The Age of Light (The Ava'Lonan Herstories Book 1)

by Ako Emanuel

  “You read it to us - I’ve no touch for fragile things. Or most fragile things,” he amended slyly. Rilantu nudged him sharply under the table.

  The only sign of embarrassment that Pentuk showed was a nervous clearing of her throat. It was a habit she could not rid herself of. She felt as if her face were burning, though, and she watched her fingers shake slightly as she turned the pages of the aged journal with care. She wondered if her reactions were to the younger Prince’s little teases or the disapproval of Rukto. She thrust the line of thought away before it went any further.

  “With your permission I will read only the pertinent passages and leave out the irrelevancies.” At their nods she scanned the pages for the entries that she and the Heir had marked, shifting her weight off her slightly aching right foot. She cleared her throat again without being aware of it.

  “ ‘This turn a most unusual being was brought in secret to the Palace. I was called upon to help care for it, assisting the ol’bey’one M’rad’ri, for the creature had been through some great trauma. I was made to swear to absolute secrecy about this bizarre patient. I was even made to take the Rite of Silence on the matter; but I can write about what I saw. Such a creature! Almost like one of the Katari, but this, this Av’Touched (if it is indeed Av’Touched and not one of the things from the Lora’Lons) is almost half again as big as those four-legged ones. Its wuman part is pale as the inside of a marmi’apple, even to the point where the skin shows visible effects of prolonged exposure to Av; and its hair/crest is straight as any animal’s fur, but soft, soft as fine silk! The kati’yori part is the blackest black I’ve ever seen, blacker than Lors’eve, when there are no moons and you can’t see your hand before your face! Its hair/crest is long and flowing, unlike the stiff crests of the Katari and is black near the head, but turns to living, liquid silver at the ends. It was glorious! I ran my hands through it at every opportunity. The socks and hooves and tail and the curious fringe are all that magnificent, luminous silver, as is the single, spiraled horn upon its brow. And its eyes, bottomless as the eve and just as full of stars! Truly this is a beautiful creature, even though its condition is not good. And its ‘rita is like none I’ve ever experienced. It has the taste of av’rita, but there is something else; a strange taste like av’rita, but different, darker somehow. Whatever it is, this creature is certainly not the progeny of Ava’Lona.’ ”

  She looked up into their rapt faces, took that as a cue to move on to the next of the marked entries.

  “ ‘The being, that I call privately Lor’av’ona, seems to be doing much better. Its physiology is not that much different from the Katari. The Heir seems quite taken with the creature - she spends an inordinate amount of time with it - with him. She is convinced that the creature is from the Lora’Lons, and she talks with him for san’chrons at a time, trying to help him remember; for the poor thing seems to have lost all of his memories. I do not believe that the High Queen is at all pleased with the fascination that her daughter has with the being. I tend to agree, though what I think is irrelevant. But the Heir shows all the symptoms of a growing infatuation with the creature. I have tried to broach the matter in the most tactful way, but the Heir insists that her interests in him are purely academic in nature.’ ”

  Pentuk’s heart raced slightly as she relived the past through the words of this long dead woman. That was one of the reasons she loved herstory so - every time she opened one of the ancient texts she was transported to another time, lived another life, saw the world through the eyes of Queens and commoners, scholars and warru, lovers and long time enemies. She did not even look up as her eyes rapidly scanned the words, drinking them in at a tremendous rate, until her next mark signaled that she needed to read aloud again.

  “ ‘The Heir has confessed to me a terrible thing, and again I have been asked to take the Rite of Silence on the matter. She has shared the Rite of Solu with the being! She claims that he knew nothing of the Rite, and that she was merely teaching him something that, by right, he should know. But somehow something went wrong. The sharing was too intimate she says, but I believe it is because the Lor’av’ona is not wholly of Ava’Lona origin that this blasphemy has occurred. She is inconsolable, for a thing has been born of this unritious act - a child! Gestated and delivered within a single eve! Rich of skin like us, but with the hind legs and silver attributes of the creature. It is no normal child, this thing, but a misbegotten abomination, a testament of their unsactimonious love! Nor was this thing begot by normal means; it came into existence as they performed the Rite! The Heir says that it formed as a glowing sphere that settled on her belly, and that she became as one pregnant. And then, just a few san’chrons later, it was born. The High Queen has learned of this accursed spawning and is in a rage. She has not destroyed the creature, for the pleading of the Heir, but banished him to one of the small, unclaimed lons near the Western Border of the Av’ru. The thing’s spawn, however, was stillborn, and has been sent with the creature to be inured, away from the Heir, least its spirit turn to dwen and come to plague her. The Heir has been made to perform the Rite of Expungement. She may only bear one child that will survive, a girl-child to be Heir. After that she must take a balm that will leave her barren. I wept for her even as I prepared the terrible concoction. For love and ignorance were her crimes. All involved have undergone purification and our tongues have been stilled and our hands stilled. All, that is, except for my hand. I will never speak nor write of this again, though, and I will see this journal destroyed - but I had to take the terrible weight of this knowledge off of my soul. May the Supreme One have mercy on us all.’ ”

  “By Solu’s hand,” Jarisa uttered, her usual mask of confidence gone, replaced by dumbfounded shock.

  “It’s a cover up,” Staventu whispered, his eyes wide. “The whole thing is a cover up to hide High Queen Jenikia’s disgrace!”

  “And well they might,” Rilantu said grimly. “Can you imagine the kind of damage that information could do if it were to fall into the wrong hands? Like Tokia sul Ottanu? The upheaval would rip this Realm apart at the seams, and the authority of the whole High Family would be called into question.” He looked at the book as if it were a poisonous snake. “Destroy it,” he said flatly. “Much as I hate to lose any more of this story, that particular piece is too volatile to let exist any longer and is better left untold. Especially now.” He shook his head. “Destroy it. And we will all take the Rite of Silence on this matter, with the exception of telling Mother.”

  Otaga wordlessly held out her hand for the volume. Pentuk, with great reluctance and visible effort, handed it over. She then turned away, to hide the tears that suddenly sprang to her eyes. Rukto patted her hand and the Warru First gave her a look filled with sympathy - Librarians could no more destroy a book than she could destroy a shield of well-tanned hide or a superbly made spear.

  “So let’s get this straight,” Staventu said, turning the matter slowly over in his mind. “You found the book here. So what is our illustrious sister looking for?” He directed the question to Pentuk, who fought to regain her composure. But as soon as he asked, he knew. His eyes raised slowly to the young woman’s, his face stricken. “Don’t tell me,” he said through his teeth, his eyes locked on her face. “Don’t tell me!”

  Pentuk nodded, looking yearningly at the journal. “She has gone in search of the creature, Lor’av’ona itself. She did not say so directly, but she had begun tracking down any legends or folktales that hinted of such a creature. Especially near the Border. The last time she was in contact with me, she said that she might have found something. She was very excited. She collaborated with me on the construction of a trap to hold a very large creature, similar to the Katari. It was after she had left the main body of her escort.”

  Staventu smacked his hand against the table covered with the map, cursing. “Damn it, the little fool! She doesn’t realize the kind of danger she’s gotten herself into! Or rather she didn’t,” he said grimly, scowling.


  “Staventu, please,” Otaga admonished gently.

  “If that thing is strong enough to suck the life out of the Av’ru, what’s to keep it from draining all the life out of her like a ripe mango? Solu help us, she may be dead already!”

  “Staventu, she isn’t dead. We would know. The Av’rujo would know.” Rilantu sighed. “But that still leaves the question of her whereabouts, her absence and her silence. Could the thing have captured her somehow?”

  “If it even exists anymore,” Otaga pointed out, her face skeptical. “That happened over four hundred cycles ago. I find it hard to believe that it would live for that long. Only the High Queen and the Av’rujo have been know to have such long lifespans.”

  “Well something is causing the Zehj’Ba,” Rukto pointed out. “Perhaps feeding off of its light has kept the thing alive all these cycles.”

  “I think our sister has gotten in over her head,” Rilantu said, looking around the table. “Because she isn’t dead does not mean that she isn’t near death, or weak and in danger of being killed. Her silence could be an indication of this.”

  “Perhaps she is keeping silent for a reason,” Jarisa suggested. “Fear, maybe. Or a warning of danger. Her very silence could be a plea for help.”

  “Or she could be in a delicate situation where such silence is necessary,” Pentuk ventured.

  “We have to track her no matter what the circumstances. Which brings us back to our original problem.” Staventu looked around the faces. “How do we track her with a four ten’turn old trail?”

  “I don’t see any choice but to have Mother perform the rite of seeking that she has prepared. That’s the only way to pinpoint her location exactly.” Rilantu sat back, rubbing his eyes. It was getting late. The darkness was turning toward Av’dawn.

  “But that could take two or three turns to find her,” Otaga protested, though it was a moot point.

  Pentuk spread her hands, cleared her throat. “Has the High Queen ever used the Av’ru in a rite of seeking?” she asked hesitantly when she had their attention. “Being of the blood of the Av’rujo, the Heir is linked to the Av’ru, however indirectly, as are you, Av’Sons. Perhaps using the Av’ru will make the seeking quicker and easier.”

  Staventu shook his head, grinning. “You have found a gem in this one, Rukto. She is brilliant! I might even suggest that Mother steal her from the Library and start training her as a future Voice!”

  Rukto chuckled. Pentuk ducked her head, began restacking her books to hide her embarrassment.

  Rilantu smiled. “That’s a good idea, though I don’t see why she can’t do both. She can train to take Ashmisa’s position when the time comes.” He looked at the book in Otaga’s large, callused hands. “Show that to Mother. If she gives no other orders concerning it then destroy it. Tell her I commanded it so.” He stood and stretched, placed his hands on the table. “Friends, we must make preparations to leave. And we must make haste. Now more than ever.”

  CHAPTER VIII

  slowly the light turned, living...

  The light died. It turned, slower and slower, turned away, fading to darkness, veil after veil whispering away to black. And with the light came the cold a-borning, filling the darkness with its hardened grip. The cold stung deep within, deep into the soul, a soul-drenching cold that smothered and rolled, like a river of ice, over everything in its path; a deep so cold as to extinguish the stars...

  Jeliya woke to a soul-deep cold. And with the cold came a hunger as of the very cells of her body crying out in some need. A yearning, a burning for the vanishing light, the vanquished turning of her life energy to the dark with the cold.

  She shuddered with the internal spreading of that dark cold, like the last set of Av. It was a prick of cold so total that she might have imploded in its brittle grip. She moaned, the accumulation of many turns of pervading cold evident. It was the lor’den. The cold-dark sickness. And she was deep in it.

  Jeliya moved to a delicious warmth on her face and arm. It was a familiar warmth, reassuring as the embrace of a mother, striving to drive out the cold. It was the light steps of Av, a reminder of life and passing time.

  Desperate need drove her unwilling body to action. She took a careful inventory of herself as she lay on her belly, found that she did not ache quite so much, or at least, not so much as to prevent her from getting to the light. The wounds on her back seemed to heal apace, and the pain behind her eyes had dulled so that it did not dominate her dark world.

  Having reached that conclusion she decided to try sitting up, striven by cold. She braced her hands against the soft surface of the pallet and pushed herself back so that she was sitting on her heels. The skin on her back felt tight and the air was a chilly match to the strains of silent cold within her as the desi slid off her shoulders. Her muscles were very stiff and sore, but if she moved slowly and carefully, it was bearable.

  She sat for a while, gathering her strength, the creeping, consuming fan of frost in the core of her being reminding her of the goal of her exertions: to get to the light. She had not performed the Rite of Solu in well over a ten’turn, possibly two. And apparently her caretaker did not know that he had to do it for her. This negligence brought on the lor’den, the withdrawal sickness that was brought on by deficiency of the light of Av. She could feel the advanced stages of lor’den within her - she prayed that she would be able to keep it from getting much more serious.

  She felt about her, arms exposed to the frigid air, and slid forward slowly, seeking the edge of the pallet. She figured it was like any bed, a thick mattress on a low wooden box. She figured that the mattress was just somewhat thicker to be so yielding. She found the edge of the huge bed, finally, and painfully swung her legs out, questing for the floor. To her surprise and chagrin she found her feet suspended in the frost-limned air. Puzzlement and a little irrational fear touched her - how high could she be? Clamping firmly on her emotions, ignoring the call of the cold, she pulled her legs back in and sought for the bottom edge of the pallet with her hand. She discovered that it was a depth almost the length of her arm. Arm-length?

  Great turning Av, what does he keep it filled with?! Surely a whole flock of taro’birds, whose feathers made the best bedding, would be required! She began to wonder, with a real pang of anxiety, just how high the surface of the pallet was from the floor. Surely not too much higher..!

  Jeliya swung her legs out over the edge again and crept forward, keeping a tight grip on the surface of the pallet. She did not panic when her knees passed the edge, or when her hamstring moved over that border. But when her buttocks hung on the edge and the floor was not to be found beneath her waving feet she felt a thousand prickles of fear crawl up her back, causing chill bumps to rise along her arms. Why would he make a bed so ridiculously high?

  Then she remembered his half-equine physiology. He had built the bed to suit himself. But still, how high would he make it?

  She decided to stretch her av’rita a fraction, a small sacrifice of her failing warmth to the defeating cold. She, with a raw expenditure of power without use of rite, fashioned a hollow staff of energy. For more complex structures or ceremonies, rites were required to give shape and direction to the thing being constructed or the ceremony being performed. But the simple probe required no such refined shaping.

  She made it seven heads tall, and in her dark mind’s eye she could see it and vaguely anything surrounding it that came within the nimbus field that radiated from the edges. She saw the side of the cold-gray pallet and the frame and her own numb feet, but in the false-frost colors she could not tell how far away the ground was, even when she extended her frostbitten senses into the staff. She guided it between her dangling, icicle feet, the bottom the center of her sense of touch. It went passed her feet, an eighth of a head, a fourth, half - and struck the frigid floor.

  Feeling both aggravated and relieved and colder by the moment, she slid off the knife-ice edge of the bed, dropping the short, arctic distance. Her fro
zen ankle buckled under the strain and she cried out into brittle air and stumbled, the staff the only thing saving her from falling. Leaning against the bed she rubbed her ice-ankle, grimacing as ice-pain radiated from the slightly swollen frozen joint up to the cramping, frozen muscle. It was too tender to walk on.

  Numb with the cold that walked on needle feet along the surface of her skin, she used the staff to support herself as she numbly inspected the bed. The wooden ice-frame did not reach the sub-arctic ground. Further investigation revealed that the thing was a raised ice-frame supported by four ice-poles with the thick glacial pallet on top. She laughed to herself, the sound brittle enough to break off in the cold air, wincing a little as her injured ice-foot touched the ice-ground. Imagine, a raised ice pallet! The idea was novel, and she rather liked it, even though the cold concept did not make any sense, and the cold bedding was a bit too soft for her taste.

  She hunched over her staff, shivering, her legs weaker than she had anticipated, and she shuffled along toward the light, her deeply chilled mind wandering over her cold-dark illness. Lor’den on top of poisoning, and a serious fall! It was a wonder she could move at all.

  Warmth! exploded over her ice-burned skin, flowed over her cold-bitten mind and she laughed with mindless delight, the puzzle of the ice-cold thrista momentarily forgotten. It ran like acid linen over her frozen, outstretched arm, its particles falling upon her like golden, molten rain. She sighed with thawing pleasure as it drove relentlessly into her body-turned-ice. It touched her frosted face, her chilled arms, her frosted breasts, her chilled stomach, her legs that had become liquid as the frozen rain of the Deep Norae confronted with the glare of Av. She turned unerringly toward the white-hot window through which the boiling light of Av was pouring.