Chapter One
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“They say that in the beginning, there was a snake.
But long before that myth, there was the reality of me.
And from my waters came everything that lives and breathes.”
— Nammu, Goddess Of All That Is
The air is thick with the heady scents of crushed blossoms and honeywine. Sunlight filters through the vines, dappling the warm pools, silken cushions, soft feathers of your wings.
“Isn’t this delicious, Thee?” Etanash holds a glistening slice of overripe melon, ordained with honey, its juices dripping in rivulets down their wrist.
It is first meal, the day of your Rite of Acceptance.
And they’re right, everything is sumptuous. It always is.
“Absolutely,” you sigh, smiling at them as you pick up a spear of spiced, glazed meat.
You’re reclining on a floating pavilion in the natural bathing pools atop Corestone, surrounded by flowering vines, curving branches, mossy stones, mosaic pathways.
A tiny azure butterfly lands on your bare shoulder.
The numerous curved pools, small waterfalls, and streams are fed by warm springs, creating a natural microclimate atop the cliffs of Corestone, where various delicacies grow in profusion all annum long.
In a world as abundant as Nuama, the beauty of Corestone is unremarkable—except that it is your home. So to you, it is special.
You are Thelyrah, daughter of an unbroken lineage of Empresses before you.
In a few short hours, you and Etanash will stand before the crystal archives of Temple Blackstone. There, you will undergo a ritual you know almost nothing about—except that few are able to complete it.
If you’re successful, you will be allowed to accept the Rite to become Empress.
If you are not… well.
You have to be.
There’s no one else who wants to lead. Not that you particularly desire to, either.
You sigh and settle deeper into the soft pillows behind you, wishing you could stay in this moment for the rest of the day.
But Ahurewah, Zaval, and Lihure (your Mother, Grandmother and Grandmother’s Mother), as well as Etanash’s Mother, Vivsaehra, will arrive shortly to escort you and Etanash to the temple.
Perhaps it is better to focus on the moment at hand.
Fa’loom and servants glide through the garden, carrying trays of food, vessels of honeywine, and a bit of Fiera—though your Mothers told you not to indulge too much just yet.
One Fa’loom is massaging your feet, gently caressing your calves and thighs, his soft fingertips alighting your skin with imagined sparks of fire.
Another Fa’loom applies fragrant oil scented with cindersmoke and star jasmine blossom to your entire body, his fingers occasionally teasing your nipples or innermost crevice—with permission, of course. His varapos is erect, eyes soft with desire.
Though he is aroused, he would never touch without consent. No one in Nuama would.
You sigh with pleasure and contentment, stretching your limbs and wings to their full lengths. Then, you take the hand of one of the Fa’loom and place it on your shoulder—an unspoken request for a massage. He obeys immediately, his touch firm and reverent.
The day is nearly liquid in its calm indulgence, surrounding you with warmth, softness, contentment.
Servants—sans their yezari and varapos, indicating their role—tie back your hair and preen the thick, lush feathers of your wings.
Etanash’s practical needs are being similarly attended to, though they have requested no sensual pleasure this morning—neither from you nor from a Fa’loom. Their hair takes less time than yours to prepare, especially since lately, they’ve chosen to keep it close-shaved.
Their flight garments—and yours—are somewhere nearby. The heavier garments you’ll need for Blackstone are already packed into the skypods, awaiting transport by the Cloudweavers who will accompany you.
Your Mother believes you will be able to endure what will happen today, so you are doing your best not to worry.
“Etan, you look perfect,” your smile is languid, molten, peaceful as you admire their long, lean form, full lips, angular face.
They wink, offering you a piece of the honeyed melon. You catch their wrist, drawing one of their fingers into your mouth as they feed it to you—on purpose, to amuse them.
It works. Laughter flickers between you like sunlight on ocean waves.
The melon melts in your mouth, the prefect texture. Just barely overripe so it’s juices are full-flavored but it hasn’t lost its firmness. You both swirl your fingers through the water surrounding your floating pavilion, rinsing away the honeyed stickiness, watching ripples shimmer in the golden light.
“Do you feel ready?” They ask, and your smile slips, just a bit.
A shiver dances along your spine.
“I—”
“Thelyrah! Etanash! It’s time to leave,” your Mother, Empress Ahurewah calls from afar, her voice floating across the water.
You take a deep breath.
Whether you are ready or not, it is time.
~
You are trembling. The winding pathways leading to Blackstone are before you. The sun still beams warmly down upon the world, but an unfriendly breeze belies its comfort.
Inside the temple, the chill will be bone-deep.
Your Mother Ahurewah, her Mother, and her Mother’s Mother stand nearby, gowns and feathers of their wings flowing in the breeze.
Etanash and their Mother are dressed in the light browns and creams common to their Mamlakah. Like your matriarchs, they both hold their magnificent wings aloft as if about to take flight, showing utmost respect for the occasion.
A small group of Cloudweavers—Sestras who dedicate their time as carriers of goods, messages, and people—stand a short way off, stretching their limbs and wings as they talk amongst themselves. Their presence—so familiar, so ordinary—feels like an omen today.
You remind yourself that Cloudweavers haven’t been called into service—other than occasionally transporting a misbehaving servant or Fa’loom to Ga’hueal or the even more rare event of killing a male who’d overstepped too egregiously—since the last Bloodletting.
So many annums ago…
You glance again at Blackstone—the repository of—well, you’re not exactly certain.
The crystalline structure is gigantic, and seems to pulse with a strange, strong—something. Almost like it’s breathing. Or sentient.
Everything in Nuama contains intelligence of some kind or another.
It’s just knowing how to understand that’s the trick.
Your own wings are unfettered by ribbons or gems today. You flutter them lightly, a habit when you’re deep in thought.
Your silken inner gown is topped by an outer robe with sleeves that fall in soft cascades below your wrists. The velvety outer robe is watery shades of pink, green, and gold. The top is somewhat loose and open to reveal your inner gown below. A deep green sash circles your waist, allowing the robes to cascade into generous folds that billow and flow gracefully around your legs. A voluminous deep green hooded cloak is your final layer.
You’ve never worn so much fabric except during flights near Kopu’s peaks or the Windblown Range, though the garments for such outings are tight to the skin to reduce drag. Despite the unfamiliar weight, your gown, robe and cloak are soft and comforting on your skin.
“Thelyrah and Etanash, do you understand that after today, you will be Sestras rather than younglings, which binds you in unbreakable commitment to all women? And do you understand that means continuing to show loyalty, support, and understanding to each and every Sestra and youngling in Nuama?” Your Mother, the Empress, asks.
“Yes.”
You and Etanash reply in unison.
Etanash has waited to experience their own Oath, so you can do it together after you’ve both reached the age of consent. Rather than being based strictly on number of annums of life, the age when consent is granted also takes into account the maturity of each youngling.
You feel no offense they reached age of consent before you. They were born before you, and regardless, it’s not a competition.
Being a youngling is a gift to be savored until one is truly ready for more responsibility.
“And do you understand that, because of your character, discretion, and purity of heart, you may also choose to become Ensheduana?”
“Yes.”
Again you answer together, though neither of you plan to become Ensheduana.
You have every intention of accepting the Rite, and Etanash has agreed to become your Evermate—as such, they will be your closest companion and confidant. And bedmate, when you both so desire.
Neither of you wish to spend your life as an Ensheduana, perpetually in a temple or assisting other women in birthing their babies—as beautiful as both those things may be.
And certainly neither of you wish to serve in a duug in any manner, though of course you respect Sestras who do.
Every path has its sacrifices.
“Do you understand that you have been told only some of what is true about our word, and that after today you will know much more?”
“Yes.”
“Do you understand the reason for this secrecy is to protect everyone in Nuama, and that after today, you will be charged with protecting our world and also Ihatithre, as well as doing what must be done to avoid another Bloodletting here, while also inspiring such an event to take place in Ihatithre?”
“Yes.”
That was a detail you’d just learned from your Mother last night—sometimes a Bloodletting is not something to be avoided—
“And do you understand that the trials and experiences you have within Blackstone may show you things you won’t fully understand, or that may be exceedingly painful to endure?”
“Yes.”
“And you understand that you may not discuss anything you learn today with anyone who has not been invited to commune within Blackstone?”
“Yes.”
“And you understand that no men—and very few Sestras—are aware of what happens here, and that you are forbidden from telling anyone who has not been within Blackstone what you experience and see here today, on penalty of death?”
“Yes,” you shiver, though you have no intention of telling anyone anything.
“And what is the introduction to our precepts?”
So well-known even the littlest youngling Sestras—those who are barely learning to fly—can recite it.
Again, you and Etanash speak as one.
“We, the Sestras of Nuama, are the Keepers of balance, safety, and abundance—each of which are necessary for life to flourish. These three ethos are achieved when every woman is loved and supported as an integral part of their Mamlakah, when consent—no matter the topic—is always requested and respected, when men gratefully accept and revel in their role of serving and honoring women, and when greed is never tolerated.”
“And which precept is most-discussed in our Sacred Ethos, notations, and missives?”
“Greed.”
“Why?”
“Greed leads to every other problem our society might face,” you reply, since your Mother looked at you when asking this question.
Etanash’s Mother speaks to them next, asking— “…and why is greed the root cause of any issue our society may encounter?”
“There are many examples. I will list three,” they reply, their manner one of well-earned confidence.
Beneath their robes, which are dark and shapeless, they are completely still.
A surge of affection flows through you. How long you have known them! And how very intelligent they are. Your heart softens as they speak, every word they utter unbreakable truth.
“Withholding honesty—hiding your true thoughts—creates imbalance in relationships, because it values self-perception above true connection. Secondly—if a male were to speak or interact with a Sestra in a way that caused her distress, that is also an act of selfishness, because they seek to disparage, harm, or control her. That is greed for power over others. And lastly, taking without consent or hoarding of anything—fabrics, gems, lovers, food—is a violation of one’s entire Mamlakah. At its root, every disruption—every fracture in our world, every broken bond—can be traced back to the mistaken belief that the self deserves more than the whole.”
The four older women look quite pleased with Etanash’s answer.
Your Mother speaks once more as she meets your eyes, her face radiant with love.
“Very well. You may both enter Blackstone.”
~
The mossy stone pathways leading to the temple are covered in shattered rainbows of tile in patterns of snakes, birds, vines, flowers, winged Sestras in flight, and all manner of depictions of natural wonders. The paths wind between natural streams and ponds lined with lush, flowering plants in a multitude of colors and varieties that cascade over the edges and into the water.
Aside of the lack of trees in this open space, it reminds you of the clifftop bathing pools.
The temple itself is a wonder. It is a gigantic black grouping of stones, crystalline in appearance. They jut up from beneath into the wide natural clearing, surrounded by several dozen similar crystal groupings in varying heights, the deepest purple-black you’ve seen. Not even the midnight sky with no moon and thick cloud cover compares to their darkness.
You’ve never been here before—it’s one of the few places in Nuama where access is controlled and monitored.
The entire area is deep in the lush forests half a days’ flight north of Corestone, where it rains most of the thirteen months of each annum. Luckily, it is not raining now. You dislike the rain. It makes flying more difficult and much colder. But you know it is needed.
The entrance of Blackstone does not appear until Zaval, your Grandmother, places her hand upon the temple. Filaments, sparks, tiny bolts of shimmering lightening swarm through the crystalline structure toward her hand for several beats, unite under her palm, then undulate away.
An opening yawns in front of you.
It is a mouth of nothingness.
“Thelyrah and Etanash, when you are ready, please drink these,” your Mother says, handing each of you a generously sized flask of Fiera.
“Should we consume all of it before entering?” You ask.
“Yes.”
You exchange a brief glance with Etanash, then shrug and begin taking deep swallows of the Fiera. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Etanash do the same.
When you’ve finished, you’re both panting slightly. Neither of you have ever drank that much Fiera all at once.
Your wings flutter gently as if in response to your pounding heart.
“You may now enter the temple. And remember, when your time here is over, we will return directly to Corestone, where you will both choose your lifepath. And if you so choose, Thelyrah, you will accept your Rite to become the next Empress of Nuama.”
As if you could forget.
A shiver trembles down your spine, through your hips, to the tips of your toes.
The breeze picks up, swirling around you as if it wants to push you inside Blackstone.
You let it. You—and Etanash—step forward.
Reality breaks apart.
~
You are bitten a few times before you realize what’s happening. You’re not afraid, you’ve been warned about the snakes. You’d been told—this morning shortly before arriving at Blackstone—that Soothsnake venom enhances Fiera’s effects.
It’s just that their bites feel gentler than you’d have guessed.
Between the Fiera and venom, along with being inside one of the crystalline temple archives, each of which hold their own ancient undeniable power, you’re flat on your back within seconds.
Though your eyes are open, it is unknowably dark.
Soon enough, patterns of sparkling stars appear.
Even your fingertips feel alive.
The silken fabric of your inner gown is as soft as the summer sea upon your skin.
The hairs on your arms stand up, and each one tingles, sending tendrils of molten light through you.
Everything that is part of you is alive and awake, yet completely peaceful.
After a short time that peace dissipates, not to be felt again until many hours after you’ve left the temple.
Or perhaps it’s never fully reclaimed. Not permanently.
Not the way you felt peace before Blackstone.
You’d thought it would be like a dream.
And at first, it is beautiful. The ground beneath you pulses like a heartbeat.
You see the flow of life itself—River Neith, through which all things pass, from breath to blood to bone. The river runs from Lake Tiv’esh all the way to Corestone, emptying into the sea in a tall, magnificent waterfall.
But the river runs crimson, almost glowing in the dark.
And above—two suns. Pale, faded. Each being eclipsed by a moon—
The current twists, shivers, becomes more—something bobs in the water—a branch? A fallen fruit?
No.
It is a body.
Then another.
And another.
You cannot count them all.
Each body is that of a Sestra.
All have had their wings cut off.
You inhale sharply, turning away, searching for something else, something true and safe—but the visions do not stop.
All around you, women and children are screaming. Weeping.
Making themselves small. Hiding.
They are not safe. Why are they not safe?
You force yourself to focus.
The night before, Mother told you that Ihatithre, the world created by Enlieanu—a male—was different, and would be deeply disturbing.
Since you had not yet taken your Oath, however, that’s pretty much all she told you.
All she could tell you.
You sense Etanash nearby, and think they must also be laying on their back. Your wings cushion you, though they are stretched in odd ways. The ligaments of your wingroots protest, but you’re unable to move.
A woman rushes past, as real as your own hand. She is running from someone, but she should see you. She does not, and in fact moves directly through you as she flees.
A male is chasing her. Why would he do that? She looks scared.
Is she scared of him?
She has no wings—!
Why do none of these Sestras have wings?!
Then—suddenly—the male stops. His gaze flicks around, lands on you.
He sees you.
He grins.
It is not a friendly grin.
It is something else, something wrong.
He moves toward you, slow, deliberate. A sick sense of triumph in his stride.
Every instinct screams for you to run—but you cannot move.
His hands move to his clothing—odd garments, unfamiliar in shape. Piece by piece, he strips them away, his eyes never leaving your face.
Except when they drop lower.
Something in his stare makes you want to shrink, to disappear, to be anywhere but here.
You’ve never felt this way when a male looks at you, but then, no one has ever looked at you the way he is doing now.
You don’t even really have the words for how he is behaving, other than you sense he has broken each of the precepts at some point.
Many, many times.
He probably doesn’t even know what they are.
Something you intrinsically understand as greed is in his eyes.
What reason would he have to be selfish? Aren’t all his needs met?
“Stop!” You command, but he does not listen.
His grin grows wider.
You have never, ever not been listened to by anyone, let alone a mere male.
Just as he is fully naked and about to fall upon you, Etanash gathers themselves and rolls over, touching your cheek.
The male vanishes into smoke.
Though there is no light, you can somehow see.
“What is happening? Why could he see me but she couldn’t? I thought—” You are panting with horror. The temple is ice-cold, you can’t stop shivering.
“I don’t know, Thee! I didn’t see a male or Sestra. I saw—I saw—” they cover their face with their hands, unable to continue.
“Okay. Okay,” you say, grasping their hands between yours. “We can do this, Etanash. My Mother went through this and yours did, too. We are their children. We are strong enough. I know it. Let’s hold one another.”
And so, frightened and increasingly broken as the visions wear on, that’s what you do. Etanash buries one hand in your hair, knowing this calms you, and cups your hip with their other hand, pulling you close. You wrap one arm around them, your face on their chest, listen to their heartbeat.
The ever-steady rhythm has always brought you peace.
The scene behind your closed eyes morphs and you’re in a warm, damp, wet swampy area, like nothing you’ve seen before. The trees aren’t really trees… they’re made of half-dead, crawling things that embed themselves into the wood—
A Sestra a bit older than you runs past.
Like the first woman you saw, she is also being chased by a male. But something about this is different.
He doesn’t want to just hurt her…
He calls out to her.
“Mica! Mica! You can’t get away! Not this time! It’s your day to die, little girl!”
Little girl? Why is he calling her that? She’s a gown woman. A Sestra—
She runs, arms beating against the air, feet pounding against soft earth.
She has no wings—why are all these Sestras without their wings!?
You moan in frustration—if she could fly, she could escape—
“Mica!” The male’s voice is sing-song. “I said—it’s your day to die!”
He grunts as he catches up to her, grabs her by her loose, long hair.
“NO!” You cannot help but scream, but he does not hear you.
And suddenly, you understand he would not listen even if he could.
He twists her arm around, so she is close against his body.
She is fighting and screaming and she won’t get away—
A loud noise—like a tree branch snapping.
Her body drops to the ground, her head flopping oddly.
She is still. Her light is fades until it is gone—
He smirks. Bends down as if to stroke her cheek.
Instead, he straightens back up and kicks her as hard as he can between her legs.
You start screaming and cannot stop.
But it’s not over.
You see a group of four young men who have a youngling Sestra captive, strung up by her hands in a dark, cavernous space.
They take turns assaulting her in every way imaginable with various objects, and their own bodies, for what seems like weeks.
Her body begins to decay, though she is still alive.
You are so horrified you cannot speak. Your skin is ice, and you understand why your Mother insisted on extra layers.
She always protects you.
Etanash whimpers beside you, and you pull one another closer. Their skin is cold to your touch, and you wrap your cloak and wings more tightly around them.
They do the same for you.
And—
There is a Mamlakah. Spires of crystalline, palest azure and gold rise to the sky, rather like the main Mamlakah of Privot, across the southern sea from Corestone—
The Mamlakah glows in the setting sun. It seems perfect.
For a moment, you think Ihatithre may have been beautiful, once.
But then the sky darkens, and you see.
The ground around the Mamlakah is dead.
The structures are not made of crystal or stone.
They are bodies—Sestras, stacked one upon one another, bones fused into the structures themselves—
Their wings have been stripped, cut away. Their eyes are hollow. Some are still alive. Some have been dead for innumerable annums.
They hold up the city, and the men inside do not even notice.
Or if they do, they do not care.
You try to breathe, but the air tastes of ash and rot.
You gasp, your heart breaking, but—
The nightmare doesn’t stop.
You see rivers and streams drying up.
You see children of all genders being used to satisfy the revolting desires of males who are, through some insane twist of reality, in positions of power.
You see sicknesses of mind and body that you don’t understand.
You see so many males, everywhere, all around you, pressing in on you—
But then—
Then—
Oh!—
Suddenly your studies with the Ensheduana click into place.
Practices discussed but not fully explored, rituals you didn’t completely understand the purpose of, teachings that made no sense at the time—
The firma.
Your Core.
You know what to do.
You take a deep breath, fill your chest with air, and allow yourself to sink into the firma beneath the temple.
Away from the visions of the archives.
Down, down, down.
Stripping away layers of skin, then muscles, and finally even your bones.
You cease to exist in any form other than your Core.
A beat. You would breathe if you still had lungs—
From this place of non-existence, you open eyes you do not have.
Ihatithre—the real place, not the memories stored in the archives—is dark where you evince. Later you will learn it usually is.
Many atrocities requiring the ministrations of you and thousands of other Sestras take place in the deepest darkness.
Soon, the shadows in front of you begin to coalesce into forms.
You are in a bedchamber.
Through the sky-gate you see an unfamiliar sight—two moons rather than the three visible in the skies above Nuama. The two suns have set, it is night in Ihatithre.
There is a male on the bed, and a little girl. Both are naked.
Your non-existent stomach roils.
You want so badly to look away. To leave.
To destroy the male in the most violent way possible, which shocks you to your Core, rocking you backwards, away form the grotesque scene in front of you.
But you have to stay.
You have to help.
Ensheduana Vivesa’s teachings on lumen come to your memory, and you gasp.
So many of the things you’ve studied over the annums are coalescing—
Part of your mind begins to think about the implications of that, but you push those thoughts aside and focus on the heartbreaking scene in front of you.
You can’t think, you must simply act—
You gather all the light you can reach as close to yourself as possible.
You go to the little girl, who does not seem to see you.
You allow the light to rest between you, soft and steady, until—slowly, barely perceptibly—it moves toward her, drawn by the little girl herself.
Tears stream down a face you do not have. She is still inside herself, somewhere.
You hold her in your non-existent arms, whispering comfort with a voice only she can hear. Words her mind may not remember, but her heart will.
You do not know how she can hear you. You do not know why the male does not.
The difference between who can hear whom and why in the crystalline archives versus Ihatithre are tucked away to be examined later.
The little girl in your arms is so small. Your heart breaks a million times as the assault continues.
As you speak to her, your voice is impossibly gentle.
“You will be safe someday. This will not define you. Stay as strong as you can. I love you. You will be okay.”
You repeat this to her an innumerable number of times until the male finally stops and stands up. He cleans himself and leaves the room.
The little girl, who was stoic—in shock—throughout the assault, begins to cry.
Quietly.
She is afraid he will return.
She is perhaps five. The age of your youngest sister.
The age you were when you flew solo for the first time, your wings stretching into the wide azure sky, green kaleidoscope of an abundant jungle brimming with plant and animalian life unfurling below.
You whisper more words of comfort to the wingless little girl, cradling her with all the love you can muster, though you are only your Core in this place.
She will choose healing. Someday.
You stay as long as possible, mending what you can, knowing it will take many annums for her to begin to heal. It will be so long before the abuse stops.
At the last possible moment before your Core dissolves completely, you allow yourself to be reclaimed by the firma, a gasping, dragging engulfment that is the truest pain imaginable. The icy clench of that endless fiery death—
Finally, you cannot take any more of the hurt.
You vomit—what you do not know, you do not yet fully exist again—over and over as you are pulled from the nightmares of Ihatithre.
You are still heaving when you fully rematerialize on the floor of the crystal temple.
There is light—real, true light—and you turn your head to see the temple has reopened where you and Etanash entered, hours ago.
Annums ago. Millennia ago.
Before the events you saw in the bedchamber can be subsumed by the firma and drip back down to Ihatithre to infect someone else, Etan’ash slits the bottom of your foot open, allowing a solid stone trough lined with fragments of Belaruhse crystal to absorb the gushing memories carried within your blood.
You feel the weight of what you witnessed begin to subside.
Your stomach begins to settle.
Etanash looks different. Older.
How did they know to slice open your foot?
Wait, their Mother is here, perhaps she—then, you understand what is happening.
You feel the memories seeping from you.
The little girl’s face begins to fade.
It’s not fair. It’s not—
You begin weeping, your wails rending the air both inside the temple and out into the stunningly beautiful world beyond.
Why would anyone create such a place like Ihatithre?
Why—
It’s not fair that you can be relieved of the burden the little girl must bear. You must go back to her, help her more—
As you think this, your Mother—when did she come into the temple?—holds up a Soothsnake and allows it to bite you.
You feel the venom surge up your torso from your thigh, spreading its relief through your wounded body.
To your Core.
Etanash, carrying the last lingering memories of their own visions upon their face, rests their hand upon your ankle.
Their left foot is wrapped in cloth. They’ve been sliced open too. Exhaustion and compassion wage a battle upon their face.
Etanash’s Mother embraces them as she pulls up their robes, holds a snake to their skin, and allows it to sink its fangs into their leg.
The temple is still cold, but a tiny hint of warmth carrying the scent of water and green, growing things drifts past.
You inhale, holding the moment to you as long as you can, imagining yourself sending the feeling of it to the little girl—
Does she sense it? You think she does—
A moment later, you fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.
~
When you awaken many hours later, the little girl is gone.
Not from Ihatithre, but from you.
It is explained that forgetting is necessary. That it is almost always permanent.
After all, how can one endure the horrors of Ihatithre time and time again if they remember all that happens there?
In order to do the work that must be done, you must forget.
But months later, memories of the little girl—and everything else you’ve seen in Ihatithre since that day—return.
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