by Lesley Smith
The Call of the River
We must all move across the River, some fight and others surrender willingly. Jaisenthia, however, comes for all of us because she is, at heart, our dearest friend.
The writings of Kaiene the Blessed, first Oracle of Aia.
They woke together, nestled like forest kittens seeking warmth. The night had moved around them and dawn was coming. Each knew what the other wanted and Jeiana’s eyes were bright for a moment, like the inside of the sun, as the climax gave her a clarity she didn’t know she needed.
“I remember.”
Senna was startled and the moment was broken. “What?”
“I know why I chose this body.” Tears were rolling down her face. “I’m so sorry.”
“Hush, it’s all right.” Senna rocked the sobbing woman. “What’s wrong, Jeiana? Did I hurt you?”
“No, oh gods, never!” She wept and shook her head, eyes wracked with pain. “I just remembered why I chose this form. A calculated risk, a devious plan. Jeiana was the other part of your soul, that’s why you were so drawn to this form and I to you. You recognised the echo of her, fading now she’s left this world and gone beyond; across the River as you would say.”
“You’re not my other piece?”
Jeiana shook her head. “No, my soul belongs to another. I am simply a ghost walking in the form of a woman you should have loved. I’ve cheated you of your peace, Senna, and I am so sorry.”
“No, no, you haven’t,” she said soothingly, pressing her lips to Jeiana’s as she hugged her tightly, in case her physical form lost substance and collapsed in her fingers. “You’re real, and I love you.”
Jeiana said, a bit sadly, “And I you, even if I am a pale imitation.”
“I would love you if you were a shadow,” Senna said. “Even if you are a spirit wandering in mortal form, you are beautiful. I would never hate you, Jeiana.”
“You are kind and good, Senna,” she said. “And I make you a promise. Even if it takes lifetimes, you and she-who-was-Jeiana will meet again and be united. I so swear it on all the power I once had, for the kindness you have shown me.”
“I ask for nothing, I have all I need in you.” Senna kissed her forehead. “It’s all right. But if you are, truly, as you say, not a daughter of this world, then I have much to teach you.”
Senna took Jeiana around Aia’s great city, revealing—smiling with an almost apologetic look—that she had purposefully booked the day off. At dawn they went to morning offices at the temple, winding their way through streets of pleasure houses, inns, and taverns, until they reached the temple’s back entrance, known and used by those who staffed the halls and the great library.
They entered the temple, listening to the singing of the bowls and the joyful tolling of the dawn-bell. Inside the cool, domed worship hall, Ishvei stood above her children holding Aia’s mirror, and her other hand reaching out as if to help all who viewed her ascend to the realm of the gods.
The Kashinai pantheon had many gods and all were the children of Aia. The temple in Aiaea was hers but there were chapels to the other deities, from the goddess of bliss, the divine lady Kodia, to the Lady of the River. Ishvei, of course, took pride of place, for Aia was disembodied and had no physical form and so she was depicted simply, via the statue of her most beloved daughter.
Ishvei stood carved holding a mirror in one hand, held up as if to show another person their own reflection. That, so Kaiene had said, was Aia: the reflection of their souls, the goodness, the ageless voice that strove to guide even as mortals and gods alike walked parallel paths through existence.
All children learned their letters under Ishvei’s watchful gaze, they learned that there were three seasons in a year and a hundred days in each each season, that Kaiene watched down on them from the skies and that gods and the mortal star-kissed children of Ishvei were not all that different. These were their truths and they held them as sacred.
The saints’ shrines stood along the main walls. Jeiana knew the names even though she didn’t know half of the reasons why so many souls were revered. And, just before the gods’ chapels, was the one dedicated to Kaiene the Blessed and Jadias the Inspired. Their statues stood together as if their bodies had been transformed alive into starstone by some divine miracle.
Kaiene wore what were now the fine vestments of the Oracle: a length of red material covering her eyes and tied at the back of her head, the blue shaddhi worn by the poor across the planet, and the staff in her right hand, or rather, a simple walking stick as none saw her staff now because it was part of the Test by which new High Oracles were selected.
After the service, Jeiana lingered. She followed the circumambulation around the various chapels, saw the figures of Aia’s children: Uryen, Kodia, Cerasi of Justice and, right at the centre behind Ishvei’s statue below the great windows of coloured glass, stood Jaisenthia of the River and her unnamed companion, the Ferryman.
The ceiling of the temple was a work of art, based on Jadias’ own sketches used to illustrate what would eventually become the Sacred Scrolls. Kaiene had dictated stories, from the creation myth to anecdotes about the year in which Ishvei walked amongst them, and the ceiling depicted Aia’s great sacrifice, the many words of the other gods, and Ishvei’s own moulding of her world in beautiful and exquisite detail.
The table in front of the statue was clean and the objects placed upon it perfectly lined up. A stylus, a pot of ink, and a sheaf of white reed-paper that smelled of incense and practically begged to be written upon, even if only by the hands of clergy and oracles.
They ate their evening meal that night in a little tavern near the marketplace along the Sacred Way, paying double for the privacy and view of the skyline. Even with pillow bread and an assortment of foods from all around Reskha neither felt comfortable.
“If it’s all right, I have an errand to run.”
“Yes, of course.” Jeiana sipped her iced water, enjoying the cold of the ice on her tongue.
“I mentioned my cousin to you, didn’t I?”
“Yes, briefly.”
Senna sighed. “Her name is Saiara.”
Jeiana’s eyes widened, even while that quiet ancient voice whispered in her mind. Are you that shocked? You know this woman and her place in things to come.
“I’m hoping now Jashri has decided Saia’s not going to replace her that I might see her.”
Full from dinner and perhaps just a little tipsy, Jeiana and Senna were just leaving the tavern when two burly guardians blocked their path, casting shadows over the women’s faces.
“Are you Jeiana of Caerim?” One of the guards asked.
Jeiana was surprised. “Yes.”
“Come with us.”
“Why? Where?” Senna asked, worry lacing her words.
“Her Grace, Jashri the Found has requested your presence. She wishes to speak with you.”
Senna stared. “Why on earth would Jashri the Misandrist want to talk with a woman from a sea-bound hamlet?”
The younger one blinked and Senna would have apologised if she wasn’t so worried for Jeiana. She had used the universal—if unofficial—moniker for the current High Oracle, that alone could have gotten her in serious trouble, but these men had other things on their minds.
“Come. We are under instructions to bring you or to have you brought.”
Senna gripped Jeiana’s hand. “I’m not leaving you.”
Jeiana was relieved. “Thank you, dearest Senna.”
They walked through the temple complex and rather than walking through the gardens, they followed the path by one of the Suiashvaram’s streams that led to the Oracles’ Tower. Senna pointed out the meditation pools, the shamir hives and the Tomb of Kaiene and Jadias and for a moment, Jeiana felt that sense of purpose again, as if the universe was reminding her she was on the right course, the correct path.
Two guards wearing the High Oracle’s sigil stood guarding the door to the tower, built into the rock of the cliffs. Jeiana sa
w the river road that snaked up the cliffs, leading to the rest of Reshka. There really was only one way out of the city and those guards could easily block it.
“What can we do for you healer? No one summoned you,” the more senior guard asked. He looked on edge, as if he was worried that Senna would be seen and blame would be his reward.
“I’m with her,” Senna said.
“I apologise, but Her Grace, Jashri the Found, has forbidden all visitors.”
Jeiana looked up, directly at the guard and a part of her exerted willpower her mortal self wasn’t even aware she had. “I am Jeiana of Caerim, she summoned me specifically. She asked, I came. That’s how this works, isn’t it?”
He nodded, almost relieved of the excuse to let them in, and a moment later the doors swung open. As soon as Jeiana entered, she could feel someone dying, and instantly realised she was needed; the eternal part of her stirred, sensing a soul requiring release even if they didn’t want it. Whether she responded or not would be another matter, but she had done this for long enough that when the call came, she couldn’t miss it.
They heard the cries as they entered the Oracles’ Tower. At first, Senna thought it was a wounded forest cat, but as they climbed the steps, she realised it sounded more and more Kashinai. They were the cries of someone whose entire world is comprised solely of pain and agony.
Senna’s healer’s instincts kicked in instantly and she pressed one of the guards. “What is that? Is someone hurt?”
“That’s no concern of yours,” The guardian escorting them said. “The High Oracle’s handmaiden was disobedient.”
Senna stopped in her tracks, horror bleeding over her features. “Vashi?”
The guard didn’t meet her eyes and that was all the confirmation either of them needed.
Jeiana stopped, feeling his presence even though precisely who ‘he’ was eluded her. She could feel someone dying in the bowels of the tower, in the darkness. “It’s all right. Senna, go, quickly. I’ll join you after I’ve spoken to the High Oracle.”
Senna squeezed her hand and then headed for the noise while Jeiana continued to walk up the steps.
Eirian was terrified. Darus had dumped Vashi in a pile of blood, broken bones and blossoming bruises. They had heard the screaming and heard the swish of a callow but none of them had imagined Vashi as the victim. Hsia maybe, but never Vashi, she was beloved and loyal, the High Oracle’s chosen handmaiden.
Eirian cursed her lack of knowledge, her lack of sight. She had no knowledge of how to reset the broken bones and was worried if she were to give the girl one of the painkilling potions it might kill her.
Vashi was crying, a soft weeping that was all she had the strength for. She reminded Eirian of a baelish calf, newborn and exhausted, but the calf had a chance, the handmaid didn’t.
“Sweet Uryen,” she gasped, and then found herself invoking the Healer’s opposite; life and death had always been entwined. “Oh Mother of Mercy…what did he do you, Vashi?”
The girl couldn’t answer, it took all her focus to keep breathing, to not scream until her lungs gave out. The blood was already drying on her skin; it hung in the air, the copper-bitter tang of it that was so visceral that every oracle knew what it was without having to ask. It was a basic memory, tied into being Kashinai, into being alive.
The other oracles had clustered around. Shaari was leading a soft prayer spoken to ease the passing of the dying. It was obvious the girl was at the Riverbank: so much of her was damaged, so much blood had been lost and not even her ieshiya had been spared.
“Mother of mercy, daughter of grace,” Shaari chanted, her pitch wrong. “She who walks with a hood-covered face. Kerash oar in hand and lantern held high. It is she who comes. For all of us, one day, must die.”
“Shaari, hush, please. Let me think,” Eirian said, one hand gently resting on the young oracle’s arm. “She’s beyond prayers.”
Saiara was spitting curses at Darus even as tears of grief garbled her words. Then her ears picked up at a voice she recognised. “Sen? Who called you?”
The newcomer quickly pushed through the throng of oracles. “Back, please all of you. Give her air and space. Mother, get me what supplies you have. Quickly.”
“Senna?” Eirian didn’t know whether this was the gods’ idea of a joke or if she was Uryen’s grace in Kashinai form. “Who called you?”
“Never mind that. Hush, please, I need silence.”
The prayer died in Shaari’s throat. Behind her, Keiue and Geetha had also gone deadly quiet. Eirian moved quickly, grabbing their basic box of dressings and draughts. It was not a healer’s stores but it was all they had, and even with her sight, she knew that Senna was not on duty, she wore a dress and not her red robes. She didn’t have her bag or her tools, and this did not bode well for Vashi.
Eirian could imagine what Senna saw. They kept back as the healer felt for the thrumming of Vashi’s pulse, feeling it skipping as her body shut down from shock. Eirian was glad she was blind, lest Vashi’s wounds haunt her until she died. The poor girl was covered in welts, her skin split, her eyes bruising and her pallor a shade of white that was known as Jaisenthia’s touch because those who had it were more dead than alive. Eirian knew Senna’s examination had told her exactly what the oracle also knew in her gut, that Vashi could not survive this.
“Sarivashi?” Senna asked gently. “Who did this to you?”
“Darus,” Eirian said, placing a box next to the healer’s side. “He beat her on Jashri’s orders. A punishment to remind us—to remind me—of where we stand.”
“Oh gods.” Senna’s mind focused on triage but part of her wondered if she should reset bones, to cause the dying girl more pain. What was the point in making the poor child’s last moments ones of agony? Was there a point? “I don’t know what I can do for her, but we need to make her more comfortable.”
“She’s going to pass?” Shaari asked, voice breaking.
“We all will,” Eirian said gently. “The River calls to all of us.”
“There’s nothing I can do, I can only try to ease her pain.” Senna uncapped a vial and put it to Vashi’s lips. “How long she lingers, that’s up to her and Jaisenthia.”
Jeiana realised Iasei had died sometime in the afternoon, she could feel her the residual energy of her passing, the memory still fresh, and she wondered if anyone had noticed? Had she been alone when he had come for her? No one should ever die alone.
In truth, no one ever really died alone, but tell that to those who worried about their dearest ones moving across the River without someone there. She knew that being there was for those who remained behind and not those destined to die. It was hard to leave a life behind if people you loved and cared for were silently imploring you to stay.
She could feel him, almost like smelling a familiar scent worn by a lover. His presence drifted across the void between this realm, the River and the fabled other shore. She knew why he was here; their mandate was to help the suffering and the girl, Meresia’s daughter’s was too close to death, the hollow tower was too full of her pain for either of them not to respond to the psychic echoes of her screams.
The need to help rose up inside her, to go and release Sarivashi no matter what it would do to this physical shell she was encased in. The cries of the dying girl tugged at her even as Jeiana climbed the steep steps, pulling at her soul and demanding the Lady of the River take her hand and guide her to the hereafter. She swallowed the impulse and continued to climb.
No.
Death was sometimes a gift, but today it felt more like a curse, a poisoned brew which tasted sweet on the tongue but killed you regardless. She couldn’t heal her, couldn’t invoke powers which belonged to another. She could only offer release and a shoulder to weep on, as so many souls did when their end came violently. She could only offer peace and a different kind of healing.
“I will not take her.”
Aia whispered back. And neither will he. But would you let the poor
child suffer?
“No.”
The heavy double doors leading to the Hall of the Oracles opened as if they sensed her approach. In reality, two men inside had pulled them open, and Jeiana stepped into the hall of statues of oracles who had lived, loved, and died on this beautiful world. Kaiene stood at the end of the hall, her stone features impassive, and Jashri in her robes of office stood in front of her.
She was supposed to be imposing. All you could see of her face was blood red lips, pale gold skin, and hair as fine spun as the goldweave in a hakashari. Her back was as straight as a spire, her body language formal and rigid. She knew who she was and her place in the universe.
Jeiana recognised her, but this was not the poor girl who had lain dying in the sands, skin peeling from heatburn and crusted with bloodied tears. Jashri’s hair had once been more blond, but now silver snaked through the curling ringlets. She was not old, but she was not young, not anymore. Had she been a mother, her child would have probably been almost an adult by now.
The formal cloth covered her eyes, a band of scarlet red that symbolised her sacrifice, the pain that came with such high office. Her robes and the formal shaddhi-overcloak were freshly laundered and pressed, the blue rich and vibrant.
Jeiana was impressed by the office but not by the woman who held it. Not when her servant was lying on her deathpallet below then.
“Iasei is dead,” Jeiana said softly, breaking protocol; the High Oracle should have spoken first, but she was not prepared to dance around the issue. “And young Sarivashi is soon to follow her. Are you happy, Daughter of the Sand?”
“You should know better manners than that, or do the Seaborn not learn respect as children?”