Doesn’t explain the phuri dai, though, another part of her mind chimed in.
Then I’m still asleep and this is a dream, she countered, suddenly realizing she was talking to herself and beginning to accept the crazy theory more and more.
You can control everything in a dream, you know, some distant thought called out, barely even feeling as though it had a place in her thoughts. You could burn this all down and go somewhere else.
All of Ana’s bubbling thoughts suddenly agreed that a silent mind had always been the best option. Still unsure of where the awful thought had come from, she finished dressing herself and started back for the entrance of the Ceremony Hall.
Maybe her father would be able to shed some light on this. But it was still early, and between the morning meeting he typically held with the other elders and the visiting mages eager to trade, it was unlikely he’d be able to break away from his duties as voivode.
Ana didn’t resent this, though. She dreaded the thought of assuming her father’s role—content as she was assisting others to achieve greatness and never expecting any of her own—but this in no way kept her from taking pride in her father’s achievements. He was a great leader, and their people had seen many great years under his watch. That kind of success wasn’t possible if he were to drop his responsibility to the entire camp, who, in many ways, were all his family, to answer every question or console every trouble that Ana had the moment it arose. There was, after all, plenty of time each evening for her to address any concerns she might have.
But this—the phuri dai leaving in the middle of the ceremony, her ceremony, without so much as a word? That seemed like more than merely a passing concern. It felt like more than the sort of thing one waited until later in the evening to address.
And yet, Ana still wasn’t certain whether it was right to interrupt her father’s morning with this.
However, as she stepped out of the Ceremony Hall, squinting against the onslaught of the morning sun, she caught sight of her father, the elders, and the phuri dai all coming her way.
It seemed this wasn’t a decision she would need to make.
Chapter 3
“Show me.” The voivode’s voice was unreadable, barely more than a breathy whisper.
His daughter’s lip trembled as his hand reached for her left arm, his eyes already finding the mark but, seemingly, unsatisfied with that alone.
“Father?” she began, afraid. Uncertainty swelled through her in great waves like an angry storm over an ocean.
This is what you asked for, she reminded herself, remembering how, only moments earlier, she’d cursed certainty and all who might offer it.
She’d practically been standing in this exact spot, too.
The excitement and bustle back at the camp as the bargaining and exchanging with the mages seemed so distant that it might as well not have existed at all. It was like a faraway dream of happy times on the outskirts of a mind plagued by nightmares, or a warzone with a peaceful valley beyond a clearing. To even acknowledge it was to taunt oneself.
As far as they were concerned, the world started and stopped outside the Ceremony Hall—a galaxy in and of itself.
All orbiting the strange new mark.
“It’s there,” the phuri dai growled, a gnarled and accusatory talon beginning to raise to point to the arm that the voivode clutched in his calloused grip.
“Do you think me blind, woman?” The voivode tore his gaze from his daughter’s arm long enough to cast a gaze at the phuri dai that was somehow both frigid and burning with rage.
The phuri dai’s hand drooped back, folding over the other hand that still clutched at the handle of her twisted cane, and her dark eyes shifted under the folds of her hooded brow. She was no longer like a statue; she was like a painting, liquid and somehow always staring no matter what angle she was perceived from. She was still beautiful, though, in the same way a predator standing over its recent kill was beautiful—in the same way a freezing blizzard was beautiful.
“It’s there,” she said again, and this time it felt more like a sentencing than an accusation.
How right she is.
Ana had no time to question this thought. As soon as it came to her, it was shoved away to make room for others as her father yanked her by the wrist, forcing her arm to face upward so that the mark revealed itself in its entirety to him, his advisors, and the phuri dai.
Again, her father said, “Show me,” and, though she had little choice, she did.
It’s there.
The words were not spoken again, but they seemed to hang there over the heads of the small, terrible gathering.
It’s there.
A series of sharp inhales. The sound of an unsuspecting soul happening across an angry rattlesnake.
It’s there.
A growing of soft murmurs. The shifting of nearly inaudible winds as they carried a ship astray.
It’s there.
And then all eyes were on the voivode’s back.
“You know what you must do,” one of the younger advisors said.
The others shifted uneasily at his words, but not because they weren’t supposed to speak them, but seemingly because none of them took any joy in what those words meant.
Ana’s father said nothing. His back tensed, and one of his shoulders gave a slow pull away from her. It was as though one part of him was trying to block them from her while another was trying to pull away from her himself.
“Father?” Ana called to him.
But he only stood there, a rigidity to his form that seemed almost impossible as he stared down at the mark.
So Ana looked down at it as well, curious to see if, in this new light—both that of the morning sun and the obvious burden it represented to her people—she might capture more of its secrets.
It was wide enough to begin to curve around the edges of either side of her arm, with the centermost point a pinprick that sprouted outward in five identical points. Each of the five points looked like a drop of water—or a teardrop, she thought—that arched as though caught in an invisible wind, creating a pinwheel effect that seemed to travel counterclockwise.
Ana absently followed the pattern and found herself getting dizzy in the process. Each of the arched drops contained an identical set of patterns inlaid throughout them—every line seeming to marry the arched pattern surrounding it while taking its own journey in the ever-tightening process of reaching the fat, rounded bottom. Between each of the drops, in what would have been otherwise empty space, was a single, perfectly straight arrow that pointed violently outward—each tip of which was adorned in a red point that was so fresh and vibrant that Ana caught herself believing she was bleeding at those five points.
In many ways, it resembled a tattoo, but one that had existed on its wearer’s skin for far more years than Ana had seen the world. Though it was dark, it appeared somehow faded, somehow part of Ana’s skin despite never having existed prior to that morning. Even the small scar that she’d earned as a child when she’d stumbled over some rocks seemed to embrace the mark as though it had been there to witness the accident that birthed it.
This, Ana realized, she couldn’t have noticed with how dim it was in the Ceremony Hall. There it had seemed almost possible to rid herself of the mark with something as simple as rubbing or scratching. Now, however, she saw that she could no more rid herself of it than she could the skin of her entire forearm. And, somehow, she felt that even then it might still somehow linger there, beneath the muscles and tendons.
As though it might exist on the very bone, as well.
This, however, was too terrible a thought to dwell on for very long.
What is written on their bones?
Her body tensed, and she yanked her eyes away from the mark.
Her father only slightly shifted at the movement.
“You know what you must do,” another of the men, one of the elders this time, repeated.
Apparently, very little had been sai
d up to that moment. While she had been expecting the mark, those around her had been standing in an awkward silence, one that her sudden movement seemed to have broken.
Eager to hear anything else, and beginning to wonder if any other words even could exist in this strange world she seemed to be suddenly contained within, she said, “What is this all about? What does it mean, Father?”
Those standing nearby all looked up at her as though a scorpion they’d been deliberating the fate of had demanded to know what they were staring at.
We can show them scorpions.
Ana frowned at this. Since when had she started thinking of herself as we?
And why was she…
“She bears the mark,” a man toward the back blurted. “We cannot—”
The voivode released his daughter’s arm and turned to glare at the others. “Don’t,” he said, his voice stern but contained. Professional.
He was still the voivode.
For the first time, Ana found herself wishing he’d be her father first. Father first, then voivode. Just this once. Though she still didn’t know why.
“This is not up for deliberation,” another said, wiping his palm over his stubbled face. “The phuri dai identified it. We’ve all seen it. There’s no arguing what it is—what it means—and, tragic as it may be, we must abide by the code. She’s—”
“She is not a danger to us,” the voivode hissed.
Another elder steepled his hands over his chest. “She may not be, but it is.”
The voivode shook his head and shifted his stance as a few of the younger advisors moved to step around him. “She’s different,” her father said. “She’s not like the others. This could be a new chance to—”
“How many do you think defended the others this way?” the finger-steepler asked, nodding to the advisors to continue.
At their repeated advance, Ana’s father took another, more threatening, step to keep himself between them and her. Seeing this, one of the men focused his efforts on the voivode, holding him so that the other could continue past.
Hearing her father protest, Ana reached toward him. “Father.”
The man holding the voivode yelped and yanked his hand back as though he’d been bitten.
Or burned.
Remembering her strange encounter with the mark inside the Ceremony Hall, Ana blinked as the man cursed, waving his hand of the pain and shooting her a glare.
Why did he look at her as though she had done that?
Had she done that? She didn’t think—
“She cannot be allowed to stay,” the man growled, holding up his hand as if illustrating a point. “It’s already beginning.”
The voivode was shaking at this point, his normally beautiful, honey-toned skin shimmering with a layer of sweat and looking suddenly pale. “I don’t want to discuss this here. Not in front of her.”
He sighed and nodded, seeming to submit to the will of the others while still refusing to let them get between him and her. Nodding toward the Ceremony Hall, he sucked in a lungful of air, as if trying to inflate himself back to his former glory.
“Come,” he instructed. “We’ll discuss her fate in private.”
Though the others all seemed to have come to a unanimous conclusion already, they offered the voivode a solemn nod, looking as though they were honoring a dying man’s futile last wish, and started inside.
A sigh emerged from Ana’s father then that carried with it a whimper the likes of which she’d not have thought possible from him. Taken aback by this, she was nearly driven to tears when he turned to face her, genuine fear and, yes, even uncertainty stitched across his tired-looking face.
“Go back to camp,” he instructed, his hollow words threatening to collapse under their own weight. “Go, and…try to be happy.”
Ana wondered why she was sweating so much until she realized that she was crying. “What is going on?” she demanded again, taking a step toward him to embrace him—to feel his strength close to her so that she might be granted some for herself—only to have him take a step away from her. Holding up her arm and revealing the mark, she asked, “What does this mean?”
The voivode answered with another step back.
“Father?” Ana’s knees trembled as she called to him.
“Try to be happy, little one,” he told her again. “It’ll be better that way.”
And then he was gone, slipping into the Ceremony Hall to discuss her fate with the league of elders and advisors who had already made the decision.
Chapter 4
Ana went back to the camp. She couldn’t simply be happy—wasn’t even sure she remembered what it felt like to be happy. But, in her defense, her father had only said to try, which, as far as she was concerned, was permission to not be happy when the attempt to even conjure that emotion proved useless.
Trying to try was still trying, wasn’t it?
Not that it mattered. Not really. Though she couldn’t guess what fate had been decided for her—because, despite her father’s insistence that it would be discussed, there was no denying that the decision had been made and the discussion, no matter the path, would end at that predetermined location—it was clear her life was over.
It felt like such a loaded phrase in her mind—my life is over—but, even in her most positive outlooks, it didn’t seem inaccurate. She couldn’t see any of the occupants of the Ceremony Hall actually stepping forth and ending her life—not literally—but she was certain that her life as she knew it was about to end.
She wasn’t wanted; she was outright feared from what she’d seen. All because of some mark. After its arrival, the wisest and bravest had looked upon her as though she were Death itself.
Looking around the camp and seeing all of her friends and loved ones carrying on and thrumming with their beautiful energy, she considered what life would be like without them, without being a part of what they were. And, once again, she came to the same conclusion.
My life is over.
Only hours earlier, she’d been bemoaning to herself how she was always trapped wherever she went. And now, she feared abandonment. She should have been careful not to covet freedom in this way. Perhaps she’d wished the day’s events into actuality, leaving only herself to blame.
As her thoughts cycled around this central theme and everything that seemed to support it, Ana lazily wandered about the camp. A flurry of activity rolled around her, crafts and wares and all manner of goods being bartered and haggled over. Some of the exchanges seemed simple enough—a digital camera in exchange for a laptop, a stack of CDs for another stack of DVDs, and books (so many books) trading hands with enthusiasm—while, simultaneously, trades of slightly larger and even surreal proportions generated a bit more excitement.
Arguments arose over the cost or value of this relic or that enchantment, some claiming one was a forgery or certain that the other was a dud. Ordinarily, Ana knew, it was forbidden to offer up their real treasures—the goods with real history or real magic—to outsiders, no matter the price they were willing to pay. Though, truth be told, everything had its price, even at the risk of putting the wrong relic or the wrong magic into the hands of somebody who didn’t know how to use it (or, worse yet, somebody who did and wasn’t sworn to the same sorts of standards they were).
Ana, however, never thought it was worth the shame it would bring upon their people. The mages, on the other hand, though not of their kin and barely even their comrades, were not ignorant when it came to matters of history or magic, so having them here to trade today meant more true magical items might be exchanging hands. After all, the mages came with magic of their own to barter.
Thus when they scheduled a meeting, the Sybii camp and the mages set aside their differences and the ordinarily untouched chests and footlockers were dragged out and dusted off.
“A monkey’s paw?” came a man’s voice. “You expect me to hand over my nana’s book of incantations so that you can part ways with a burden? Why not curse m
y entire family and be done with it?”
“This coin is dated back how far?” another man questioned. “No, that can’t be right. The markings look all wrong.”
“I can’t part with it for only three charms,” a woman argued. “Be reasonable. Make it five, though, and I’ll offer you this pendant, as well.”
The words all bled together, a hum that was soon blocked out by Ana’s frantic thoughts. Anything and everything seemed to lose purpose to her preoccupied mind, which was only paying enough attention to not crash into the people that scurried and darted around her.
“Are you certain it belonged to him?”
“They said it was lost to the sea centuries ago…”
“The stitching is quite lovely…”
Ana sighed, completing what was likely her fourth cycle around the entire camp. With each pass, she found herself coming back to the idea that she’d very likely never see any of it again—never see any of her friends or loved ones again—and she found her heart hurting more and more.
“…having trouble believing that this…”
“…see this for one second? No, I’m not going to…”
“For that cost? Surely you’re…”
“Ana?”
She’d miss this energy. On some occasions, when the bartering had gotten too heated or the traded liquors had gotten hold of their tongues, she’d found herself irritated by the displays or disheartened by the behavior she’d witnessed. Looking back on it, however, she suddenly realized that the thought of being without it felt like being without air. Could she really stand to—
“Ana.”
A hand on her shoulder ripped her from her thoughts and dragged a yelp from her throat. Spinning around, she caught sight of Lash, one of her neighbors she’d played beside for most of her life and the son of one of the best weavers in the camp.
Lash was only a few months older than her, though this meant that he’d gone through his own rite that much sooner. Since the transition to manhood, he’d taken to accepting all nature of jobs around the camp and, as a result, had managed to turn his already tall frame into a muscular one, as well. Dark brown eyes regarded Ana with confusion and concern as a work-worn hand absently moved back to adjust his black ponytail.
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