Yet another girl approached, older than Munayair but wearing the same purple robes. Gora Kinian’s long hair hung past her waist, and she moved with a practiced grace. “Well done, Naya,” she said.
“You made it.” Munayair nodded welcome.
Smirking, Gora looked around at the younger prentices, who drew back and watched with avid eyes. The oldest students of the Marble Hall, purples gained an almost mythological status among the younger ranks. Munayair found the attention uncomfortable, while other purples reveled in it. As Gora placed a hand on Munayair’s shoulder, she spoke so all might hear. “I wrote to my father, adviser to the Khalifah of Arshvan, about your skills as a glyphmaster. He could find you an apprenticeship in city government, or the household of a minor royal in Dakhosam—even South Thinavaru. I’ve said it before, talent like yours is meant for greater things than the Hall, Naya.”
Munayair studied Gora’s ashen cheeks and trembling smile. “You’re looking pale,” she said. “If you spoke to Adept Hayaii—”
“I’ll fast the whole day, same as the rest.” Gora grumbled. “Gods know I need as much spiritual strength as I can get. Plus, the fog keeps me from panicking.”
A bell rang overhead—once, twice, shimmering in the air. The watching prentices jumped, murmured, and began to disperse. Munayair stepped away and bowed low to Gora. “As ever, your support means the world to me,” she said. “I’ll see you at the ritual tonight.”
“And I must finish packing.” As they moved away from each other, Gora called after Munayair. “It’s amazing how things accumulate, isn’t it? Even the monkish way they make us live here!”
“You call this monkish?” Munayair shot back. “Try living in the back of a wagon for a few seasons.” She caught Gora’s answering grin before slipping out through a side door. The corridors were dark and quiet, and she reveled in the cool air after the oppressive heat of the courtyard. Soon she came to another door, taller and heavier than the others. As she tugged it open, the familiar scent of hay and horses washed over her. She crossed to the line of stalls, pulling a wrinkled apple out of her sleeve while looking around guiltily. Aruna, her favorite pony, was a sturdy chestnut who nickered when he saw her. He slobbered the apple out of her palm while she rubbed his neck and forelock, whispering gentle nonsense.
“Well, well.” Munayair jumped. Adept Futsu, the animals mistress, peered over the door of a nearby stall. Fluffy black curls made a halo around her head, and the soft gleam of her eyes belied her thunderous scowl. “You again. No rest for me, not even on the Lady’s sacred day?”
Bowing, Munayair concealed a smile. “Happy Dhinse Unen, Adept Futsu.”
“Happy, she says. I’m meant to jump for joy, watching you fatten ponies I’ve no time to exercise? You’ll take him out yourself, girl, and no arguments.”
Munayair bowed silently, tears pricking her eyes. She wished she could express her gratitude for Adept Futsu’s friendship but knew the acerbic adept would simply scoff it away.
“Get on, the bell won’t wait for you.” With a dismissive wave, Futsu turned away.
Leading Aruna to a set of heavy double doors, Munayair touched a glyph carved in the wall and they rumbled open to admit a blast of hot air and brilliant light. She tugged the pony out into the open desert, mouth already dry and gritty. Dry wind fluttered in her tunic and salt-crusted hardpan crunched under her boots.
Munayair glanced around at the morning landscape. Her heart sank. The day she dreaded had arrived. A day of farewells. The two moons danced close together, preparing for their yearly eclipse. Dignified Bader, a silver disc against the sky, and grinning Howler, wolf’s teeth prominent in the light. The landscape stretched away flat as a tabletop, shadows fleeing the sun’s blazing eye. Sorath heaved himself higher in the brilliant blue sky, escaping from the underworld for another day in his endless cycle of rebirth.
A friendly breeze toyed with her hair and the sleeves of her robe, and she looked around with a smile. It was a tembu flying close to her face, an iridescent creature with narrow, pointed wings and a sinuous blue body. “Good morrow, child of the sky,” Munayair said, bowing her head respectfully. “Which quarter of the world have you flown here from? Any news to share?”
The tiny creature hovered closer, wingtips fluttering, but it did not respond to her question. She sighed and held out a hand, and it slid up her arm, a warm and inquisitive desert breeze. She had been able to see spirits ever since she was little, a rare ability even among the clans of Sayakhun. Some would speak to her, while others did not—she could never be sure. This one was silent. She giggled as it explored her hair, tangling the straight black strands.
As Aruna nibbled at spiny desert plants, Munayair stopped for a moment to tug Tel’s wooden limbs away from her tunic. He drooped and the glyphlight faded as kinetic energy ran out of the spell matrix. She knelt on the sand and watched as he slumped, life evaporating. All things must die, in time. She tried to comfort herself with the thought. Even the universe, according to legend. When the wolf in the sky and the dragon at the center of the world were finally freed, they would tear all creation into nothingness.
Closing her eyes, Munayair bent forward and rested her forehead on the rough sand. The tembu flew in circles, dust rising in its wake. She rose and folded her hands, on which ink-black spell tattoos stood out in stark relief from her tan skin, and bowed low to the northern horizon. “Oh great Sorath,” she murmured, “Lord of fire and of victory, I pray your mighty aid this day. Every night you die and fight your way back to be born anew in the morning. Tonight, I must do the same.” She shuddered, bowed lower. “Grant me a little of your courage and fortitude, my lord.”
Pressing her forehead to the rock, she inhaled before rising to face westward. “Napai, lord of the sea, your might is unending and your tides are tireless. Give me your strength and will to endure, to face the task ahead of me until it is completed and conquered.”
She turned to the left and bowed to the south and the mountains like a bruise on the wavering horizon. “Wise and powerful lady Jöra, Earthmother, your fertility and creativity fill the land with life and vitality. I will need those to make it through initiation this night. I pray your blessings on myself and all other prentices.”
She turned again, bowing now towards the east. “Oh Aïda, breath of wind,” she said. The tembu drifted closer. Munayair smiled at it and continued. “In the old tales you brought news to weary travelers and hurried them on their way. I am nearing the end of my task, but I ask for the loan of some of your fleetness of foot in this last weary mile.”
The wind spirit’s snakelike body twisted restlessly, eager to be gone. She held up a hand in friendly farewell as it raced off. Spirits had become rare in recent years, even in her wild homeland of Sayakhun, where wolves still howled and snow-capped peaks rose into the sky. Here among the ice-worn mountains and warm winters of the south, she treasured each sighting. She shaded her eyes to watch it disappear straight into the electric blue sky.
She straightened and spoke directly to the silver crescent of Bader, the moon. Although speaking to the fifth and final god did not come easily to her as a Sayakhun, today she needed every blessing she could get. “Great Lady of Spirit, my teachers say you grant us the power and the will to guide the world. Shed your light upon me and all prentices today, to overcome our fear and doubts. Give us the wisdom to lead all men along the righteous path.”
Pressing against the warm sand, she exhaled. Envisioning her prayers rising into the sky like the tembu. From there, finding their way to the faraway land where the gods had hidden from the wickedness of men.
As she straightened, she pressed the backs of her hands against her eyes. “Never show your eyes after prayer,” rang through her mind in her old nurse’s cracked voice. “Evil spirits will chew your soul to splinters.” When she lowered her hands, she looked around to be sure she was alone. No matter how often her teachers scolded, she had never liberated herself from the pagan beliefs of her hom
eland.
Munayair knelt for a moment longer, rubbing at an ache in her wrist. Futilely, she wished for Sorath to turn backward, for time to reverse to a younger and more innocent day. But such thoughts were useless. Today was today, no spell could change the truth. She stood and smoothed her tunic over the churning of her stomach. The pangs of hunger and nerves were indistinguishable now—both gnawed at her guts like dragons. Seeking distraction, she lowered her head and walked in slow circles through the salt pan, bending to grab small, smooth stones. Within a few moments, the pockets of her tunic were heavy and clanking. As she moved automatically, her thoughts were free to wander. They followed the tembu into the sky, into the freedom so valued by his windwalking mother.
Her people, the Sayakhun nomads, venerated spirits above any god. In the northern steppes, shrines stood at every spring and grove for the clans to worship as they passed. But even in Sayakhun, spirits were becoming less and less common. In the old tales, spirits were as thick on the ground as sand. In fact, ancient Taellori travelers had written of droves of sand spirits in the northern deserts. But nowadays meeting even a wind spirit was unusual. Were spirits dying off? Or were they, as the religion of the adepts taught, simply becoming obsolete?
A bell rang not far away, and she jumped.
She urged Aruna back towards a wall of white stone turrets rearing overhead. Every block was carved with glyphs, spells of protection and defense. Hidden in the sandy ground below their feet, hundreds of leagues of tunnels wandered through the bedrock, a glimpse into the history of the fabled building. The Marble Hall had been a stronghold during the Taellori wars, before the adepts turned it into a school.
The bell rang again, insistent. Munayair ran back to the stable, Aruna blowing indignantly beside her. She rubbed him down before feeding him another apple and saying goodbye with a quick kiss on his forelock.
Smoothing back wayward strands of black hair, she slipped through the door and closed it behind her. The dark corridor beyond had only one other occupant, a man-sized cleaning chelka using a rush to light the torches. She ignored it and kept moving, brushing dust from her tunic. The third toll of the bell jolted her into a faster walk. She lowered trembling hands to her sides and allowed her billowing sleeves to cover them as she raced up a flight of stairs. The higher she went, the more evidence of life—thundering boots, snatches of voices from rooms she hurried past.
A chattering group of younger girls, wearing identical green tunics, appeared from a side passage. One bowed to Munayair as she passed, calling out, “Blessed Lady’s Day, Prentice Sarem-ori!” The other greens repeated the courtesy.
Munayair nodded. “And you girls, study hard for initiation to red!” She smiled as she watched them bustle away down a staircase.
A black-garbed woman appeared in the nearest doorway, scowling, but her expression lightened when she saw Munayair. She pleaded, “Munayair Sarem-ori, would you keep the festivities to a low roar in the corridor? My students are trying to concentrate!”
“Apologies, Adept Kasebi.” Munayair bowed and sped on, grinning.
A delicious smell wafted from a flight of stairs. Munayair’s stomach growled as she envisioned the bustling scene in the kitchens. She and the other purples, senior prentices in the Hall, had been fasting for a full day now in preparation for Dhinse Unen. Her path wound deeper into the center of the Hall until she emerged into dazzling sunshine. Sorath’s eye scorched a courtyard stinking of dust and sweat and picked out the dizzying forms of red tunics, the complicated dance of the sword, and wooden blades spinning. Munayair found a seat in the shade.
“Blades up! Mind your feet!” A taller girl threaded through the reds, curls scraped back ruthlessly into a bun, wearing leggings under her purple tunic. On her collar flashed a round white pin, symbol of the order of keepers, those adepts dedicated to protecting the sacred name of the Lady of Words. Anjita Mahil’s quick gaze flickered over the reds. Somehow, her hands were even quicker to correct posture and footwork. Quickest of all, her tongue deployed praise or criticism. Her eyes met Munayair’s from across the yard, and she roared at the perspiring prentices, “Take a moment for water, trainee reds!” A moment later, she crashed onto the bench beside Munayair, guzzling from her waterskin. “Five gods, this desert sun. Eight years, and it still makes my head spin.” She sniffed and made a face. “You stink like horses. You went to the stables before coming to see me?”
Munayair shrugged, grinning. “Ducking my admirers,” she said. “You know how it is.”
“Ah!” Anjita’s eyes lit and she scooted closer avidly. “Come on. Tell me how it went. Did Eng cry?” Obligingly, Munayair described the events of her chelka exam, enjoying the rapt audience she had in Anjita, who interrupted often to pry out more details. After the description of the grand finale, she let out a low scream and wiggled in her seat. “Ah, I’m so glad you gave Eng a comeuppance.” She stood, swigging water once more. “She’s been getting very lordly in glyph class.”
A group of reds had gathered around them, checking the angle of the sun. “Milady Anjita,” one girl said. “The bell will ring soon.”
Someone else ventured, “You had promised us, as it is your last day ...”
“Ah.” Anjita feigned sternness, but a grin broke over her face. “So I did. Excellent memory, Prentice Butuiin. Very well, get your gear.”
The reds gave a cheer, scattering to drop their wooden blades back onto the rack and fetch bows and quivers. They gathered at one end of the courtyard across from bales of hay affixed with targets. Laughing and chattering, they strung bows and tested arrows for imagined strengths or weaknesses. Soon a good-natured competition began. Many arrows skittered across the stone floor, buried themselves in the hay, or clattered off the back wall, but a fair few thunked into the targets. Some even came near the center, always cause for a round of screaming and hugging. Anjita walked from group to group, encouraging, correcting, and laughing right along with them. Her own bow hung on her back, though she never moved to shoot it.
Munayair watched from the cool of the terrace, smiling at the excitement and commotion. I remember being a red, she thought. This day had seemed so far away. Life was always going to be sweet and carefree.
How fast the time goes, the soft voice in her mind mused. Always on and on, like a river. But where does it go? Where is the ocean?
Enough philosophy, she returned. You’re going to give me a headache again.
The ringing of the bell interrupted the fun, and everyone turned to Anjita. “Your turn, milady,” one girl prompted.
Anjita stepped forward, smirking. “I’ve been practicing, too,” she said.
In one smooth movement, she pointed her bow towards the sky and loosed the arrow. The gathered prentices shrieked and chattered behind their hands, tracking as it became a dot, vanishing in the sun. Then, faster than the eye could follow, stooped back to ground. It buried itself into the central pile of hay, deep enough a distinct click echoed from the dusty stones as the point hit. There were groans and cheers, and girls dug in their pockets, combs and ribbons changing hands. The crowd filed past the purples on their way out of the courtyard, bidding Anjita farewell with cheery smiles and waves, some clasping her hands. Most spared a bow for Munayair and a word or two. Munayair replied in kind, and then they were gone.
Anjita moved around the courtyard, straightening weapons and summoning chelka to remove the targets and hay. She retrieved her own arrow from the pile and touched the chipped point ruefully. “It’s a silly trick, but it makes them gasp so! I couldn’t resist.” She tucked the arrow away in her quiver and squinted at Munayair’s face. “Well, will you congratulate me for never once resorting to beating the ninnies over the head?”
Munayair grinned. “Impressive, especially for you.”
“Come along so.” Anjita grimaced expressively. “I need to freshen up before glyphs final.”
Their boots scuffled as they ran down the hallway and flitted up a flight of wrought-iron stairs. Side by
side they raced along a corridor lined with small doors, but before they made it to the end, the oil lamp on the wall flickered and died.
Anjita groaned. “Someone needs to repair the spells on those mudmen,” she muttered, rubbing the first finger on her left hand in a practiced gesture. “They never refill the lamps.” As she touched the ancient words tattooed onto the finger, a soft yellow ball of light sprang into being next to her hand. She gestured and it rose to take its place by her left shoulder. Munayair followed suit, summoning her own witchlight of cool green. A few flights of stairs later, they entered the room—cell, really—they had shared since they had first come to the Marble Hall. Small and bare, one narrow window and two cots on a stone floor, a screen in one corner.
“I see you still haven’t packed.” Anjita laid her bow and quiver on her cot and looked over at Munayair’s half of the room, strewn with the accumulated detritus of eight years.
Munayair grimaced. “I’ll finish later.” She made a few desultory swipes at the mess with her feet, then settled onto her cot and frowned at her folded hands. Broad and strong with square fingernails, skin a cool light brown. Marked with words, the tongue of the conquered Taellori, her vanished ancestors. The language of magic, though not when spoken. Only through touch could an adept command the wind to blow, fire to blossom, ground to shake underfoot.
“Later?” Anjita glanced over her side of the room, bare apart from her stripped cot and two bulging saddlebags.
Munayair looked away from her hands and reached into her pocket, retrieving Tel. The complicated replication glyph was still smeared across his forehead. “Well, what shall we do today?” she said, rubbing his smooth face clean with her sleeve.
Anjita shed her clothes behind the screen and donned a white shift with flaring sleeves. Meanwhile, Munayair fished a grease pencil from her pocket and began sketching glyphs on the chelka’s ceramic head. Stay close, one said, and another commanded, Look, report.
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