Chapter Two
“Among Sestras, knowledge should be openly shared. That said, there are restrictions for who may access the entirety of the archives and have full knowledge of Ihatithre, even within the Empresses’ family. These stipulations are in place to protect Nuama from another Occurrence such as the one we experienced seventeen annums ago. These restrictions may only be changed by decree of the Empress—after consulting with the Conven—and only under extraordinary circumstances. And of course, it should be obvious how crucial it is that males are never allowed within temple walls, nor any other sacred space.”
— Excerpt from Ensheduana Conven Archives, Volume 78, Annum 17
“Minah! Where are you, dear one?” Grandmother Ahurewah calls, her cheerful voice echoing through stone corridors.
You grin, wondering if she will find you. You’ve been playing hide-and-find most of the morning. A favorite game of Sestras of all ages throughout the annums, and one you have enjoyed playing with Grandmother Ahurewah since you were old enough to walk.
Today there’s only one rule—no flying.
That effectively limits the hunt to the chambers and passageways of Corestone—home to Empresses and their mothers, daughters, sisters, and nieces since time began.
You’re nestled in a favorite nook you created in a side corridor that leads to a promontory with a tiny ledge. Rarely used, since there are much larger and easily accessed sunsprawls, skygates, and landings carved into the cliff-faces of Corestone, the passageway is quiet and secluded.
The walls of Corestone hold the cool breath of deep earth, their surfaces worn smooth by earthshapers of generations past. The scent of sun-warmed rock and plumaria flower garlands flows into passageways through open skygates and lingers in the air, mingling with the distant echoes of Sestras laughing in atriums above. Somewhere far off, the sound of water trickling over moss-covered stone creates a soft counterpoint to the hush of shifting breezes.
Your Grandmother might not even know your hiding place exists, since you just made it a few days ago. It had been a small task, asking the stone to part, shift, move.
Tracing your fingers along the rough walls of the existing corridor, whispering without words, your intentions slipping beneath the surface like rainwater into earth. The corridor had responded with slow, reverent compliance, reshaping itself with the patience of an ageless being.
Quite different from the prank you and Zinna had played on one of the Ensheduana who was teaching you both the art of communicating with stone, trees, water—the two of you had asked the rockface of a nearby cliff to form into a very detailed, anatomically-correct vulva, clitoris included.
You nearly giggle thinking of it. You and Zinna had both been quite proud, and still are. It was left where it was formed, and you’d heard it was being used as supplemental imagery for a class on bringing a Sestra to orgasm, being taught to final-annum Nauciti from the nearby duug.
“Minah…!” Grandmother’s voice is closer, and you think of asking the stone to enclose you. But that would be cheating, so of course, you won’t. It’s a funny thought though.
Tiring of the game, you pop out of your hiding place, growling like a lion.
“Oh! Minah! You startled me, appearing from nowhere like that. Have you made yourself a little room?” she asks, and so you show her.
She watches intently, exclaiming at the patterns of light streaming through the shafts, which you positioned with careful precision so they would create formations of your three favorite constellations—the jellyfish, the lotus, and the seven sisters.
This time of day, the jellyfish constellation spills across the floor in a dance of shifting light, as though swimming through stone.
Grandmother reaches out, tracing the edges of the dancing light with her fingertips. “Oh, this is delightful,” she murmurs. “A sanctuary of your own, tucked away. You always were one for finding restoritive places.”
She turns to you with a knowing smile, one that reminds you she sees everything, even the things you don’t say. “It reminds me of the little alcove I had when I was your age, except I wasn’t yet talented at earthshaping. It was only a small hollow, really. Nothing as well thought-out as this.”
“This is quite well-done, Minah,” Grandmother adds, glancing around the small space, taking in the small ledges and shelves you’ve created to house some of your favorite artifacts and crystals.
“Thank you, but it really wasn’t much work,” you smile and sit on the stone bench, which you’ve piled with several colorful embroidered pillows from your chambers. You pat one of them, inviting Grandmother Ahurewah to sit with you.
She does, smoothing her many-layered yet still quite sheer gown of impossibly fine gossamer woven by artisans from Isïn. The garment is many colors that shift and flow in the tiny beams of sunlight, giving the appearance of the nebula nearest Nuama, called Aesplied.
Grandmother reaches out to tuck a stray curl behind your ear.
“Minah, I never cease to be impressed with your cleverness and resourcefulness. Sometimes, it’s the small things—things that seem like they ‘aren’t much’—that end up making a world of difference. Moments that seem insignificant can change everything…” Her voice trails off, and you frown. Whatever is she talking about? The Rite? You’d hardly call that insignificant.
“Grandmother?” You query, patting her arm.
“Well! Never mind all that. Just lost in my thoughts for a moment. It’s strange how time moves—you’re nearly at the age of consent, yet it feels like only an annum ago your Mother and I welcomed you into this world,” she smiles wistfully. “The first time I held you in my arms, you stared at me like you had been waiting to return to us for lifetimes. Wise and watchful, from the very first moments.”
Her mention of your Mother—Empress Thelyrah—reminds you of why Grandmother Ahurewah wanted to see you today. Other than for fun, of course.
“Thank you,” you reply, your tone shifting. “I know the Rite is coming up soon—”
“Indeed,” she replies, and her voice becomes more matter-of-fact. “Do you know what choice you will make?”
There is only curiosity in words, never pressure. Not even once.
The choice is completely yours to make.
You also know there is no one else who want to accept the Rite. If you don’t… well. That’s not something Nuama has ever dealt with.
“I don’t know if I can lead, Grandmother. Mother is so good at it—”
“She was once just as inexperienced as you,” she reminds you.
“I know. And I know that if I don’t accept the Rite—”
Grandmother sighs and pats your cheek.
“Minah, whomever is the next Empress, was meant to be,” she takes your hands in hers, her eyes soft, beaming with love.
You heart catches, and you lean into her embrace.
“Yes… but—daughters from our lineage have been Empress for so many annums.”
“Indeed,” she says, running one hand over your hair in long, comforting strokes. “But whomever feels called is the one who should lead. It’s not anything to be taken lightly. Which you never would,” she adds thoughtfully.
“I appreciate your belief in me, Grandmother. The Ensheduana at Afrid also believe I would be a good fit for the role,” but doubt still tinges your words.
“Minah, ones who are meant to lead—truly suited for it—always doubt themselves. It is when one has the ego to believe they are the ‘right’ choice, the best choice—that is when they should never be allowed any power at all.”
“That makes sense,” you muse, but then another thought crosses your mind— “But no one else has felt called to take the right except Cedra. And she—” you don’t want to say the word failed. It catches in your throat, too sharp, too unkind. You press your lips together instead.
“Cedra may not have been able to complete all the—tasks—that must be endured before being allowed to choose to accept the Rite, but that doesn’t mean you will fare the same,” Grandmother Ahurewah’s voice sounds certain, belying your hesitancy “…your cousin did not attempt the tasks out of a desire for power. And though I love her deeply, she may not be as suited as you for the extraordinary responsibilities that come with being Empress.”
“But why do you think I am?” You whisper.
~
After you’ve finished speaking with Grandmother Ahurewah, she kisses your cheek and turns towards her chambers, a sprawling network of several passageways and carved-out rooms nearest the stone steps leading to the cliff-top bathing pools and gardens.
You make your way to the nearest communal food preparation hall, stomach growling.
First meal seems like it was annums ago.
The hall hums with gentle conversation and the rhythmic sounds of meal preparation. The scent of honeyed fruit, slow-roasted root vegetables and sun-warmed herbs drifts through the large space, mingling with the salty breeze from the sea far below.
Unsurprisingly, Zinna is there, making herself a mid-day meal of all sorts of sweet fruits. You know they’ve been harvested from nearby Groveholds by her or one of the many servants or Fa’loom who care for the Empress and her sprawling family throughout the whole of Corestone.
“You’ll get a belly ache eating all that,” you grin.
Zinna is your younger cousin, and Cedra’s little sister. She is also your favorite person in all of Nuama.
“Nope! I had these same things for last meal yesterday and they satiated me just fine,” she asserts, stuffing a large, dripping hunk of musky melon into her mouth in pretended consternation. Zinna is rarely still unless her mouth is full, as she flies so frequently and so must eat constantly in order to replenish herself.
The sticky juice runs down her fingers, trailing in rivulets over her palm before she licks them clean. She moves to a nearby moss-lined water channel carved into the stone wall to wash her hands. The waist-high channel flows quickly through the room, gradually losing elevation until draining through the floor at the corner of the chamber. Then, it spends several days making its way through increasingly-fine layers of rock, sand, and grit. By the time it flows into the sea below, the water contains nothing that could contaminate the sparkling waters of the bay.
“You silly little thing,” you laugh, and join her near the food-preservation area. “Are there any spiced curcubita?”
Zinna hums mysteriously, already reaching for another sun-gold fruit, slicing it open with a quick, practiced motion. “There were when I arrived! Here, I’ll help you find them.”
The hall is packed with delicacies today, many of them your favorites.
The scent of sizzling spiced roots, toasted nuts, and steaming bowls of honeyed meat weaves through the air, blending with the low hum of conversation. Fa’loom and servants stand at dedicated preparation spots or weave between tables carrying carved stone trays laden with freshly roasted nuts, grinding herbs into pastes with smooth stones, pouring cooling mint tea to approving Sestras.
You stack a stone vessel high with everything that looks good. Slices of spiced curcubita, roasted lotus seeds dusted with sea-salt, pink-fleshed citrus peeled and glistening in the balmy air, plump slices of fish… the selection seems endless, and its difficult to choose.
Zinna follows you with her own array of food to a table near a skygate. A few Sestra and servants pass through the hall occasionally, and one Keeper—a distant cousin—sits cuddled up with her Fa’loom, who is whispering things into her ear that cause her to grin lasciviously.
The communal hall is about two-thirds the way up Corestone from the beach far below, affording a spectacular view of the bay. The day is sunny, as it is approaching the warmest season, and you see two or three ships coming in from the direction of Kitsua.
Flying between the dozens of islands that make up Kitsua, which are scattered throughout the entirety of the Southern Sea, is technically possible—but dangerous, even for the strongest Cloudweavers. Wet wings make takeoff nearly impossible, and if exhaustion forces a flyer to land in open water, they may never lift off again. There are few who would chance it unless absolutely necessary.
And, it’s simply just more efficient to transport trade goods between the various regions of Nuama in the belly of a ship rather than in skypods carried by Cloudweavers across vast open stretches of ocean.
The warm wind carries the scent of salt and faraway rain as it drifts throughout the skygates, gently ruffling the silken ribbons woven through Zinna’s feathers. Today, she has chosen thin silk of deep orange and gold, making her plumes shimmer like the last light of dusk.
You bring an especially plump piece of sweet pink fish, dressed with citrus juices and fragrant leaves, to your mouth, savoring the silky texture, the bright tang of fruit, the cool rush of herb-laced oil on your tongue.
You—and every other youngling Sestra in Corestone—had taken an entire annum to explore the vast pleasures and joys of food and the eating of it.
Every morning, for an entire annum. Zinna had been in absolute bliss. She used to dance through the halls with excitement, requesting tastes from every pot and platter, which of course was the point—this food was meant to be generously shared. You hadn’t been too upset about the mornings filled with all manner of delicious foods yourself. And you’d learned about several plants and herbs from various areas around Nuama previously unknown to you.
After a few moments, Zinna looks you square in the face.
“So? Did Grandmother ask you what you’re going to do?”
“Yes, she did.”
“Well,” Zinna begins, sucking the last bits of pulp from a large red fruit she’s been chomping on for several minutes, “that makes sense. Did she say anything about Cedra fai— I mean, not completing the required tasks?”
“No, not really,” you reply. “She just said she thought I’d be successful at them.”
Zinna grins, popping a honey-drenched date into her mouth. “Well, of course she did. That does seem rather obvious.”
Your eyes widen. “And why do you say that?”
Zinna licks the sticky remnants from her fingers and leans back, wings shifting slightly as she stretches.
“Well, Cedra didn’t even make it to whatever the initiation at Blackstone is,” she begins. “Of the four tasks, she only completed the first two.”
“Well, yes, but—”
“Plus, you’ve scored higher than her on discernment, earthshaping, memorization of Sacred Ethos, and—”
“How do you know that?” You’re not surprised. No one is supposed to know someone else’s scores. Not that anyone would care, it’s just usually considered private. But of course Zinna knows, she’s good at picking up information here and there.
She smirks, plucking another slice of curcubita from her plate. “I dreamed it,” she says lightly.
You laugh and shake your head, pretending annoyance. “Zinna!”
She grins, shrugging. “What? My dreams are rarely wrong.”
“Your dreams once told you that an egg was going to hatch into a blue peacock.”
Zinna huffs, feigning offense. “And yet, the very next week, a blue peacock appeared in the Clifftop gardens. Coincidence? I think not.”
You act deeply exasperated, rolling your eyes and crossing your arms, but you both know Zina has a talent for dreaming. She understands you’re only teasing her.
“Listen, I know every Sestra is unique and special in her own way. Truly, I believe that. And yet, Cedra is not unique and special in the ways required to be Empress. You are.” She shrugs, as though this is simply truth.
You’re at a loss. Why does everyone believe you have what it takes?
Your Mother has never hidden the burden that leadership can be. It’s not one you’re sure you want to take.
But, if no one takes the Rite, what happens?
The thought lingers in the back of your mind, a constant, quiet undercurrent beneath everyone’s gentle reassurances.
A question no one seems to want to think about.
Yet.
But.
Besides the fact no one else has stepped forward, there is some small part of you that wonders—that almost knows—you could be a good Empress if you tried.
~
Later in the afternoon, Mother finds you wandering through the cliff-top gardens.
Sunlight drips through the canopy of swaying vine-leaves, catching in pools along the smooth stone paths, reminding you of your secret nook. The air shimmers with the scent of warm petals and the salt of the nearby sea.
Natural pools of warm and hot spring-fed water shimmer like liquid sun, and the profusion of flowering plants hums with an abundance of bees, birds, butterflies.
She approaches without hurry, her presence unmistakable even before she speaks. The faint rustle of her silken robes, the surety of her steps—these are as familiar to you as your own breath.
“There you are,” she says, her voice carrying the smile that tugs at her lips. She gathers you into an embrace, one hand cupping the back of your head, her touch firm and grounding. You breathe in the scent of her skin—warm spice and something floral, something distinctly her.
“I hear Grandmother Ahurewah came to see you today.”
You sigh, slumping into her warmth. “Yes. About the Rite.” You don’t bother hiding your feelings—no one does, so why would you?
Mother pats your back in that almost absent-minded, knowing way she does, that tells you she’s listening even as she’s already decided to lift you out of this mood. With a gentle nudge, she guides you toward the steaming pools nestled among smooth stone.
“Well,” she muses, glancing at you from the corner of her eye, “I can see you’ve had quite enough of that topic for today. Let’s not discuss it yet again.” She teases as she ruffles the feathertips of your wings, sending a shiver through you. It’s a gesture she’s done since you were as little as you can remember, meant to distract, meant to comfort. It still works.
“Tell me instead what I can commission for you to wear to the gathering of Sestras in a few days’ time. A long gown of light silk? Or something more sheer that barely touches your skin? It will be hot that evening—you’ll not want to wear much, of course.”
Finally, a topic to be excited about!
These are the moments you love most—when she isn’t just the Empress—she is also your Mother, the woman who carried you, who loves you no matter what. She links arms with you, pulling you closer as the two of you meander down shimmering mosaiced pathways.
There is laughter in her voice, lightness in her step, as if she is just as relieved as you to leave the weight of duty behind.
For a brief moment you consider asking what her own Rite of Acceptance was like all those annums ago. You know she can’t tell you very much—only how she felt, perhaps, what fears she had—
But the moment passes.
The scent of warm petals and salt-laced breeze fills your senses, flowing gently over your skin like the impossibly-soft bedclothes in your chamber.
You push all thoughts of the Rite aside.
For now, you will think only of gowns and gatherings.
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