MOONDOCK

“Fools…” Icy air hissed past the wrinkled blue lips. She ambled up the torch lit caverns growling as her stilted form weaved in anger from wall to moss caked wall.

“Spawn of her male twin! I should have killed both of Sabrina’s
monsters
at birth.” The cold eyes darted about the lifeless caverns, Narmar’s traitorous lips pressed tight to silence the condemning truth. Murdering the mother and boy child had been necessary. If only she had thought further to the girl and what might come. Narmar cursed her failure. The fearful secret, which only she carried these last burdensome years, was seeking vengeance.

“Melane.” Her voice rattled over the dangerous presence. Denying the child’s birthright as a Syron and casting her as a Lamar failed. Narmar did not foresee Shemon’s influence on the girl as her foster mother. Though Melane never openly questioned the casting, Narmar’s spies told her of the inherent powers awakening in Melane.

Sabrina had been the strongest of the Syron’s. Her mystical powers surpassed all before her, even to bearing a male child! Now, Melane possessed her birth mother’s powers, but lacked the training to know their strengths and weakness. Narmar insured Sabrina never bore another child, male or female, to prevent the upheaval of their society. The old priestess bore this shameful burden. The false casting into service with the Lamar Guard only served to place Melane beyond Narmar’s influence. Shemon’s claim on the girl child made Melane untouchable and until now, only a minor threat. Narmar again cursed the girl and her success where failure should have ruled.

The old cinder eyes went cold as ash. Narmar still needed to complete the ugly deed before ruin reached out and crush Nemow’s society. “I will destroy the harlot’s spawn!”

The Knowledge

“Come Melane, the council is about to convene.”

The aquamarine eyes couldn’t leave the old Weaver sitting among the children. The flowing yards of pastel silk billowing under the gentle breeze lent a mystical air to the common gathering. Cibrac--for the most part--was a magical city of beauty and peace. Like the children, Melane sat here many times to hear the legends cast out by the Weavers on the council square. Within the high white walled compound the young ones remained ignorant of the dangers lurking outside the fortress. As a captain in the Lamar sect, Melane knew only too well of the falsehoods surrounding the Nemow’s sheltered existence.

“You go on Lilli, I’ll catch up.” Drawn closer by the Weaver’s lyrical words, Melane never saw her comrade’s frown.

Many small eyes gazed up in awe at the warrior in their midst. The impressive leather amour captured their fantastical imagination away from the Weaver’s tale.

“…from this land the questors will follow their hearts, but only one will succeed in finding the truth and hope for her people. Treachery and deceit will block this Nemow’s path to her destiny. Evil will come in many forms. This Syron’s powers are vast and unknown among her peers, but they alone will not help the Nemow. Courage, skills and the unknown power of…love…will guide her quest.”

A small child spoke up. “Love for the Nemows?”

“That and more, my child.” The Weaver’s penetrating gaze lifted from her charges to the warrior standing outside their circle. “The ancient love…found only in the midst of the Selams.”

An expectant ‘ah’ escaped the small petal mouths as if they knew exactly what the Weaver spoke of.

Melane’s dark slender brows crimped above her bright blue eyes. Though she scoffed at the children’s story, something held her in place before the graying gaze of the storyteller. The elders of the Nemow sects were to be respected, but Melane felt troubled by the mystical tale that spoke of priestly visions, but held little historical basis.

Years of training, instilled by the fierce code of the Lamar Grand Guards, forbade her to ignore the Weaver’s prophetical teachings. And yet, the increasing presence of something unknown, deep mysteries in her heart, prevented the call for reprimand.

Her sharp turn to leave the group sent her long, silken ponytail rising from her helmet, floating through the air in ebony waves.

“Doth the Grand Lamar Captain find fault with Amelia’s telling of the prophecy?” the Weaver asked.

Melane’s hand automatically encircled the silver sword hilt at her waist. The demonstration was unwarranted. The Weaver was hardly the enemy she faced outside Cibrac’s pristine walls. Trying to relax her defensive stance, Melane eased about to face the old woman. “Your teachings hold fantasies, not truth.”

“A Weaver strives to explore all aspects of the Nemow’s lives. Is not the future as dear to us as the past?”

Pressing her lips together, Melane held back the argument. She was taught never to dispute her elders. “Might the Weaver’s teachings of the present benefit these children more than fantasy?”

“The Lamar speaks from knowledge most are blind to.”

Raising her proud head, Melane’s eyes sparked in warning against the brutal truth. “Take care, Weaver.”

“Open your heart, brave Captain. Its truth is our salvation.”

The old woman’s words burned against the light armor on Melane’s retreating back, making it hard to dismiss what just transpired.

Already the council’s inner hall was crowded with the various ruling sects. Melane saw Lilli’s raised arm and maneuvered to join her comrade and the other Lamars in attendance. As with their fifteen, similar groups stood from each sect around the chambers. The distinctions of the many sect members were obvious, but they shared the ingrained belief all sects were equal in merit and deeds. Yet, all were aware of the differences that set them apart.

By choice the Weavers, on the whole, were a plain looking lot. They donned the plainest materials in their garments. Melane always wondered over the lack of finery. Did the absence of silks and damask enhance academic knowledge? It was a child’s question, the woman knew better. Teachings passed down from one Weaver to another gave knowledge.

The Begoné workers handed down their skills, traditions and expertise of each trade. Millers, merchants, smiths of weapons and tools, the Begonés held sects within their class as no others in the kindred of Cibrac.

Melane’s brilliant eyes left the colorful group of Begonés resting admiringly upon the group of Syrons. Ah, she felt her heart race over her mother’s sect, and yes, the pang of disappointment that came from seeing them always instilled. That strange awareness that would not be stilled rose inside her again. Sabrina was not even a memory to hold to, but Melane held instinctive feelings for her life bearer. All Nemow’s derived from the sacred sect of the Syrons.
Every class born from the same beginnings
. There should be no disappointment held in her heart for being cast as an honorable Lamar, protectors of the Nemows.

Melane rose through the ranks to Captain of the grand guard because of her abilities and deeds. At seventeen, her peers envied her for her accomplishments, which did not come as easy to her as to many of her friends. Lilli, at nineteen, was a head taller than Melane, as were most of the other officers. Their physical strengths had never been Melane’s, but even as a child the differences plagued the slender grace that enfolded Melane. Everything she did took twice the effort, but she conquered her inadequacies, earning her foster mother Shemon’s approval. It was because of this woman’s love and support that Melane strove to succeed against the odds.

Proudly, she found her foster mother at the center of the priestess council, a regal beauty unmatched by any other. Failure as the high priestess’ daughter had never been a choice for Melane. Their gazes locked for a moment in mutual understanding, the younger woman’s eyes lowering in respect before the proud beacons.

Shemon’s strength and power guided Melane to success. Shemon was first general of the Lamar sect, chosen above all others as the high priestess of the Nemow race. Sadly, Melane knew the same admiration she held for the woman was a silencing force against her young heart’s increasing questions.

Always a shameful weight, Melane learned early to hide the discoveries opening inside her. So many times she wanted to ask Shemon about the visions that left her weak and trembling at dawn. Telling dreams were only for the Syrons. A Lamar would be considered weak and useless to give in to such failings. In the Syrons, it was strength, but to Melane, it held hidden embarrassment that left her confused. There were not supposed to be error’s in the casting of sects! To believe her life as a Lamar was a mistake would be traitorous.

Even against the denials, there remained a difference in Melane beyond physical appearance and dreams. Nothing stopped the increasing feelings stirring to life inside her. Pain and anger reigned beside the strange sense of hidden powers outside her grasp. It was like a hunger she could never sate.

The stillness settling through the crowd pulled Melane’s thoughts back to the council. Lilli leaned down towards her, in a whisper. “They say the council has been closeted for days over their coming announcement.”

Melane refused to give Lilli the acknowledgement she sought. Shemon’s doings were not for public disclosure, no matter how close the friend. The rumors were only half truths fueled by fearful debate. The priestess had been in heated meetings for nearly a month trying to decide how to combat the Kibra’s threat against their civilization.

Melane’s jaw clenched over the attacks launched this last week alone by the monsters. Animals! Beasts of the night maintained more morals than this enemy. It wasn’t only their masculine strength that made them so dangerous, but the savage cruelty in their acts against the Nemows. The continued, useless slaughter of hundreds took its toll on the populace. Nary a Begoné farm was left untouched by the killings and devastation. Lamar guards were held in force about the perimeters to protect the harvest. Hunger loomed as a large threat in the coming winter because of the Kibra’s bloody destruction.

A hush followed Shemon’s rise before the amassed sect representatives.

“Good citizens of Cibrac, your council has come to a decision to destroy our enemy, the Kibra. Hear me well, all sects of Nemows, ‘tis a grave task we place before you.” Shemon let the words race through the crowd, many a frown marred the strong faces about the Lamar sect. Their own were held fast against succumbing to the panic.

“From among each sect, we will choose one of your group to go forth. This chosen Nemow will seek out the ancient
Selams
.”

The voices before the priestess raced in incredulous excitement. Shemon’s voice rose in strength. “The Selams, once a part of our ancestors’ lives, are again needed to insure our race survives the forces trying to destroy us!”

More than one voice cried out in frightened exclamation. “But they are males!”

Melane’s own face tightened against the unspoken fear of the Nemows. The Kibra were males! Did not the Selams carry the same brutal danger?

Kibras attacked for only one reason, to take Syrons to bear their vile offspring and insure their race line continues. They killed all others that stood in their way. Slavery to the beasts was a fate all captives faced--bear the unwanted spawns of a brutal race!

Unmoving, Melane struggled with the priestess’ decree. Selams were only a myth…a tale passed down by the Weavers…weren’t they? Could they be real? If so, why had none shown themselves? Thankfully, the Selams were never described as enemies like the dreaded Kibra.

Her own tension increased with the uneasiness in the crowd. In whispered communication, Melane moved the other Captains out across the front of the crowd to contain the unrest. Finding Shemon’s gaze following her, she gave a nod that all was in hand.

“Citizens of the sects! Are we weaklings to be ruled by the irrational fears of our ancestors? Do you not remember the Weaver’s teaching of how our forbearers lived in harmony with the Selams? Was not the greatest safety and peace in the Nemow’s lives when the Selams were our partners?”

A silence filtered through the mass, but Melane and the other captains kept their backs to the council, and their attention on their peers. Melane was actually relieved to have something of importance to do, to override the unlikable thoughts Shemon’s words invoked. Though she would never voice her own doubts as to the wisdom of the council, they screamed inside her head all too loudly.

“Do not the sects hold the wisdom to seek the very equal of our enemy to defeat them?”

A voice called out to Melane’s left making her move cautiously in that direction.

“And what if our saviors become the same, or even a greater threat in the process?”

“Joyimar, the spokeswoman for the Syron’s, has voiced the council’s own dilemma,” Shemon answered.

Joyimar stepped beside Melane to confront Shemon. Her fine satin and lace gown swept the floor, in sharp contrast to Melane’s leather breastplate and skirt that only touched her thighs. On the Syron’s wrist were bands of silver and gold, where Melane wore wide studded armbands that protected her forearms.

“And what answers has the council to combat the possibility? If the Selams even exist, how could we expect them to defend us? Would not they, like the Kibra beasts, want only to rule and kill the Nemows?”

“Joyimar’s words are an echo of the fears that have festered throughout the ages. Should not we ask ourselves to remember how it was with the Selams and trust our joining could again bring safety into our lives?”

The priestess waited for the representatives to talk among themselves. For the Lamars standing guard, the outcome of the debate mattered little, since protecting the Nemows wouldn’t end at the decision found here today.

When all quieted, Shemon motioned for the Weaver’s spokeswoman to step forward. “Yes, Carril, what say the Weavers?”

“We, the Weavers, know the odes and predictions…we say…seek the Selams in spite of the dangers.”

“And you, Winfred of the Begonés, what do you say?”

“We the Begonés want to know how the council plans to find the mythical Selams?”

“Always the practical of our civilization. Before I answer, the Syrons have not given their opinion. Joyimar?”

“One threat for another is unpalatable, but the chance that the Selams are unlike the Kibras is one that tips the weights. We too will listen.”

“The sect Lamar, has not conferred. Will you choose a spokeswoman?”

Jenna stepped forward. She was one of the older commanders, but she retained her strength and admirable fair beauty. Without her armor, the power in her tight limbs was evident and Melane envied her size.

“The Lamars will stand by the majority. To protect the kingdom from Kibra or Selam, it matters not. Should the Selams defeat the Kibra and remain friends to us, as to the ancients, the peace will be welcomed.”

All of the priestesses, except old Narmar, rose as one for Shemon’s next announcement. “It is decided. We will seek the Ancient Selams help. To do this we will choose one representative from each sect. As requested, fifteen of your peers are in attendance. One name will be drawn from their midst for the quest.”

Melane stepped back to Lilli, faltering over Shemon’s words that mirrored the Weaver’s in the courtyard. She felt a chill pass up her bare thighs, beneath the small skirt of her gown, under the leather apron.

“…each will follow their instincts to seek the Selams. Once found, they will present our plight to the Selam rulers and strive in every way to influence their decision to come to our aide. Each of the questors will carry the authority to speak for Nemows, this will include accepting any terms necessary for the rejoining of our civilizations.”

Four bowls were brought forth before the priestess. The spokeswoman for each sect was called forward.

“You will draw the name of your peer, sending her on the quest.”

Joyimar picked first for the Syrons, calling out the name from the folded parchment. “Karla!”

A small girl with short blonde curls in pink silks stepped forward. She looked barely old enough to take up her birthing rites. Melane wondered how Shemon expected the girl to survive outside these walls, doubting that Karla had ever stepped outside the guarded gates.

Next came the Weaver, Carril. The woman was a familiar face among the Lamar apprentice. She carried a serene gentleness in her nature that the young ones loved.

“Selana!” The tall, plain looking, older woman stepped forward, seeming confident in her acceptance of the task ahead. The Weavers were a guarded lot, always making people believe they knew more than they shared in their teachings. Melane felt their knowledge might help this one succeed.

The Begonés choice pleased Melane more than the others. Krista was one of the farmers from the north fields. They spoke many times when she rode guard over the land. The woman knew the territory and what dangers to expect. She was strong and never showed any weakness in her toiling labors. Krista was also very beautiful, holding a rare color of auburn in her hair. Most Nemows were blonde and brown-haired women. Unconsciously, Melane’s hand rose and touched her own striking black locks.

“Melane!” Jenna’s voice stiffened the girl in unspoken denial.

“Go up, Melane…always the lucky one!”

Lilli would never have believed how hateful Melane’s thoughts became towards her friend at that moment. Pulling on all her disciplined strength, she stepped unfaltering towards Shemon. Her inner scream
Why me?
never passed her tightly held lips.

“The chosen will go and prepare for their journey, meeting back here tomorrow at dawn.”

A strange feeling seeped over Melane, drawing her towards the cold set eyes driving into her own.
Narmar!
Ice set in her young bones over the woman’s openly hateful sneer. Many times she felt or saw the old priestess’ eyes upon her, but this was the most blatant.

“Melane?” Shemon followed her charge’s troubled attention; a dark curse marred the regal features over the reason for Melane’s distress. “Come Melane, we must talk…now!”

The unexpected sharpness cut the old priestess’ grim hold, reddening the girl’s face. Melane followed in the wake of Shemon’s tense steps. Throughout the years, she learned to recognize the emotional signs in her foster mother. The woman’s anger was unsettling, increasing her own dark emotions over what she had just been selected to accomplish.

“Wait for me inside, Melane.”

Obeying the woman came as easily to her as the defensive fighting skills always a part of her existence. Just as she heard, without thinking, Shemon’s orders to the Lamar guard to take their positions outside her chambers. The act was out of character for Shemon, but Melane only registered the thought, not the questions it posed. Her own concerns were too persistent.

“Do I detect disapproval in those enticing eyes, or is it Narmar’s hatred that worries you?” The door shut and locked behind her words. “Sit down Melane, shed the armor, we have much to discuss this last night before you leave.”

Doing as she requested, while working to unfasten the buckles at her shoulders, she spoke. “Only the Begoné’s, Krista, can survive the wilds.”

“Do you doubt your own abilities?”

Melane’s eyes blazed without thinking at the insult.

“No, I thought not. You are right of course, about the Syron and Weaver. They have not the stamina to meet the task.” Shemon held up her ringed hand, stopping the girl’s obvious question. “All the sects have to be involved in order to accept what the future could bring forth.”

Dropping the armor and weapons into the cushioned chair, Melane’s sleek body stretched out in freedom, raising the flimsy smock up to her bare curved buttock.

“Shall we speak freely and honestly this night, my daughter?”

“Have we not always?”

“No, my child.”

Melane’s eyes fell away from the ones that looked too deep.

“You have never really hid your troubles from me, Melane. Tonight I feel we should speak of these worries you carry.” The dark thick lashes raised slowly before the patient woman. “Melane?”

“Yes.”

“Then let us start with, Narmar.”

“She is a priestess.”

“She is an evil old witch! Her fears have stolen her heart and fouled her mind to what is good and decent. She is, and always has been, your enemy!”

Dropping into the chair under the force of Shemon’s unexpected vehemence, Melane struggled to hold her composure. “But why? I have never spoken a word to the woman--good or bad--yet, I know your words are true.”

“The truth may never be proven.” Shemon’s eyes dropped to the girl’s paling knuckles. Melane always possessed a sense of things and people. How many times had Shemon wished to speak like this to her…daughter. Yes, in all but one respect, she was that and more. Tonight all needed to be said. Shemon hoped it would be enough. “Your birth mother, Sabrina, died very shortly after your birth. The cause was never discovered.”

“Narmar?” The dark mass of hair shimmered in disgust. “Why?”

“It is a question I have asked myself many times. Fear, but of what, I have never learned. That Narmar killed Sabrina, I could not prove, only believe. I also believe she would have ended your life as well, but casting you as a Lamar gave you into my protection before she could carry out the rest of her evil.”

It was not so much Shemon’s shocking revelation that struck Melane, but the enormous implication concerning the casting. She needed to know. “Am I truly a Lamar?”

“Dear Melane, the answer has been known to both of us for sometime. For your safety I held my silence, your own was held in the pain I have seen. I am sorry for that, it was unavoidable.”

Pushing out of the chair the hurt became too great to keep smothered. “You never would have told me if not for the quest?”

“I could lie and say I would have stayed silent, but no Melane, it is I that has chosen the time to tell you.”

All the adrenaline left her. What she felt Shemon was admitting stunned Melane into silence.

“Yes my daughter, I made sure you were chosen tonight.”

She never expected this from Shemon. Seeing how her mother shook over the admission left Melane at a loss to refute the underhanded event.

“Melane, please try and understand; the ruse was necessary. You yourself know how futile the efforts from the Syrons and Weavers will be. The Begonés? It remains to be seen. Child, you are a Lamar, by error is true, but by training and thought you are all I could have wanted for a daughter to follow in my steps. There is no lie in the pride that I hold in my heart for you, Melane. Against all the odds your have proven how deserving you are to hold the rank of grand guard captain.”

Melane’s own pride rose in light of the just words. “I am a Lamar.”