Prologue
Bellarieth(Belle) Ashala
Day of censure
The light through the high windows slides slowly down the stone, marking time I cannot stop. By the time it reaches the base of the wall, I will be part of the church no longer. My hands are already trembling. I fold them in my lap so no one will see.
“Acolyte Ashala, you have disgraced the sanctity of these halls for the last time.” Bishop Francois’ voice echoing through the chamber with every syllable. A blank, assured look crosses his face as tears streak down mine. I open my mouth, but nothing comes. “Step forward and submit yourself to the rite of censure.”
I hesitate. Twice in the 20 years I’ve been at this abbey have I seen the rite of censure. I don’t want to go through that pain…
Abbess Liara moves in front of me. Her robes whisper as she moves, “Up.” The word is bereft of heat or hesitation. She yanks me to my feet, the bench creaking behind me, and motions me into the aisle. From where I’m standing, I can just barely see outside, the streets busy and unbothered by the ongoings of the abbey.
I could just run right now.
The sun feels warm on my skin as I walk slowly up to the altar, and for a moment, it feels like mercy. My hands quake; my skin runs cold when I stop.
Abbess Liara strips me of my robes, leaving me in my undergarments.
“Hold out your left hand.” Bishop Francois says, without inflection.
I close my eyes and obey as Abbess Liara positions the censure device against my skin.
“You are thus an acolyte no more. You are hereby stripped of your status as a member of the clergy and are no longer welcome within our walls.”
He presses the censure brand against the back of my hand, and my world collapses into heat, as the seal of exile sears into my skin. I scream before I can stop myself. There is a sharp, squelching sound, and then my fingers are gone, and, for a mercy, the wounds are cauterized as quickly as they are made. My vision blurs, and the room spins.
As I lose consciousness, I collapse on the floor, the light through the windows resting gently on my eyelids.
Mar’Thal
Second morning of low tide, 26th Cycle
“Agh!” I rise sharply from my slumber. My jaw locking in pain. The muscles seize. I taste the iron on my tongue, smell ash and blood that is no longer there.
The flames in the center of the lodge burn low as Sha’Lan’s light creeps over the edge of the window. The air is cold and sharp.
This is my home. I earned my place here. It should be enough.
I tell myself that every morning.
And yet the roars of the crowd follow me out of my slumber night after night, chanting my name.
In Sevaahl, I won my place in this tribe. I learned to break bodies, others and mine. I proved that despite the fear, I was strong enough.
Here, my hands are restless. It is too quiet. I lie awake in shame, longing to go back, even as truth waits outside like an anchor I cannot lift; everything I was, everything I earned, ended the moment I came home.
I pull on my clothes, take my fishing gear, and step out of the lodge. Sha’Lans breath caresses my face, whispering just loud enough to drown out the cheering. My feet guide me opposite my lodge to the corner of the longhouse. The smell of Ale and charred meat assaults my senses, both appetizing and sickening. The sounds of the lute playing faintly in the tavern transport my mind back to the halls of the Colosseum, back to the family I made there.
“Going hunting this morning, kin?” A grizzled older Sha’Kethi, much larger than I and likely much longer lived, walked around the corner of the longhouse. “Aye, think so. Quieter on the water.” My voice low and strained. “Mar’Thal, right? You were the…” My brow furrows, and my body tenses; he takes notice and stops himself.
“Aye, right.. I remember.” He moves to a bench adjacent to the longhouse and throws himself on it, the legs creaking as it settles its new burden, clearly struggling to support such a large Sha’Kethi. “Kin.. Son.. When I was your age, I felt the same way. Not a day went by that those memories did not haunt me.” My body relaxes as I sit against the wall, “Does it ever get better?” I ask, anxiously curious to hear the answer. “With time, it gets easier. The trick is finding purpose.”
I nearly erupt with laughter. Obviously, I’ve heard that before! He notices my expression change, and his face grimaces with a heavy weight, as though all his pain came back in that one instant. “What I mean.. More than anything else. You have to find someone or something worth protecting. It is clear to me that you do not have that motivation here.” His voice, lower than before, his words making me crawl out of my own skin.
Can he tell I am not fitting here?
That I do not belong in this life?
“I know what you be thinking, kin. All too well.” He leans closer to me, nearly coming off the bench, and presses his hand against my chest. ”You will not mend what you have broken if you refuse to seek the missing pieces.” He pauses, “A Zetharai told me that, many tides ago.” He leans back onto the bench, and it once again groans under his immense stature. “Staying here. Trying to settle into a place you not be ready for will not fix you. It break at yer spirit til there is nothing left. That takes longer to fix.”
He smiles, his rows of teeth showing clear signs of a life long lived. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small round device. “Wayfinder.” He flips open a lid on the device, revealing two small handles that point away from each other and several marks along the edges. “Lets you know when it is time to move.”
The elder Sha’Keth places it in my palm and bows, his joints audible as he groans through the motion. I bow in return, only to see when I rise that he is already returning to the morning feasting.
My heart swirls and my mind races, my feet carrying me behind my lodge without a second thought.
Am I ready to go back? Truly, is that all I am?
His words linger as I push the boat into the fog and begin to row, the shore fading behind me before I am ready to let it go.
