. They fear it would put us at a disadvantageous position that the Kalareim might exploit. All the while she spoke, that calm demeanor—and those blue eyes—remained. Yet by doing nothing, we have allowed the Kalareim to grow in number. Every day we do not act is a day they grow stronger.
The hair on the back of Svetlana’s neck stood on end.
I and some of the Royal Assembly know that the time for conflict has come—that it must come if the Kalareim are ever to be defeated. As it stands today, the nine clans are unwilling to unify for that purpose. But if they witnessed a miracle—if they received the order to muster for war from an Incarnate—then they would unify without question.
Oh my God. Svetlana didn’t mean for the mental utterance to slip out. It was just that for the first time, she realized what was happening.
Linjan’s gaze remained steadfast. After you see the Khuladi that you wish to visit, you will proclaim to the Kalarael people that the time has come for the Kalareim to be eradicated. With your words, they will unify. With your blessing, the Kalareim will be destroyed once and for all. There was a pause—one that was intentional. Then, we will allow you to leave.
Goose bumps. A horrible chill. As the realization of what was taking place came to her, Svetlana’s entire body tensed. A knot—a twisting, aching knot—formed in her stomach.
Master, Ed said, his voice only for her, I believe this may complicate things.
From her seat, Linjan turned her wrinkled head forward. Her gaze settled back onto the performers before them. Seconds later, the connection was closed.
Looking ahead herself, Svetlana leaned back. Though the performers and the Sacred Embers were before her, she did not see them. Her eyes looked at nothing at all.
They were using her. They knew well that she wasn’t an Incarnate. They wanted her to give them a blessing to begin a crusade against a species she had never met. She was nothing more than a tool. The only thing she’d heard of the Kalareim was that they were vile, treacherous monsters. Yet she could think of nothing more treacherous than what had just been revealed. Her connection with Ed still in place, she asked, How can they do this? How can a species whose entire culture is predicated on truth do this?
In Linjan’s defense, she is not lying, Ed answered. She is likely presenting you with more truth concerning her motives than you would receive from your own species. She made no effort to hide it from you.
And all the while, her eyes stayed the bluest of blues.
Once more, the Ithini elaborated. Blue is not indicative of honesty. It is indicative of serenity and contentment. She is indeed very content with your presence here. It is not you who is being manipulated.
Indeed, it wasn’t. It was Linjan’s own species. It was every single Kalarael at the celebration. Had this been their plan all along? At the first sight of a new alien species, had their government’s thoughts not been of wonder, but of how they could use that species to their advantage? Was she just a means to an end?
How utterly…human.
Gently, Queen Chechera placed her hand on Svetlana’s knee. The gesture was sudden, and it made Svetlana flinch. She looked at the young, beautiful queen. Chechera’s eyes were deep yellow. Concerned.
She has likely recognized the expression on your face as discontentment, Ed said. It is highly possible that Chechera is unaware of the manipulation at play. It is impossible to know who is involved and who isn’t.
All Svetlana could think about was how Scott had left for Cairo to follow the trail of a conspiracy at EDEN Command. Halfway across the galaxy, Svetlana had just found the same thing.
Do you want me to connect you with Chechera? Ed asked.
No, Svetlana answered honestly, for she truly wanted to speak to no one. But I must not leave her gesture unaddressed. If she is part of the conspiracy, she may become wary. If she is not, she may think her goddess displeased. Though I do not desire to speak with her, I know that I must.
As you wish, master. I will connect the two of you now.
Seconds later, the connection was established. Svetlana saw the queen’s eyes visibly wince—a reaction distinctly not seen in the eyes of the high priestess. Perhaps it was because she hadn’t had the benefit of a heads up from Yigôzien. Regardless, it prompted Svetlana to briefly explain. I am mentally connected to you via Ed, the being known as an Ithini beside you. We may speak by simply thinking.
A swell of slight confusion emanated from Chechera, though Svetlana couldn’t tell if it was from the connection or concern over Svetlana’s state. Seconds later, the queen addressed her in a voice as sweet and flowing as honey. Are you displeased, my goddess?
I have deduced that Chechera is extremely young, Ed said, even more so than Yigôzien. In human terms, you would consider her development little beyond what you would call a teenager. It is unlikely, in my opinion, that she is aware of any conspiracy, if human equivalencies are to be made. I can probe her thoughts to verify this, if you would like me to.
Will she detect it? Svetlana asked.
It is possible.
If it was possible, it wasn’t worth it. She sensed that Ed picked up her decision and accepted it, so she directed her thoughts at Chechera instead. I am not displeased. This is a wonderful celebration.
The queen’s eyes subtly brightened. Has Yigôzien been interpreting the performances to your liking?
She has.
Since she is your counsel now, I am happy to provide you with another invoker of custom, should you desire it.
There was an innocence to her voice—at least, insomuch as Ed was interpreting it. It almost broke Svetlana’s heart. I appreciate the offer, but it will not be necessary. I am sure she can fulfill both her former and current roles. Provided that doing so does not defy some other custom.
It does not. The corners of the queen’s vulpine lips lifted. May I be so bold to ask a favor, my goddess?
There was no other way to answer but, You may.
Might you bestow upon me wisdom, that I might lead my people well?
When she heard the request, her heart broke. How was she supposed to answer that? There was only one way she could think of. Placing her hand atop Chechera’s, she answered, You already possess all the wisdom you require.
The queen’s blue eyes glowed truer. Whiskers lifting, she revealed to Svetlana the largest of smiles. Thank you, my goddess.
Turning away, Svetlana returned her gaze to the Sacred Embers and the celebration around it. Reflections of the flames dancing in her own blue orbs, she relaxed her shoulders and leaned back in her chair, if for no other reason than to convey to the queen that she was pleased. To give her the impression that all was well. That Kukira was truly among them. As the minutes passed, however, long after Ei`dorinthal had severed the connection, the direness of her situation returned to her mind. How could it not?
For the remainder of the celebration, Svetlana instructed Ed to add Tauthin to their connection, so she could consult with the true members of her counsel. As she kept up the guise of being engrossed in the performance, she revealed the entirety of what she’d discovered with her Bakma counterpart. Though he said little, his mounting dourness could be sensed. When she asked if he thought Wuteel and Kraash-nagun should be included in the discussion upon their return, Tauthin simply said, No.
The return, as it turned out, came sooner rather than later. After an announcement to the crowd that the celebration was ending, the Kalarael filed away from the Jubilation Grounds with surprising order. There was one final exchange between Svetlana and King Xi`qirian, but only to convey that he, Chechera, Korlustus, and Linjan would accompany her tomorrow to a nearby military depot named Winduster, where the Khuladi was being held. They would do this to both observe her reaction to the Khuladi and to discuss the ramifications of the Earthaes’ and Kalaraels’ new, shared threat. Shortly after that revelation, Svetlana was ushered back onto the train for the ride back to Ban-Hezikal.
There was little to do during the ride, which afforded Svetlana time to ponder her situation. Could Linjan and her cohorts truly prevent Svetlana from leaving Kalar? Yigôzien had told her time and time again that she would be allowed the freedom to depart. It was hard to imagine the invoker-turned-counsel willfully misleading Svetlana in such a way. Svetlana only knew one thing for sure: at no point could she justify posing as an Incarnate goddess in order to declare genocide against a species she had yet to meet. She could only hope, and pray, that a resolution presented itself. That her God would show up to see her through. That this false religion would not impede her. But it was that line of thinking that led to the most harrowing question of them all.
What if Kukirism wasn’t false? Linjan’s motivations aside, what if there was something to all of this that she, an Earthae, couldn’t understand? If she believed in a single, all-powerful creator—which she did—then the truth would have to exist that this same creator created the Kalarael. It was not Kukira to them on Earth, but…what if it was to the Kalarael? What if her God and Kukira were not only interchangeable, but one in the same, just by a different name and a different set of rules? Could God not play in parallel sandboxes? God could do whatever He wanted. To assume anything else was to ascribe finite human wisdom. Against the scope of an infinitely powerful and unimaginable sentience such as God, that hardly seemed prudent.
And if Kukira could possibly be God, then what of the god of the Khuladi? What of Uladek? Could one sandbox be so vastly different—so vastly more violent—than all the others? The more she tried to understand, the more her understandings troubled her. There was only one concrete and logical conclusion she could cling to: that in the grand scale of everything, she knew nothing at all.
Ultimately, Svetlana fell back to the one thing that’d sustained her thus far. God, I am so lost and confused. I do not know what to believe or what to do. I do not even know what awaits at any given moment. But I trust You. Please, guide me through this.
Juxtaposed against the complexity of her situation, the prayer was simple. But sometimes, simple was best. She didn’t always need to understand what God was doing. She just needed to have faith in it.
“Eisa nici tah’reshina!” Yigôzien stood erect from her seat, the invoker’s loud proclamation repeating as she stood up and rushed to the train windows. “Eisa nici tah’reshina!”
Forcefully ejected from her thoughts, Svetlana looked at the invoker. All around her, the Kalarael in the train looked out their respective windows. With her eyes widened and heart pumping from the sudden commotion, she followed Yigôzien’s gaze to the pink landscape outside. Ed took the initiative to form the connection.
“The waters have risen for you!” Yigôzien exclaimed.
Eyes narrowing, she peered out of the window. No water could be seen. “The waters…what?”
“The waters have risen! It is a sign from Kukira! You are indeed the Incarnation of Shanras!”
Svetlana peered closer, until at long last she could make out a distinct wetness to the runa legras. Its pink hues were noticeably darker. Angling her head curiously, she asked, “What, did it rain?”
Yigôzien waved her hands in front of her face in a brief bajuine. “The ground is not wet with rain. It is the valesprings!”
The valesprings. The underground waterways. She remembered Yigôzien talking about them during the ride to Sélestere. She had said they occasionally rose to affect the planet surface. They took such events as miraculous signs.
Yigôzien gestured to the runa legras. “This is the overflow I was telling you about, when the valesprings rise to the surface. Such events are given to us by Kukira as signs of affirmation! Surely everything that took place today was in accordance with her will. This is a sign of great significance!”
The only sign Svetlana saw was one of trouble. This was obviously a natural phenomenon of some kind, but the Kalarael didn’t see it that way. This was being taken as a sign of affirmation from Kukira. It lent credibility to the proclamation that Svetlana was Shanras Incarnate. That was the last thing she needed. Behind her half mask, her lips downturned. She’d just told God that she trusted Him. What kind of a response was this?
The whole while the train continued along its course, the Kalarael gazed out of the windows in awe. The overflow stretched as far as the eyes could see, certifying that this was not some localized event. The impact would be impossible for the Kalarael at large to ignore. Leaning her head back in her seat and staring forward, Svetlana just waited to arrive at Ban-Hezikal.
Another half hour passed before they finally did, the entire duration of which the Kalarael crew bajuined and whispered hushed praises. There was no conversation amongst them—no activity beyond marveling at the expanse of saturated runa legras. Only when the train door opened did any of the crew dare tear their eyes away from it. As for Svetlana, she couldn’t wait to get out the door.
Her first step out of the train made her face twist. The Kalarael could call it whatever they wanted; this was nothing more than squishy, pink mud. Lifting her garments to keep them clean, she carefully trudged toward Ban-Hezikal.
Exhausted, confused, and bordering on total disillusionment, Svetlana’s mind was in a million dark places. How was she going to play off this role of Incarnate deity? How was she going to avoid sparking the Kalaraels’ next holy crusade? How were any of them going to get home? All she knew was that she wanted to collapse. To fall on her floating bed, order everyone to leave, and just think.
Just think.
“Setana.”
Halfway to the structure, Tauthin called out from behind her. Stopping, she turned to face him. When she did, the Bakma tossed an object at her from afar. The toss was not hard, but it caught her off guard. Eyes widening, she released the hem of her airy gown to grab it.
Her shock staff.
Arching an eyebrow, she looked at the weapon and then back to Tauthin. “Why are you…?”
Holding out his own retracted staff, Tauthin pressed the button on its surface. It extended to full length in both directions. As the Kalarael around him watched in confusion, Tauthin stepped forward. “Defend yourself.”
Defend herself? What? Mouth open behind her mask, she looked at her counterpart like he was crazy. “Are you joking?”
“Instruct the Kalarael not to intervene. Tell them that to do so would defy custom.”
“I will do no such thing,” she said.
Tauthin walked closer. “You will. You swore to me that you would.”
“Are you trying to train me now?” she asked, her voice incredulous. “In this muck, dressed up like this, after what we experienced? You must be crazy.”
“Are you unprepared?”
Pulling up her gown again, she answered, “You had better believe I am unprepared!”
“Then it is the right time.”
Mouth opening, she sought a reply, though none came to her. She turned her head away from him briefly to look off in the distance, only to return it. “Okay, I understand the point you are trying to make, but—”
“There is no ‘but.’ You accepted my tutelage. It is you who chose to challenge Kraash-nagun, not I. You are skillful with the staff when all things are comfortable. Let us see how you are when things are not.” Tone unchanging, he repeated his prior words. “Instruct the Kalarael not to intervene, then defend yourself.”
Once more, she drew in a breath, and once more, she sought a retort. But as had been the case before, none came to her. To argue that she was not prepared would only bolster his argument. Snarling behind her mask, she exhaled firmly. His case for this, as unfair as she felt it may have been, was valid. With a sigh of resignation, she looked at Ed. There was no need for her to issue the instruction. He connected her with Yigôzien immediately. Seconds after it was established, Svetlana addressed her. “Tauthin and I will undergo training.”
Yigôzien’s fox ears pressed back. “Now, my goddess?”
“Yes, now.” Much to her chagrin. “Please instruct everyone present not to interfere, no matter what happens. It would…defy Earthae custom.” Her words were laced with disgust.
After a second of what seemed like hesitation, the invoker-turned-counsel bowed her head. “As custom dictates.” Yigôzien turned to address the crowd from the train. Ei’dorinthal closed the connection.
Pressing the button atop the shortened staff, Svetlana expanded it to full length. Her gown, her hair, her skin—it all looked so immaculate. That was about to change. Releasing the hem of her gown, she planted her back foot into the wet runa legras. Holding the weapon out, she waited for Tauthin’s attack.
His first was not one she’d expected.
“We could have returned to Earth. We could have gone anywhere in the cosmos. Yet, you chose to come here.” Circling her slowly, his bulbous eyes narrowed. “Kraash-nagun was right. You are no worthy leader.”
She didn’t have a choice. There were Kalarael with them on the Zone Runner. What else should they have—
Tauthin swirled the staff around and surged forward.
Snapped out of her thoughts, she quickly raised her weapon to defend. Their staffs collided right in front of her. His attack, though lacking finesse, was strong, and she quickly found herself being pushed back as he followed through. Her boot slipped, and she fell on her rear with a disgusting, wet plop. Making a face as the cold mud soaked through her gown, she glared up at Tauthin through a loose ribbon of hair. All around them, the Kalarael watched nervously.
“Your actions have put us in this position. We had freedom. Freedom!”
After pushing herself up, she tried to reaffirm her grip on her staff. Now mud-caked, her palms were so slippery. She wiped them off on her gown; it was already ruined.
“You live life in such a place of privilege,” Tauthin said, circling again. “To you, freedom means nothing. It is your base assumption. For us, it was a gift unlike any we’d received. And you gave it away.”
Enough of this. She wasn’t going to let him distract her again. Moving forward herself, she jabbed the staff outward in an effort to disarm him. She succeeded in only disarming herself. As he slammed the end of his staff against hers, her slick hands failed her. By the time she reached forward to hurriedly reaffirm her grip, it was too late. Tauthin brought his staff around low, knocking her clean off her feet.
Landing on her side with an oof and a splatter, Svetlana grimaced behind her mask. After rolling her head around to glare at him again, she slowly pushed herself up. The whole left side of her gown was covered in pink. Flipping that same ribbon of hair out of her face again, she trudged miserably through the muck to retrieve her staff.
“You have failed us.”
“Zatknis,” she spat, the Russian curse slipping out. Reaching down, she retrieved the staff. After wiping it off as best she could, she tried once again to get a firm grip. Daggers in her eyes, she asked her counterpart, “Is this what you wanted for me? Are you happy now?”
“No happiness abides in me,” he answered. “I am a despised creature imprisoned on an alien world—because of you.”
She’d had about enough. Snarling aloud, she once more struck out at Tauthin with her staff, twisting and jabbing it as she pressed in on his defense. But her footing was compromised. With every step she took, she lost fractions of seconds in adjustments. Her more experienced adversary, however, was unfazed.
Whack! Whack! Whack!
Their staffs collided, Tauthin parrying as he moved backward, her offensive relentless—until he suddenly shifted gears. Pushing forward, he grabbed the end of her staff with his hand and shoved it away hard. Momentum carrying him through her, he swept her feet out from under her. Eyes widening, Svetlana outstretched her hands to try and catch her fall. It was no use. Her forward momentum only stopped when she landed face first.
Lifting her head from the pink mire, she reached up to sling mud from her eyes. Tauthin grabbed her blond ribbons. In a vicious motion, he yanked her head up, ripped off her half mask, then slammed her face right back down. As the Kalarael around them gasped, Tauthin slung the mask away, far into the distance.
Svetlana sucked in a breath and then coughed. Globs of runa legras were crammed into her nasal cavities. Half of her hair was now caked and dangling down. She pushed it back and staggered up.
“The guise of power falls.”
Her mask. He’d just ripped off her mask. Svetlana frantically wiped mud from her face as she spun around to find him.
He struck her again, this time in her stomach. Svetlana buckled forward, mouth opening in pain and still unable to see clearly. His staff struck the back of her ankles from behind. Her body bent backward as she once again fell, the fall this time knocking the wind out of her. Writhing in the pink mud, Svetlana rolled over onto her side. She struggled to find her breath as a new, terrible sensation washed over her. Fear. This no longer felt like a training tactic. The words Tauthin spoke sounded horribly real.
“Behold,” he said through snarled teeth, “the Incarnate.”
Tauthin grabbed her shoulder and then rolled her over onto her back. Still unable to see clearly, she wildly fought to free herself as he lifted her up with one hand. Her ruined ribbons were tossed to and fro as she struggled. His gnarled talons tightened around her throat. The next thing Svetlana registered was her body being tossed through the air. She landed in the mire, rolling several times before stopping. With her limbs sprawled out, she laid her head back. Her body went still.
Silence. No wind. No rustling. Just pure, deafening silence. The entire gathering of Kalarael stared in yellow-eyed horror—they did not even speak amongst themselves.
Svetlana rolled over again, her body a mere pink lump in the runa legras. Slowly, she crawled away from Tauthin. She fought to get distance between them. Several moments passed before she realized he wasn’t chasing her.
“Kraash-nagun will kill you,” he said with finality. Dropping his staff into the mire, the Bakma leader walked past her and into the structure.
Somewhere between the pain and the humiliation, Svetlana found it within herself to push up to her knees. Flashes of her old life returned. Her shortcomings on the battlefield. Her failed attempts at personal relationships. Her suspicions and jealousies of those around her. In comparison to all of this, those things seemed insignificant. But at the time, they had been among the many, many things that defined her…at least, to her. The tipping point had been her imprisonment by Nagogg. For her, that’d been rock bottom.
But then she’d fought back. She hadn’t been freed—she’d freed herself. Then, she’d freed those around her. For the first time in her life, as she’d thrust the tip of her spear through Nagogg’s throat and then ordered Tauthin to relinquish his chair, she had been the one on top. The one with power. The one to be feared.
The Kalarael had only made it worse. Their adoration had enabled her to play a role she’d never played: that of savior from above. It’d allowed her to believe that she—a single being—could make a difference in humanity’s war. It’d allowed her to believe she could defeat Kraash-nagun, one of the Khuladi’s most elite warriors. Perhaps, even if to the faintest degree that she didn’t even want to admit was there, it’d made her feel like an idol to be worshipped. But that golden calf was melting. It was on its knees in the runa legras, its fine garments stained and its ribbons of hair heavy. But she couldn’t blame the Kalarael for this. She couldn’t blame Tauthin. She had no one to blame but herself.
A pair of hands slid under her armpits. A breach in supposed custom, perhaps, but one she dared not spite. The Kalarael knew the fight was over as well as she did. Svetlana couldn’t bring herself to look at Akàziendi as the protector lifted her up. She could barely look at Yigôzien as her invoker and friend approached her.
“Your mask, my goddess,” Yigôzien said soberly.
“I am not your goddess.” The words tumbled out. Taking the mask in hand, she staggered back to the structure.
As brutal as the lesson had been, it was not the worst part of the experience. That was reserved for the trudge back to her quarters. Covered in wet runa legras from top to bottom, there was no place for her to hide from the Kalarael as she walked past them, a trail of pink mud following her, staining the once pristine floor. There was no place for her to hide when she returned to her chamber—when she walked past Wuteel and Kraash-nagun en route to the cleansing pool. Or when she walked past Tauthin. The Bakma leader, for what it was worth, never turned his head to look her way.
Unlike the cleaning she’d undergone in the space station, there was nothing liberating about slinging off her mud-caked garments. There was no joy in seeing chunks of clay rinsed from her hair. There was only the sting of embarrassment.
As the orange and pink hues of sunset faded and the events of Sélestere transitioned into memory, Svetlana prepared herself for slumber. In doing so, she forced her sights on the events to come. On what could still be controlled. A visit to the Khuladi at Winduster awaited tomorrow. Along with it, hopefully, would be clarity concerning their true adversary—the one now shared between two species.
She could ill afford to allow the events of a single day to relegate that, no matter how humbling they may have been.