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

by Ako Emanuel

  She dropped to her melting knees, spread her dripping arms wide, drinking in the devastating heat of the late afterzen light as if it were liquid fire, the molten mead of life. Then she dropped her thawing hands and beat upon her deliquescing thighs in lieu of drums, the pay’ta that began the Rite. It grew and evolved, hot, bright, brilliant in the sinking cold of her darkness, taking her name up to the heavens, to Av, the most brilliant embodiment of Solu.

  “In Av’s peace and Av’s place

  Lend to me Av’s grace

  In Av’s light and Av’s dawn

  From Av’s heart I am reborn.”

  Light-heat flooded in through the window, intensifying with each passing moment, suffusing her with a bright yellow glow, scorching a path to her innermost center of cold. She laughed as the light scoured into her, filling her, burning away all sensation of her physical body, almost-all sensation of the cold, until she was a pure, blazing soul, a drop of life-blood of the Supreme One. Almost. The light roared in her ears, broiled her eyes, cleansed her spirit of almost-all cares and worries and woes and ice-floes, purifying, rebirthing. Almost. It was not enough.

  She invoked the second order of the Rite, her voice rising, calling down the fury of Av.

  “In Av’s sight and Av’s sound

  Let the cold be bound

  By Av’s Rite and Av’s will

  Let the dark-cold be stilled!”

  It battered down into her, stormed her wasted ritu’chi like a hurricane, came close to burning her out to ash and gone. She let its fury rage through her, unchecked. She directed it toward the insidious cold-dark, letting it battle the deep seed of cold that neglect of the Rite had planted. She let it deluge her, walked the thin line between salvation and destruction, dancing as close as she dared to one to embrace the other. What she did was madness, for few dared let the first order of the Rite reign unchecked, much less the second. Madness born of desperation. Salvation born of skill and power. A thing born of Av.

  The light rampaged within her, dancing upon the kindling of her soul, blazing through her ritu’chi like a brush fire gone wild. Feeding on the darkness. Biting back the chill. Driving out the cold. She held the Rite as long as she dared, to the brink of incineration, total burn out. Then she terminated each order carefully, her being feeling as if it had been over-baked in an immense kiln. She kept hold of the heat energy for as long as she could as the Rite ended. She held it like a lover, pressed it to the retreating cold. Then reluctantly she released it, slowly, before it rushed out of her all at once and depleted and chilled her even more than she had been before performing the Rite. And when she had not the strength to hold it more, she threw it away from her in all directions, striking living sparks upon the air. Slowly the light surrounded her, and slowly it dissipated, as if loath to vanish. All returned to normal, with no sign that the Rite had past.

  She hoped it was enough to kill the cold. She seriously doubted it.

  A distant sound made her turn fast, the scorched, tight skin on her back protesting.

  Could he have been listening? Or watching? The possibility made her run cold, a different cold. The Rite was a private, sacred thing; only under special circumstances, such as when one is first shown the Rite, or when one is too sick to perform it oneself, was it shared between two people.

  “Hello?” she said softly, liquidly, cocking her feverish head, her ears pricked. She heard the scorched clatter of hooves but they were distant, and fading. She sighed, began making her singed way back to the raised pallet, troubled.

  She had been unable to store any of the light, a testament to her deteriorated state. She still was not anywhere near strong enough to send a message or av’tun home. And the threat of lor’den hung over her head. Still.

  Again her thoughts turned to the seriousness of her condition, this time without the distraction of cold, treading in the footsteps of flaming heat. She knew the effects of thrista. The poisoning had taken a huge toll on her, more than it should have. Thrista was not that potent, even in large doses. It was not life-threatening. It caused a slight fever and minor irritation in the eyes, yes, and an upset stomach if there were a large concentration. It did not cause a fever so high that delirium ensued, or make the eyes so sensitive that they would not tolerate light of any kind. It did not incapacitate a healthy person for a full ten’turn. Jeliya shook her head, which ached dully even as she thought about her symptoms. It was like thrista poisoning, but amplified a thousand times. Could he have been wrong about the type of stinging nettle she had fallen in? But no, she had identified it as thrista herself. Could it be a new breed? Could she have been poisoned with something more potent afterward? But why would he poison her and then cure her? She rejected the idea. She was sure that he was curing her, at least for as long as she had been awake.

  The end of the hollow light staff encountered the pallet.

  She rested a moment, puffing and trembling with the exertion and slight reaction to overexposure to the wrath of Av, then attempted to climb back onto the surface. She made it on the third try, after which she was too exhausted and hurt to do anything except lie on her side, breathing hard. Her skin felt lightly broiled, tight and dry, the physical sensation twin to the beating her ritu’chi had taken. It faded, slowly, but oh, so slowly. When she got her breath back she crawled up to the pillow and pulled the desi up around her and shivered within the cocoon it made. After the savage glory of the Rite the room seemed chilled again. She let the staff dissolve, and worried. Even though she had promised herself not to fret on her circumstances, as she lay there, weak and spent and lightly crisped inside and out, the full impact of her condition began to assert itself. She had been incapacitated for turns, and was now almost totally helpless and completely dependent upon the goodwill of her host. Her family did not know her whereabouts, and could not come to her aid. She was totally alone, naked, with no trusted servant or warru to protect her. She began to realize that what she had done had been a rash, foolish thing, leaving the majority of her escort to travel with only one warru in search of this being, Gavaron. And that lone warru, she had left behind to track her prey alone. She was destitute. She did not even know that warrior’s fate - did he search for her even now? Did he presume her dead and at this moment suffer punishment for losing his charge? Did he possibly lie dead, having succumbed to some even more sinister growth?

  Her stomach knotted with a sudden fear, cooked feeling forgotten. She had almost gambled away the future of her Realm on a vague, uncorroborated story in unknown territory. That her supposition had been correct was of no moment, for if she had died in the wilderness, the point would have been academic. Her actions had not been those of an adult, but more like a willful child, delighting in being right. She was not the mature woman she thought herself to be. And she had come to terrible ends because of her folly. What if her benefactor had a sudden change of heart? What if he perceived her as a threat when she began to question him?

  Jeliya heaved a breath and tried to think of a way to make the best of a bad situation. She thought about her host, as she shifted to a more comfortable position. She was sure that he was the key to the Zehj’Ba, even if he was not directly responsible. Getting any relevant information from him was going to be difficult, though. Her trap had back-fired. She had no leverage, no bargaining chip to coerce him. Rather, he was in the position of power, holding her life in his hands. Truthfully she really owed him her life. That she had been deathly ill was all too clear from her body’s rhythms. She was at his mercy; but what she perceived of him told her that he was not likely to call in that debt, at least not lightly. But try as she might, she could not think of a way to get answers from him.

  When her thoughts began to run in circles she set the subject aside and thought instead about what she would face when she finally made it back home. She had missed the Bolorn’toyo, which had occurred either a turn before or perhaps two turns ago. It was an important event, and her absence was sure to have some semi-serious repercu
ssions. Her mother had counseled her that some of the Queens might object to her taking the Throne so young, especially with rumors of Turo’dan flying about. The damage was done, however - she just hoped that there was a way to minimize it. That hinged on her getting back as soon as possible with a good story, preferably the truth of the whole matter...

  A scrape of something on stone made the hair stand on her arms and neck. The reek of old blood came to her, and an itch in her mind, like a stare of blind hate upon the nape of her neck, made her blood run cold. The staff reappeared in her hand without conscious thought as another tiny click of nail against the stone floor sounded.

  A lor’ugawu. She did not have to see it to know where it was. It felt like a spiky hole in the warmth of the room in her mind, a seeping, seething energy leech that stalked her now that it knew she was aware of it. She heard it slavering slightly, and the staff became a shield that closed around her as she put her back to the wall. She could not fight a lor’ugawu directly - not in her condition. She began building an av’tun with her waning av’rita - but a small one, centered on her right hand, with the terminating end tapering to a cone. Just inside the tip she put a hot bundle of energy. She hoped the thing could not sense what she was doing.

  The shield will only hold for a moment. Hopefully that is all I will need. Where is the healer?

  The thing scrabbled around a little more and she blessed the stones of the floor. The claws were non-retractable, and the noise it made would give her warning. The scraping stopped.

  It’s going to pounce. Now!

  The sick reek almost knocked her out as the creature hit her shield. It held for the moment that she had calculated, and she used it to thrust her av’tun-armored hand into the lor’ugawu’s chest, unerringly aiming for the coldest node of the heart within void of its presence. The cone of light opened and closed around the vital organ as its weight slammed into her, and the hot point of energy burned a perfect hole right through the heart as she rolled to the side to throw it off before it could slash her. The lor’ugawu gave a blood curdling scream and thrashed on the floor, but it was already dead. There was no exterior blood.

  Jeliya sat back with her heart pounding, breath rasping in harsh gasps, staring into the darkness of the bandage around her eyes. She waited, turning her awareness inward, searching her body for any burning or itching or some other sign that she had been scratched. There were none. She breathed a sign of relief, only then noticing that she held a charred heart in her hand. Her stomach turned, but she held off queasiness. She tossed the heart up and used more precious av’rita to burn it to ash, and used the last of her strength to obliterate the body as well. Then, she fell over, and was out cold before her head hit the pallet.

  the light turned...

  The clop of hooves woke her. She stiffened and sniffed experimentally, but even the stink of the lor’ugawu was gone.

  “Are you awake yet, ky’pen’dati?” the deep silver voice asked.

  Relief was a warm balm. She nodded, suppressing the urge to shake. Her slightly baked eyes ached only vaguely. The slosh of water and the scrape of wood followed his footsteps.

  “How do you feel this turn?”

  “A bit better,” she said, and was thankful that her voice did not tremor. She raised her head as the smell of food came to her. It was not quite a lie. The burned feeling was almost totally gone and the sleep seemed to have restored some of her vitality. “That smells wonderful. What is it?”

  He chuckled. “Something a little more substantial than broth. Think you can handle it?”

  In response she sat up slowly, carefully. He made a noise of surprise. “You must be feeling much better,” he said, his weight settling beside her.

  “Only a little. It probably won’t last for long,” and as she spoke, she felt what little energy she had acquired from resting drain away. She leaned heavily on one hand, dizziness making her sway. Without a word he moved closer, took her free hand and pulled her over so that she was once again sitting between his front legs, leaning against his warm body. She did her best not to cringe from his inviting warmth, biting back a protest. He might not be aware of her sharing his senses, of the connection between them. If not, she would keep it to herself for now.

  And the lor’ugawu attack. If he sees no sign of it, then there is no need to worry him. I will set a gentle ward that should alert me if more come.

  “Here,” he said gently, and the bowl touched her lips. She sipped carefully, drank deep when she found that it was not too hot. In it she found fine slivers of tender meat and finely diced vegetables. She slowly emptied the bowl, leaned back with a sigh of contentment. The light soup sat pleasantly warm in her stomach. She smiled, taking care not to lean too heavily against him, partly from the wounds on her back, but mostly because she really wanted to avoid overmuch contact with him.

  “You look so comfortable that I almost hate to disturb you, but I need to check your back,” he murmured. Obligingly she sat forward, moving slowly and hunching over like an old woman. He peeled off the uppermost bandages with great care. His fingers probed her flesh and she flinched a little at the slight pain. He took the rest of the bandages off, examining her entire back, it seemed.

  “There is no sign of infection,” he said, sounding relieved. “Your back, behind and legs all got lacerations, but only your back actually had the nettles snapped off under the skin. I was afraid I might not have gotten them all, but it appears that I did.”

  Jeliya straightened at this news, and turned her head as if she were trying to look over her shoulder, then reached around with one hand to touch her back. She felt scabs and healing scars from puncture wounds wherever her fingers touched. She gasped in dismay.

  My back...!

  “Don’t worry,” he said, as if reading her thoughts. “I’ve been rubbing you down with aloe and cocoa butter, enhanced with a rite of healing. There will be no scars.” She could almost see his smile. “Now how about a bath?”

  “Bath? But I can’t see,” she said plaintively. He laughed.

  “I’ve been bathing you for a ten’turn, plus,” he informed her, and logically she knew that he had, for she had been kept clean, and she had certainly been in no condition to bathe herself. “What is the difference now? Are you body shy?” His voice was ironic, almost a challenge, for she now sat against him without a shred of covering save a small loincloth under the desi. “If you are, you don’t have to watch. You can keep your eyes closed.”

  “No thank you, I’d rather see exactly where you put your hands,” she shot back, having become expert at fending off many a barb from her brothers. She was not self-conscious, having had bathers for as long as she could remember. She had grown up with servants and attendants around her constantly. She had both male and female bathers. But the thought of him laying hands on her - she dredged up an image of him from her memory, the image of him nuzzling gului - the thought filled her with a strange, excited fear. She clamped down on it, however, almost by reflex. It was of no moment. She told herself this vehemently. She told herself this several times, in fact, before she began to believe it. “A bath sounds fine.”

  He picked her up effortlessly. She clung to his neck as he backed off the pallet and turned. He took two steps and leaned forward.

  “Dip your hand in and see if it is warm enough,” he said. She reached out, and her knuckles knocked the side of the tub.

  “Ow,” she said softly, feeling her way up along the side of the tub. The water lapped her fingers and he lowered her farther to submerge her whole hand. It was a bit cooler than she was used to. “Perhaps a little warmer, please.”

  He murmured and it warmed perceivably around her hand. She was a little surprised - males had not as much av’rito’ka as women, could not wield av’rita as easily; and usually it took longer for them to shape it. But he wielded it like an adept, shaped it almost without effort. She filed the information away to ponder later.

  He lowered her into the tub. The water c
ame up to her ribcage. The end she leaned against sloped steeply.

  “Bide a moment - I’ll be right back,” he said and clattered away. He returned shortly, as promised, rummaging around at some unseen task. Then his leg bumped the tub as he settled behind her.

  A sweet scent drifted to her. His hands rippled the water, making it lap her ribs. His hands then made squishing noises before her. They settled on her shoulders and she fought not to startle. One held a sudsy cloth. They began to massage the fragrant soap into her skin. His touch was gentle, almost loving, as he moved over her shoulders and neck and face. He silently urged her to lean forward. She complied, sucked in her breath as he gently attacked her back and sides. He held her arm out and slid the cloth along up to her fingertips. She relaxed against the warm wood and sighed in contentment, held out the other for him. It was almost like she was back at the Palace, except his touch was not as impersonal as her bathers. He scrubbed under her arms, then, with the slightest of hesitations, his hands ran down her chest to lather her breasts and stomach. Absently she stroked his forearm as his fingers cupped her breasts, slowly working the lather into the skin, the nipples hardening under his touch. It was habit, one that she and her bathers thought nothing of. His hands, however, paused, and his surprise was almost palpable. Jeliya tilted her head back against his chest when his hands lay still on her abdomen.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked. She had rather been enjoying herself, liking his touch.

  “Wrong? No,” he said, a little too quickly, his voice low and husky silver. He bent forward and his hands slid down her belly under the water. At that she moved up the side of the tub, then sat forward, bracing her hands on the edges. Painfully she pushed herself forward till she balanced on the balls of her feet, her injured ankle throbbing. She turned, leaned heavily in his shoulder, and levered herself up to stand facing him. It was another habit, part of a well-practiced ritual that she and her bathers went through. But this time she observed him carefully with her other senses, conscious of his reactions.