The Age of Light (The Ava'Lonan Herstories Book 1) (3 page)

“Try to drink this, little ky’pen’dati,” a silver
voice from out of a dream said, and the smell of peppermint came to her from
the darkness. She felt a bowl touch her lips and she tried to drink, but
coughed instead and choked, came up sputtering.

“Gently - slowly. It is alright, try again.” The
second sip was more successful, and with the third her breathing began to ease
and her lungs opened. She gasped for breath, feeling as if she had been
trampled by a herd of
yonido
bulls.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice hoarse from
the soreness of her throat. The hands, in the middle of helping her lie back,
flexed in surprise.

“You spoke,” the voice said in wonderment. “Can it
be that you are over the delirium?”

“Delirium?” she echoed, wondering dully why her eyes
and head hurt so much and why it was so dark. A general feeling of un-wellbeing
pervaded her. She grimaced and groaned, covered her aching eyes and felt for
the first time the thin swath of silk covering them. Her face felt hot and she
could count every vein in her eyelids, rasping her eyes like a layer of fine
sandpaper. The hands touched her forehead and the sides of her face, cool
against her fevered skin. She pressed them close - they felt good. She wondered
who the hands belonged to.

“Yes, delirium. You’ve been very sick, dear one. But
the fever has finally broken enough that you are out of immediate danger. How
do you feel?” the voice asked. She made a face and the voice chuckled.

“I feel nauseous and my head hurts to the
Lora’lons
,”
she whispered.

“Well, I am glad that you are at last coherent.”

“Are you an
ol’bey’one
- a
healer?” she asked, her voice not sounding like her own.

“I do have some talents in the ways of healing and
medicine. Are you hungry at all?”

Her stomach did a slow roll to the left at the
thought of food. She bit her lip and shook her head, carefully. She could not
remember ever feeling this bad, not even when she had caught the coughing
sickness or the swelling of the neck glands as a child. Not ever to the point
where she was repulsed by food. She swallowed in a throat gone hot and
painfully dry.

“I understand; but I want you to try to get this
down in spite of that. It’s a very light and mild broth - it shouldn’t upset
your stomach too much. Besides, it has a medicine in it for your eyes.”

She nodded in acquiescence, instantly regretted it
as queasiness fought up her throat and turned everything from her mouth to her
stomach bitter green.

“Oh sweet
Ans’ra
, I -”she
moaned, “think I - I’m going - to be sick!” and clutched at her belly. “What’s
wrong with me?” she cried, but anything else she was going to say was
overwhelmed by a dry heave. She fought it, tensing her whole body as she
clamped down on the rising taste of bile. The effort made her head explode with
red, dull starbursts of pain, grinding at her eyes and temples in time to her
pulse. The agony sharpened with each heartbeat until she screamed in torment,
vomiting forgotten, wanting to tear her head off and give it away. One scream
was all she managed. Her voice almost instantly gave out; soon she could only
whimper and groan as the pain became more and more intolerable. The hands
touched her and the voice tried to calm her, but the pain was simply too much.
The hands grabbed her wrists when she tried to beat her fists against her
temples in an irrational attempt to mask out the pain, even if with another,
different kind of pain.

“Calm down, you’re only making it worse by thrashing
about!” the voice said, but she was beyond reason. The hands pinned her to the
bed. She threw her head from side to side, hot tears leaking from her eyes and
croaks coming from her raw, tortured throat.

“Need lemon grass and
tokba
,”
the voice said as the hands continued to hold her in a bruising grip. A renewed
slash of pain sliced through her eyes, ripped red in the darkness and she
howled like an anguished soul. The voice sighed. “No time. I can’t leave her
like this. I didn’t want to do it this way...”

Cool fingers touched her head and the voice murmured
softly.

“Cool as
starlight

Cool as mist,

Cool as palm
from unclenched fist:

Dull the heat,

Ease the strain,

Cool to blue the
red heart’s pain.”

Jeliya froze in mid-thrash. Her limbs flopped back
to the bed, no longer responding to her tormented brain. The hands then covered
her eyes and the feeling of coolness from them seeped down through the blind,
through her lids, her eyes, into her brain where it spread like sweet clover
and gently, inexorably smothered the pain out. Mouth open in a gasp petrified,
Jeliya hovered on the dividing line between euphoria and blazing agony, the
consuming pain, but the coolness pushed her further and farther away from agony
and into floating beds of mint and nutmeg. Her senses were set adrift, totally
detached, with false lights and calm, cool colors forming swirling patterns on
her retinas. Her body, far away, relaxed totally. She took a deep breath of
mint and clover with a touch of honey, sighed, felt a smile touch distant lips.

“Is that better?” the voice asked her, floating in a
silver-green sphere beside her.

“Oh, yes, thank you. It is very nice,” she heard her
voice murmur dreamily, also beside her in a golden sphere. The thought for some
reason struck her as funny. She heard herself giggle, which was also funny. A
far away part of her knew that something was not quite right with the way she
was feeling, but she could not figure it out.

The owner of the voice looked down at his patient,
chagrined. He had not wanted to use that method to help her, but he was afraid
that if he had left her alone to get stronger medicine she would have hurt
herself. What he had done was a last resort, but there had been no other
course. With deep regret he picked up the bowl of cooling broth. It would not
taste as good now, but in her present condition he doubted very seriously she
would care.

“Drink,” he said, supporting her head and raising
the
calabash
to her lips.

“All right,” she said, laughed as some missed her
mouth and dribbled down her chin. She drank about half the bowl, then pushed
the rest away. She curled up after he wiped her chin clean and with a contented
sigh fell asleep.

He pulled the covers up around her and left her to
sleep off her euphoria.

slowly the light turned...

The
light of
Av’dawn
was just turning, driving the wild dance of the stars and the moons before it,
green lances tearing through the music of eve.

With the vanquishing of the last shred of eve and
the turning o
f Av’dawn, the Queens
all assembled in the Great Laine, the place of gathering for the royalty of
Ava’Lona
.

Soku sul Doan arrived at the
Great
Laine from her Lan’mba
half a san’chron before the commencement
ceremonies of the
Bolorn’toyo
. One of
the last Queens to take her place, she
av’tunned
to the Westernmost receiving suite of
lains
within the
outlying compounds of the
Great Laine. The av’tun
,
a tunnel of light capable of bridging vast distances, was a construct of her
own magic, her
av’rita
.

Up two san’chrons before dawn, Soku had had just
enough time to offer
Av’dawn
praise and
perform the Rite of
Solu
, bathe, dress,
and last, have her
Dakua
crown redone,
before her required arrival at the hall. The fancy headdress consisted of her
own long, tightly spiraled hair tamed in long
guinne
.
Her hair was arranged in to the traditional crown of her Tribe using bands of
gold and Doan cloth of her Tribe colors.

She had
av’tunned
down to
one of the minor entrances of the
Great
Laine
.
Being the least of the lesser Queens in her
Yakan’tsu
,
she was the last to assume her place before the High Queen entered.

Before the entrance to the
Great
Laine
she bowed her head and folded her arms carefully over her chest, seeking the
blessing of the Supreme One before entering the huge hall. A small
tum’tyn
drum sang in time to her murmured prayer.

“May all find
peace within Your grace,

May all find joy
within Your light.

Within the
Av’ru’s arms embraced.

We draw our
strength from Your own might.

In Ava’Lona, our
blessed land,

May our
Sisterhood endure,

We stand as one
beneath Your hand,

We stand as one
forever more.”

When the rite was completed the door guard announced
her. The gargantuan gold-and ivory-inlaid doors swung open and her palanquin
was borne through, her entourage in tow. The lavender and coral lacquered
palanquin descended at the end of the last aisle on the western side of the
Laine
and she was assisted to her feet, the folds of her heavy silk wrap flowing,
whispering iridescently about her. She was escorted to her place near the back
of the hall to her low Throne. It also was done in her Tribe colors, a mahogany
and amethyst and coral affair that sat low to the ground with a high back and a
plump satin cushion for a seat. The back and armrests were also padded, which
was just as well, for whether this
Bolorn
was to bear
good tidings or bad, she would be have to sit in it for the better part of the
turn. There were low tables framing her Throne and backless cushions arrayed
around it for her retinue. An oval of plush carpeting covered the whole area.

Soku sul Doan unfastened her wraps to reveal a gold
bustiere and
pec’ta
loincloth, and settled
herself onto her low Throne. Her handmaidens fussed over her mantle, wraps and
crown briefly before taking their places on the carpet. She smoothed her
pec’ta
and arranged herself a little more comfortably on the seat. The tension in the
Great
Laine
was high, thick enough to swim in. The murmur of several hundred conversations
seemed to shape the tension into an unseen force, moving it as the wind moves
the sea to make waves. Around her sat the
Yakan’tsu
of Sao, the political party with which she was affiliated by ancestry and locale.
Together with the Dago, the Aru, the Dyo and the Sii
Yakant’sen
,
the Sao
Yakan’tsu
made up the Border’Weste Territory; and with two other Territories, the
Middle’Weste, and the Sor’Weste, she and hers made up the Voice of the Weste.

She was head of the smallest Tribe in her
Yakan’tsu
.
But her Voice did have weight, and could sway her peers, for the honor and
oath-claim of the Doan Tribe were unimpeachable, and had been for generations.
Her presence caused its own little ripple in the sea of potential.
Conversations shifted and new circles of alliances pooled, new concessions were
made because of the support she represented. Her presence had a definite effect
on the political landscape. And underlying it all was the slow, drowsy beat of
tunka
baritone drums.

“Inside, Sister Doan!”

Soku looked up and to her right, to see the Moyi
Queen leaning toward her, stroking a deep red gem. The Moyi was not of the Sao
Yakan’tsu
.
She was affiliated with the Sii’Ya, the sister
Yakan’tsu
to the Sao’Ya, in size. But the Sii’Ya was under the influence of the Dyo
Yakan’tsu
at the moment, the Dyo’Ya being the largest of the Border’Weste
Yakan’tsen
.
In effect, a spy or emissary of the Dyo’Ya and a hint of impending intrigue.
Being of fairly equal rank, either could speak first without loss of superior
aspect. “Peace and light to you, Soku sul Doan. How fare you and yours?”

“Peace and light, Itil sul Moyi,” she replied, out
of courtesy, laying her hand on her own gem of mother of pearl that sat in a
shallow recess in the table to her left. The
davri
gems allowed for easy, private discussion by eliminating the need for either
Queen to get up and bridge the gap between place settings. An ancient rite
placed upon the Laine disallowed them from
av’tunning
their thoughts. “My Tribe is well and I am well. How fare you and yours?”

“Very well, very well indeed.” Itil leaned even
closer and the burgundy and pearl gray armrest creaked dangerously under her
considerable weight. “What think you of all this, Sister?” she asked, her sharp
eyes glittering as they swept over the assemblage of royalty before them. “Any
thoughts on why High Queen Audola called such a hasty
Bolorn
?
Really, she only allowed us a ten’turn in which to get here! I did not even
have time to assemble a proper wardrobe or bring a sufficient amount of crown
keepers!”

Soku also took in the panorama of
Dakua
crowns and robes and Tribe colors, all glittering brilliantly and in constant
motion, a garden of exotic flowers in an errant breeze.

“One can only speculate,” Soku said carefully,
reluctant to get steered into a verbal dance that might force her to reveal her
views on current political issues. The High Queen had no true enemies, but
lately there had been talk of a gathering of lesser Tribes in the Dyo
Yakan’tsu
,
and supporting Tribes in the Sii’Ya, that was opposed to the High Queen and her
policies for the Weste. Many of the Central Tribes actively supported and
condoned the actions of the High Queen, since they owed their status to their
proximity to the Ritious
City and to being in her
favor. These two factions had become almost like
Yakan’tsen
unto themselves. But Soku wanted part of neither. She chose to stay, like the
majority of crowned heads, politically neutral on the issues that they pressed.
Hers was a small, well-managed Border Tribe that had enjoyed its peace for
hundreds of cycles. She wanted no part of any machinations that might sully the
long-standing tradition of oath-claim and honor her Tribe bore. Getting
involved in the unspoken rivalry could ruin her political standing, or worse
yet, lead to the ruin of her Tribe.

“Well, I believe that it has to do with the
Av’rujo
and the current state of the
Av’ru
.
Melae
is that the
Av’rujo
won’t last much longer and
that
Ava’dan
is about to end.
Melae
says that
Turo’dan
is upon us.” Itil looked conspiratorial. “That would mean that High Queen
Audola would have to ascend and that would leave only her inexperienced
daughter to lead us.”

Soku was shocked at such talk. Such gossip was for
idle consorts with too much time on their hands and nothing in their heads, not
Queens of Tribes, neither the powerful nor the small - like hers and Itil’s.
And she could not help but note the tiniest hint of glee and disdain in the
other’s voice. She remembered then why she had no liking for Itil or the Sii’Ya
- no subtlety.

“Perhaps she has called this gathering to ask for
our help?” Itil hypothesized, looking for the smallest reaction in her.

“It is possible,” Soku said in a slightly bored and
disinterested tone of voice, hoping to put off Itil and her notions that
skirted the far edge of treachery. Soku really wished to talk with Zydoba sul
Asanti on her other side, a sister Saon.

Itil looked at her hard and the armrest creaked.
Soku hoped that it did not break. It would be most embarrassing to have one of
the Queens fall flat on her face right at the
start of the
Bolorn
. It would also be a mortal
insult to the Moyi, the Sii’Ya and the Weste - and it looked very close to
happening as the other put her full weight on the armrest. The thing was
av’rita
reinforced, but even then it could only bear so much.

Soku suppressed a smile at the image the thought
invoked, fanning herself to cover it, amused despite the seriousness of the
consequences.

“We Western Border Queens should stick together,”
Itil said, a strange, hard note in her voice. She leaned back, much to Soku’s
and the armrest’s relief. “We may not be important to
Ava’Lona
now, but if the
Av’ru
should ever fall - why, we’re
Ava’Lona’s
first line of defense in the Weste! I think we would all do well to bear that
in mind.” She waved for fruit. “Light and peace, Sister.”

Soku did not get a chance to reply, for just then
the Hall darkened and the drums deepened, quickened. But Itil’s words struck an
ominous chord.

We Border Queens
should stick together? What does that mean?
Soku gave the slightest of head
shakes, then pushed the concern to the back of her mind and turned her
attention to the front of the Hall. She would consider their little exchange
later.

A shaft of light cut through the darkness to strike
right between Soku and Zydoba, a spear thrown from the hand of Av. It became
like a scythe as the
tukni
drums rose in
volume, and both the sound and the light seemed to cleave a path along the
wide, shallow tiers that held the Queens. They
hung in the air like the
Tru’Av’ru
itself,
bisecting the Hall in two equal parts.

The highest of the Greater Queens sat on the lowest
level of the step tiers. They were first to raise their voices to the ancient
ceremonial greeting, spreading their arms in welcome. These were the Central
Territory Queens, their importance stemming from the size of their
lons
and Tribes, the extent of their Trade, their proximity to the Ritious City,
and the power of their Queens. With the rising
chorus of drums and golden
shak’shaks
they
sang welcome to the Supreme One, that to which all life was bound and which
brought order to the universe.

“Shalgo Imantu
Solu, Creator of All

Shining in Av’s
warmth, residing in Av’s Hall