Far overhead, the two moons drew closer and closer together, locked in their eternal dance of hunted and hunter.
Ajhai’s hands seized around Munayair’s as air wheezed from her flaring nostrils. “F-find the man who is no man.” The color faded from her eyes, leaving them blank and silver once again. “The deathbringer and the golden son. Death and life, good and evil. He who is his own shadow. You cannot succeed without him, Moony. Promise me you will find him.” Her shoulders hunched, mouth slackening. “P-promise, grey horse girl.” Her hands spasmed around Munayair’s.
Munayair could not speak. She watched the color fade from Ajhai’s eyes, leaving them blank and unfocused. Tarnished.
“Find him,” Ajhai repeated. “Golden ... death.”
Chapter 4: Night of the Lone Moon
A knock echoed around the room and all three prentices jumped out of their skins. Rosy-cheeked Adept Mandiwal poked her head inside and sighed with relief. “Oh, dear, I was so worried.” She pressed a hand to her heaving bosom and hurried through the maze of desks to where Adept Ajhai sat. Her floating hair was damp with sweat.
“She’s all right.” Munayair quivered on the edge of flight.
“I found her,” Mandiwal said into the juyios strapped to her hand. Panicked voices drifted from the communication device, unintelligible to anyone but the adept herself. Sweat dampened her hair, sticking it to her scalp. “Come along with me, Reverence.” She extricated Munayair’s hands from Ajhai’s grasp. Munayair jerked her sleeve back over the mark and forced herself to stand still. Aiena and Vidya gripped her hands under her sleeves. Adept Mandiwal beamed at them. “Thank you, Prentice Sarem-ori, for not leaving her alone. She’s usually just fine, but the past moon or so she’s been having episodes where she doesn’t remember where she ought to be.”
Munayair exhaled slowly. “She knew my name.”
Adept Mandiwal contemplated her with narrowed eyes. “Did she now? Poor thing, she gets these flashes of memory. Perhaps she remembers you from her old class. She did love teaching—well, most days. Best not to let her fool you, dear.”
Munayair could not tear her eyes away from Adept Ajhai’s face. “I only knew her for half a year before …” Her throat felt tight. “But I remember how all us whites worshiped her. Her sickness was so unexpected.”
Adept Mandiwal snapped, “Did she say something to you?”
These sharp words caught Munayair’s attention. Mandiwal had looked up from untangling Ajhai’s fingers from around Munayair’s wrists. Her eyes, an unusual bright hazel, glinted like marbles. The mark prickled on Munayair’s wrist like a warning. She spoke slowly, measuring each syllable. “I ... she said some things. Nonsense, babbling.”
Mandiwal’s eyes narrowed further. “I see. Well, thank you again, Prentice Sarem-Ori,” she said, bowing. “We need to go prepare for the ritual.” She grabbed Ajhai’s arm and towed the slow, hobbling high adept out.
Vidya let out a gasp and sank onto the nearest desk. “Gods, I’ve never been so scared in my life. Did anyone else think she would attack?”
Aiena still clutched Munayair’s hand, unshed tears in her eyes. “She’s so sad,” she whispered. “She lost someone important.”
Munayair led them back to their desks and they sat in unaccustomed silence. She turned her back to them for a moment, drawing in a deep, trembling breath and letting it out. When she turned back to face them, she hitched a smile onto her face. “Now, Vidya, enough stalling. It’s your turn to read.”
There were no more interruptions to their lesson. When the bell rang again, Munayair’s pupils came to her for parting hugs before scampering from the room hand in hand. Only Aiena glanced back as she left, black eyes thoughtful. The exuberant noise of lunchtime shook the building all the way to its foundations, and Munayair sat alone in the empty classroom, staring out the window at the moons.
She couldn’t seem to focus for the rest of the day. For the first time since she was a white, Adept Sanrizu had to reprimand her to pay attention during her deportment final. She hurried from the room, knees still aching from the curtsey—deep enough to greet an emperor—the old woman had made her hold for the last half of class. Adept Kasebi frowned when she misidentified the glyph for Burn, even when she hastily corrected herself. Finally, she dragged herself out of Adept Mehta’s grueling hand-to-hand combat final as the corridors came alive with rainbow-hued prentices and joined Anjita and a group of giggling purples on the way to meet their sponsors. Outsiders, especially men, could only enter the Marble Hall on this one day. Dhinse Unen, the eve of initiation.
The purples climbed a final staircase onto a rooftop. In the center, a bonfire had burned down to flaring coals. The desert spread out on all sides. Sorath painted Heaven’s vault yellow, pink, and lavender as he descended to his death. Overhead the moons neared eclipse. Howler’s grin was manic as he fled before Bader’s expressionless gaze.
The rooftop teemed with richly dressed officials mingling with masses of prentices. Anjita pulled Munayair to a halt, scanning the crowd. Some were parents, well-to-do merchants, farmers, or nobles who could afford to sponsor their own daughter. The rest were representatives of countries or cities. All had come to check on their hopes for future prosperity and power.
Munayair surveyed the faces of the younger girls, marveling. Had she ever been so small and fearless? The memories were faded and worn, like a dream half-remembered.
Anjita had four fingers of height over Munayair. She glanced around with disinterest. “You’re so lucky your clan doesn’t send someone every year to lecture you, Naya. I am eaten alive with envy.”
“Well, it’s my last initiation. Someone might come.” Munayair’s stomach lurched at the thought.
“If they do, be sure to introduce me. We could swap embarrassing Naya stories.”
Munayair grimaced. “Spirits, now I know what to pray for.”
Anjita’s answering grin faded. “If this ambassador rambles on, I’m going to bite him. Why they put us through this on an empty stomach ...”
“Save yourself the trouble.” Munayair stood on tiptoe to see. “We’ll tear through the feast like wolves, as usual.”
“A full day of fasting cannot be balanced by one feast,” Anjita returned. Her eyes halted and she let out a loud groan. “Five gods, it’s Ambassador Blowhard again. Naya, come with me, he likes you—”
Munayair shooed her towards the Andustavan ambassador with a grin. “Go on. Think of it as practice for dealing with politicians when you’re a Royal Adviser. The bell for the feast will ring before you know it.”
“I am going to eat him,” Anjita muttered before heading away through the press.
Left to her own devices, Munayair scanned the crowd of students and sponsors. Finally she gave up, shaking her head at her own foolishness. Her father would not have come, after so many years of absence, to see her. She scolded herself for hoping and headed for the roof’s edge to wait for the feast. Jamura, another purple, waved her over with a smile.
Jamura grabbed her hands and squeezed. “Well, Sarem-oryn Munayair, no one came for us this year either, is it?”
“Seems so, Erkyn Jamura,” Munayair said with a grin.
This was an old joke between them. Both women had been born in one of the northern nations—Munayair in Sayakhun, Jamura in Bui-tara. And for eight years, they had made a point of saying each other’s names correctly. In the north, where one’s ancestry was valued over individuality, surname came first—unlike the backwards southern nations. To hear her real name, Munayair was willing to overlook Jamura’s origin.
In truth, the two northern nations shared many things, among them counting their origins among the original inhabitants of the continent. The Taellori Empire had once stretched from the desert mountains to the ice-crusted southern islands. But when the Cayori landed, they had been declining for almost a thousand years. The invaders drove the remnants out of their ancestral lands except the high steppes and the scorching deserts. Now the Southe
rn Alliance of Cayori nations—Thinavaru, Andustava, and Dakhosam—lived together in relative harmony.
Once cut off from the Sayakhun, the Bui-tarans had shed most Taellori tradition. In the desert, rumors said, they found a prophet who taught of a single god. He preached of war and conflict on the horizon and taught his mages to consider female magic users blasphemers. Young magicians like Jamura were forced to flee their own country or face execution. According to rumor, this cruel prophet had ruled Bui-tara for 200 years. No outsider had ever seen the so-called Immortal Emperor, and the Southern Alliance refused to acknowledge his existence. Thinavaru, the northernmost Cayori nation, claimed the entire territory of Bui-tara as their own. However, since no one wished to invade the desert, a truce stood as long as Bui-tara remained on their side of the border.
None of this stopped the constant Bui-taran raids into Sayakhun lands. The treaty didn’t protect Munayair’s people, but she was proud of their independence. No Sayakhun would stoop to asking for Cayori aid, no matter how desperate their situation. The border war had been going on for ten years, with no end in sight to the bloody conflict, but as long as it didn’t stray into Alliance territory, the Cayori nations turned a blind eye.
Munayair’s hand tightened around Jamura’s. She had seen enough of war in her twenty-three years of life. Inside the walls of the Marble Hall, all nations could mingle, even a Sayakhunii and a Bui-taran.
Sorath dipped his toes under the horizon, preparing for another death in his endless cycle of rebirth. The ranks of prentices hushed as tall, black-robed adepts filed into the courtyard. Every head was bowed under their hoods. With a rustle, all the prentices pulled on their own hoods and waited in tingling anticipation. Munayair scanned the black shapes, matching blank hoods with familiar faces. The tall, angular one must be Adept Attar. The short, round one was Adept Mandiwal, supporting a hobbling form. The high adept, here to preside over a ceremony she no longer understood.
The hood covering the high adept’s face swiveled. Even through the crowd chattering between them, the silver gaze seared into Munayair.
She wrenched her eyes away with a pounding heart and looked around frantically. Anjita and the other Andustavan prentices stood dozing while their ambassador expounded on the pride of their country and the great things expected in their futures. At the sight of Anjita’s bored face, Munayair let out a low sigh, fists unclenching.
Jamura’s lips twisted. “Ama swore she would make it back from Dakhosam to escort me, but it looks like she didn’t.”
“Don’t despair.” Munayair pressed her shoulder. “She’ll be here soon.”
Jamura snorted. “Or I’ll be camping in the desert for a moon or two before she finally makes an appearance. ‘Never marry a merchant,’ Ada always said. ‘They’ll never love you as well as the road.’ Well, that’s exactly what you did, Ada, and see where we are now.” Munayair grinned in reply.
Now the adepts had arrived, she and Jamura shoved their way through the crowd to join the other purples. Shaking voluminous sleeves over their hands, they waited for the next part of the ritual. Munayair glanced back at the line of adepts, trying to make the movement casual. She had not imagined it—the high adept’s hood turned to follow her. The mark prickled in response.
Breathe, the soft voice urged. It doesn’t mean anything. Nodding, she inhaled slowly and turned her attention outward once more.
Tall, stern Adept Attar approached the pit and fished out a few live coals, saving them in a cup. Then she shoveled the ashes into a copper basin. Dust billowed around the square, prompting discreet coughing and sleeve-waving. A troop of browns piled wood into the pit higher than a plain elk’s antlers. Along with the rest, Munayair murmured the ritual prayer and kept the high adept in the corner of her vision. A moment later, nothing but a lingering glow remained of the sun. The stars danced overhead. Adept Attar called the prentices by rank to be anointed with a smear of ashes from the copper brazier.
First the whites, small and pale-faced, arms and hands bare of tattoos.
Then yellows, clinging and giggling. Screaming wishes to Bader before racing off in straggling groups.
Now the oranges, comparing tattoos. Discussing which weapons they would learn in the coming year.
Greens, comparing notes. Praying to Bader, Lady of Spirit, to pass this initiation and not—shame of shames! —stay back another year to master the 150 basic spells.
After them reds, weaving through the smaller girls with superior smirks.
The browns, still hugging and crying after a full year of isolation. Swapping tales of visions and privations, yearning aloud for the feast.
Blues with whites and yellows clinging to their sleeves. Shadows under their eyes, spells spilling from their pockets. Ink on every available span of skin.
And last of all, purples whom everyone whispered and pointed at.
All other initiations happened the next morning for all to see. Only initiation to grey, the journeyer’s color, happened at night and in secret. The purples would be gone before daybreak, never to return.
Mechanically, Adept Attar wiped an ashen streak across Munayair’s forehead and nodded in response to her bow. “Lady’s luck for your initiation,” she said, surveying Munayair expressionlessly.
Anjita rushed over in a flurry of sleeves to grab her arm. “There you are! Five gods, I thought I’d never escape. Did someone come for you?”
Munayair pulled her sleeve over the mark and smiled. “No one.”
They sat at the edge of the roof with arms linked, watching as the rest of the ritual unfolded. Adept Kasebi joined Adept Attar beside the firepit and raised her voice. “This year, as every other, we turn in thanks to the source of all power and wisdom, the Lady of Spirit. She who grants to us thought, words, and magic. Let her continue to beam upon her humble servants. May her anger fall onto the heads of heretics who misuse her gifts. Let us continue to serve as her envoys here on earth. So let it be, now and forever.”
“Now and forever,” the crowd chorused.
“May her light never fade!” Adept Attar cried.
On cue, the browns lit the wood with the reserved coals. The dry wood took flame, a bonfire roaring hundreds of spans into the twilight. The prentices gasped and applauded. Immediately all eyes turned towards the deepening sky for the midsummer eclipse. Nothing remained of the sun besides a lingering glow on the horizon. The moons shone against a black sky, and the stars jumped and danced overhead.
“It’s starting!” a green called out, pointing. The crowd shifted, murmuring as the two moons collided near the apex of the sky. Two silver faces touched and melded, slow as honey dripping. The double shadows falling across the rooftop turned and shortened. Munayair shifted, frowning.
Murmurs ran through the crowd, then cries of fear and disbelief. Something was wrong.
Howler had eclipsed Bader.
Chapter 5: The Omen
Before, Bader had always concealed the wolf moon. Now the crowded rooftop watched as slowly, slowly Bader’s blank face disappeared until only Howler’s feral grin remained, alone against velvet black. Someone screamed, high and shrill, and a babble of voices sprang like a geyser.
“Five gods—five gods, what is happening?”
“What does it mean, milady High Adept?”
“Is it a sign?”
“Well, this is exciting,” Anjita murmured. Her eyes were fastened on the sky, a fey grin on her face. Munayair swallowed her own fear, holding tightly to Anjita’s arm.
One of the sponsors spoke with a lilting Dhakhosami accent. “Has the Lady’s power been usurped?”
“Of course not!” Attar’s voice wavered.
Munayair had known Adept Attar for eight years, and she had never heard the stern Head of Keepers wavering or sounding uncertain about anything. This, more than anything, sent her heart plummeting towards her boots. The panic of the crowd rose, and the screaming and crying intensified. At a signal from Kasebi, Keepers with the white moon pin on their
collars sifted through the crowd, restoring order with soft words and stern glances. Anjita rose to join them, and Munayair released her arm reluctantly, following her through the crowd with her eyes.
Kasebi stepped forward again, face white but voice steady. “We must pray for this terrible sign to pass and order again restored.” She lifted her voice in a plaintive hymn. Other Adepts joined while the crowd sank to their knees and pressed their faces to the stones, murmuring in an ancient tongue. Sobbing from the younger Prentices punctuated the ritual words. As she pressed her forehead to the ground, Munayair remembered her own hasty morning prayers. She let out a breath, picturing her fears flowing out of her like a river.
They rose to find the eclipse over for another year, both moons shining against a dark and velvety blue sky. The entire rooftop sat in silence, staring in relief at Bader’s silver face.
“It’s a sign,” Munayair heard someone whisper. “This is the end.”
“Why has the Lady abandoned us?” a young voice wept. “Did we do something wrong?”
Ninth Bell rang, so loud and ordinary everyone jumped. Adept Kasebi raised her voice again, a touch more in control. “We will proceed with the feast as usual, Prentices. Please, sponsors, save your questions for after the sacred ritual has concluded.”
Groups of Blues led the sponsors away down a staircase. Silent Prentices made their way through the corridors in tightly groups until they came to the dining hall doors, standing open and exuding wonderful smells. Munayair’s stomach, so eager for food in the morning, lurched nauseatingly.
Inside, a domed roof carved with intricate patterns soared over a circular room. Nine long wooden tables encircled a stone dais with a round table. The students sat at these lower tables, divided by robe color. Whites sitting nearest the doors, followed by yellow, and so on in order. All the way to the eighth table, purple like Munayair. The ninth table—the grey, journeyer table—sat empty, waiting for its occupants to return. On the dais, the teachers settled into their seats.
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