Hatam-Ile, 12th of Fourthmoon 3045
The sandstorm rising from the south whistled in the corners of the cottage and dyed the sky a dusty red. It left an odd taste in his mouth and Hawk felt as if no amount of water was enough to rinse the feeling of dryness off his tongue.
He arranged the cloth more firmly over his face, took a deep breath, and opened the door. He had to cling to the handle with both hands as the wind fought to rip it off his hold. The dry season was already well on its way and the touch of wind against skin should have been as fire. Instead he shivered in the sudden draught. He walked with his back bent across the yellowed the grass, seeking shelter occasionally behind stunted tree trunks, and finally came to a halt at the ledge.
You could hardly make out the desert through the swirling sands. It was as though the world had ended at the ledge and below it waited nothing but an endless fall. Storm after storm had wandered across the land bridge from the south since the third month, shifting the edges of the wastelands ever closer to Hatam-Ile and burying even what little vegetation there was left that still tried to separate them and the desert.
Was it the work of the air currents blowing from the sea or their own, that Hawk could only guess at. Perhaps the spellsingers’ chants were real; perhaps storms were the only answer left to their pleas. Perhaps the danger threatening them was so palpable that even seasons struggled to keep it at bay, one storm at a time.
The cold current carried by the wind spoke in clear words that Seiye’s winter was finally approaching. The Cape of Mists couldn’t be crossed during the snowfalls, not even by the Liqaris. Hawk could make out nothing but red-tinted clouds of sand as far as the eye could see, but he felt something cold and wet landing on his bare arms now and then.
Snowflakes, he thought. It was the first hopeful thought he’d had in many lunar cycles of Kauarin.
He retraced his own steps back into the safety of the hunting cabin, bolted the door after himself, and started waiting for the storm to pass. Only a weak flame in the hearth kept him company long into the night.
Hol Saro, 22nd of Fourthmoon 3045
Alara danced to the quivering thrum of the kantele strings, recreating the familiar movements of the Spring Dance, though only a viewer well-acquainted with the dance would have spotted the similarities in the steps. The dance was inviting, almost seductive without the first-knife’s protection. The hand that should have rested on the hilt followed the movements of his hips, and the viewers sitting on the floor whispered and laughed quietly amongst themselves. The dance beckoned you to touch, the knife to stay away, unless you wanted to lose a finger or something more valuable. Without the knife it was an open invitation. The dancer waited for the viewer to take it.
Ren’i smiled when Alara’s eyes met his during the dance. He wasn’t the most talented dancer among the harem’s occupants, but his eyes sparkled mischievously in ways that always seemed to draw Ren’i in. Despite the short stubble and even at the age of 200 his face carried a hint of boyish softness to it that few adult taivashi had. Ren’i had lost his own ages ago, though he didn’t even have half of Alara’s years.
He pranced lightly over Ren’i’s crossed legs, one foot momentarily touching the floor between them so that they almost brushed against each other.
Maral laughed merrily and struck the wrong chord on accident. Their smile gleamed in the light of the candles’ low-burning flames. ”Oh, that’s bold, Alara,” they said airily. ”Do you have to show off all the time?”
”Shouldn’t we celebrate his highness properly before he deserts us for months?” Alara quipped, matching Maral’s tone precisely.
He ended his dance with a coquettish strut that earned him a resounding applause from Ren’i and his companions.
The wine in Ren’i’s blood sung sweetly, and he let the gray-skinned asari woman seated next to him refill his glass. She was a sensuous beauty all the way to her short, curving horns and long, black hair, and her little rounded ears were adorned with golden hoops. Ren’i decided to ask for her name later, when he was a little less drunk.
Across from them Maral initiated a new melody, deft, four-fingered hands dancing on the strings of the kantele. They were a merjil, genderless as all members of their species were, at once beautiful and handsome in ways that other species could never be. Skin that shimmered in hues of turquoise and violet, eyes of deep blue with the long, horizontal pupils that were typical for the merjils, and short, pointed ears. Ren’i had once spent the night, just one awe-inspiring night with them; the memory still turned his legs to water.
Alara sat down beside Maral, short blonde curls framing his reddened face. He was pleasantly full-figured from his face to his ankles, and his chest was decorated with similar tattooed vines as his left arm, the leaves almost covering the identical scars over his ribs. Ren’i felt his eyes travelling downwards, tracing the flowers tattooed on his hip bones with accustomed ease, and knew that Alara noticed.
”His highness is starting to look sleepy,” the asari woman said playfully. ”Perhaps we should make him take a nap instead.”
”Hey, hey, let’s not be hasty,” Ren’i rushed to say. The others snickered. ”I’m going to spend weeks on the road with sweaty, smelly soldiers. Who knows how long it’s going to be before my poor soul will know the pleasures of high culture and the company of old friends?”
Maral let out a theatrical sigh, fluttering their long lashes. ”Oh, our poor princeling.”
”What even is there in the Hytherlands?” Alara asked.
”Sand, sun and carrion birds,” the asari lady replied, wrinkling her pretty nose.
”It’s stiflingly hot and in winter it rains for seven cycles of Kauarin nonstop,” the half-blood man in translucent silk on Ren’i’s other side said.
”How nice. His highness has to pour out bucketfuls of sand from his boots every night,” Maral said and the others laughed.
”Could we possibly talk about anything else?” Ren’i said somewhat tersely.
Alara grinned, baring an entire row of teeth, and Ren’i knew at once that there was no way out. ”My, my, I thought you’d be showing a bit more interest towards your new mission. New responsibilities—”
”Alara,” Ren’i whined.
”—fancy new title, heroic deeds and dangerous situations…” Alara sighed dreamily. ”Oh, the honours it’ll earn you. Could your highness really ask for more?”
”Right now my highness would prefer anything but that, to tell you the truth.”
The asari woman laughed. She had a warm, mellow voice, like honey to the senses. ”Think about the brighter side. You’ll get the chance to travel.” She inclined her wine glass in Ren’i’s direction. ”You might see all manner of interesting things on your journey.”
Ren’i toasted with her and they drank at the same time. The Nemerwatanese wine left a sweet aftertaste on his tongue. ”Maybe so. It’s just that I’ve never been any further than Nemertein, and even that was an ordeal.”
”And here I thought it was one of the loveliest cities in the empire,” she said. ”Verdant in all seasons and emerald green hills as far as the eye can see.”
”I admit that it’s a nice place, but being in the saddle week after week is miserable.”
”Please don’t tell me at this point that your highness’s legendary riding skills are just a myth,” said Alara, intervening.
”Well, you would know that, wouldn’t you, Alara?” the asari woman pointed out, which earned a whole slew of sniggering.
Maral rolled their eyes. ”Starting with the innuendos already, are we?”
Ren’i emptied his glass and leaned his head on a cushion. ”Thanks a lot for the love and care, pals. Really takes a weight off my shoulders.”
That just made them tease him harder.
They weren’t allowed to touch the crown prince with their hands, but that didn’t stop him from touching them. It also did not mean they wouldn’t device multiple ways to work around the rules otherwise – with lips, tongues, lower bodies. Some hours later Ren’i was laying on his back on Alara’s bed, letting his hands stray down the asari woman’s hips while she left kisses all along his chin.
”What’s your name, beautiful?” Ren’i whispered, lips almost brushing against hers. There was a scent of chocolate, alcohol and perfume about her, and Ren’i wanted her touch so badly that the room seemed to spin around him.
”Verra, your highness,” she replied.
”A lovely name, that.”
Verra grinned, sharp canines flashing in candlelight, and then Ren’i’s lips were already moving against hers. Verra left hot kisses down his belly, taking her attentions ever further down, down. Alara’s lips muffled the moan that escaped from Ren’i’s mouth, short stubble tickling his skin and tongue almost down his throat.
Time lost all meaning as he let himself be drowned in kisses and the safe comforts of warm skin. He did not think about his upcoming departure, not of the riots, not of bloodshed; there was no beginning nor end in the moment, just the closeness of another in a long, dark night. The fact that he didn’t have to go to sleep alone accompanied only by his thoughts was somehow comforting.
Ren’i didn’t know when he’d dozed off, but all the candles had burned out when he came to next. The light of the approaching daybreak reached between the curtains and painted the wall with its colours. He was lying on the bed alone, and realised that he was shivering.
He took his time getting dressed, careful not to make too much noise. Verra and Maral had vanished somewhere, most likely to their own rooms, at some point during the night. Alara slept curled up on the sofa, snoring lightly. Gently, Ren’i drew a blanket over him and closed the door after himself quietly, wondering as he went when they’d see each other again, if ever.
The harem was silent in the early hours of the morning, as most of its occupants only woke up around midday when the actual lectures started. Maral’s oaken kantele was still standing on the floor next to empty glasses and wine pitchers. The only sounds were the trilling of morning birds and the soft laughter coming from behind a closed door.
There were two half-bloods sitting on the veranda, painting the mountains dressed in hues of the morning. They waved to Ren’i, giggling, before turning back to their work, brushes moving on paper.
Ren’i spent a good long while searching for his shoes among the army of slippers, boots and walking shoes before giving it up as a lost cause, and decided to send someone to fetch them later. In the palace proper servants were already busy at work preparing for a new day. No one paid him any attention as he left the harem wing and walked barefooted back to his apartments.
Hol Saro, 23rd of Fourthmoon 3045
”Strike! Parry! Strike! Start over!”
Captain Hamr barked commands at a quickening pace, his voice accompanied by the ringing of steel. Ren’i felt the aches in his arms as he parried his partner’s strike and turned the edge of their blade aside with his own. He struck back lightning-fast. The force of the strike forced the soldier to back off and nearly disarmed them. They both adjusted their positions and carried on practicing without pausing for a second.
The captain’s voice paced each movement. Ren’i was only half-listening. The rhythm of practice had been so thoroughly instilled into anyone who’d ever served in the Kishan military that he didn’t need to think. His hands and feet moved almost on their own, finding their places automatically. In movement his mind was crystal clear and free of thoughts, and he enjoyed it wholeheartedly.
”You two over there, what the hell are you playing at?” the captain roared, eyes locked on a pair sparring at the other end of the courtyard. Everyone turned to look at a soldier who’d landed on their back and seemed to have trouble getting back up, and Ren’i could see why at once. There was an impressive dent in the breastplate that made breathing difficult. ”I’ve told you a hundred times at least that you’re not to hurt your partners while sparring. Temer, take your partner to the infirmary! And the rest of you lot, switch!”
Ren’i bowed to his partner and joined the others in hurrying to return his sword. Switching weapons always caused something of a general chaos when everyone attempted to be first to grab theirs. After getting his spear and shield Ren’i picked up the nearest available soldier as his partner and they took their positions opposite of each other. Spears required more space than fencing and the pairs left more space between one another on the courtyard. Ren’i and his partner bowed to each other and assumed their starting positions, shield in the right hand, spear in the left.
A gallery supported by pillars surrounded the courtyard on all sides, above which walls of the citadel rose twenty meters towards the clear skies. Most doors leading to different wings of the palace were closed during the practice, for Harm didn’t like curious eyes when his soldiers needed to concentrate. Those curious eyes had still flocked to balconies and windows in droves, and the captain glanced upwards with a scowl when a group of servants whispered among themselves too audibly.
”Quit tittering and get back to work, you devils! Have you nothing better to do?” he snarled. The servants burst into laughter and vanished from sight. He spun around to glare at another group that was trying to sneak past them on the promenade, carrying laundry baskets. ”This is no thoroughfare, my good folks. Get lost!”
The soldiers made sure not to let their poker faces waver. As the door slammed shut behind the servants the captain turned his attention back on his soldiers. There was a vein throbbing at his temple.
”And start over!” the captain shouted. Two hundred soldiers sprung into action simultaneously.
Ren’i’s muscles ached when the captain whistled, calling the practice off, and ordered them on a break. Handling the spear always left his arms sore and he took his time stretching, breath easing little by little. He didn’t have to practice with the others, but he became one with a faceless, nameless mass just like anyone of the others while wearing a helmet and full protective gear, and he wanted his soldiers to see him as one of them. His arms were just as covered in scrapes and bruises as theirs, and the captain showed him no more mercy as he did to them.
One of the doors opened again and two people approached along the gallery. The captain’s face took on an even sourer look. He pulled himself up to his full height, cleared his throat and shouted, ”it’s unbelievable how little peace we get here! We’re practising, as you full well know!” He sounded ready to explode. ”This isn’t a stage that you can just waltz into like to some common pub—” He fell quiet all of a sudden, and when he spoke his tone was much more polite than before. ”Do excuse me, your highnesses, I didn’t recognise you. May I be of assistance somehow?”
Ren’i spun around. Oerei and Chuja marched across the yard, both in their black palace outfits. Captain Hamr bowed so deeply at them that it was a sheer miracle he didn’t land on his face.
”Apologies for the interruption, my good captain,” Oerei said. Nothing in his expression hinted that he had minded the captain’s outburst. Chuja looked amused next to him. ”I’d like to exchange a few words with my son. He’s here, I assume?”
Ren’i pulled off his helmet. Sweaty hair was plastered to his scalp and he brushed loose strands off his forehead, which just made a bigger mess of them. ”I’m here, dad.”
The captain nodded to him, signalling that he was dismissed. Ren’i took off his equipment hastily and left them in the same pile with their weapons while the captain was already yelling new instructions, the others busy re-assuming their positions. Ren’i brought a sweat towel with him and dried his face as he entered the pleasant coolness of the entrance hall with his father and Chuja. He could already feel the days of practising in the spring sunlight on his skin. The thought of the much harsher sun of the Hytherlands was anything but appealing.
”The preparations seem to be going well,” Chuja said as they passed the throne room and headed towards the western wing that housed the imperial family’s private apartments. It was easy to see the similarities between them when he and Oerei were standing side by side. They both had the same mouth and dimples, and the skin around their eyes creased in the same way when they laughed.
”The empress is sending the fifth legion with me,” Ren’i said morosely. ”That legion hasn’t seen any action in a few years, and you can tell by the soldiers’ readiness. Captain Hamr and I have been taking turns leading the practice when the consuls don’t have the time.”
”That’s probably why she entrusted them to you. They’ll be in excellent shape by the time you get there.”
”I’m sure they will, but I don’t know if I can handle their whining until then.”
Chuja laughed. ”I’ll leave you two to think about that. I’d best check if I may borrow my wife for a moment. Our beloved sister seems to have taken a liking to her company.”
”Will you two be staying for a while?” Ren’i asked. He didn’t try to mask the hopefulness in his voice. Though the wedding ceremony had taken place in the palace as court etiquette demanded, Chuja and Nahere had departed for Nahere’s home town in Kara almost as soon as it had been acceptable. They didn’t visit Hol Saro often, though Chuja’s apartments and private servants were always at the ready to welcome him back.
Chuja flashed him a sad smile, which was enough to answer Ren’i’s question.
”We’ll see,” was all Chuja said. He jabbed Oerei lightly with his elbow. ”See you tomorrow. Try not to piss off the senate too much, brother mine.”
Ren’i followed his father back to his apartments, taking a route that took them past small side corridors that saw little use, for that was now the fastest way to get around. There was even more hustle and bustle in the palace than usual, and most of the main routes were blocked by sacks of flour and vegetables. Servants wove between them as though in a labyrinth. Ren’i and his army would begin their sourthwards march in just three days, and the preparations for the munitions they’d need to take with them were at full speed. More helpers had been hired in the kitchens, and the scents of food and drink being prepared wafted through the corridors at all hours of the day.
”Where are we going?” Ren’i asked when Oerei sped past the door of his drawing room without stopping.
”You’ll see in a bit.”
They took a left turn and walked all the way to the end of a long, narrow corridor, passing many other doors as they went. Oerei stopped at last and held the door open for Ren’i, and he stepped inside an airy room he didn’t recall ever visiting before. The easel and the unframed paintings leaning against the wall revealed it as Oerei’s new workshop. The opposite wall was covered by tall windows. Behind them was a balcony as wide as the room itself, and there was a dazzling vista of Menushe and its neighbouring district, Galase, the historical artisan’s district.
Ren’i left his shoes by the door and rushed to the balcony. The glass doors had been left open and translucent curtains swayed in the breeze. Ren’i leaned against the railing and drank in the sight. Hol Saro’s watchtowers were silhouetted against the horizon, tiny as match sticks. The sea of slanted rooftops stretched out in every direction until one could no longer make out individual buildings. He could only just make out the gabled roof of the main library in Galase and the tall pillars lining the stairs, built in the style of the 15th Age. The smoke rising from the chimneys and the humid seaside air painted the skyline and the city itself hazy. The sky was as clear as the approaching summer, and Ren’i decided that this was how he wanted to remember Hol Saro when he left.
”I’ve no need why you decided to paint here instead,” he called out to his father. ”What a view.”
Oerei chuckled. ”Hol Saro shows her best sides from this angle.”
Oerei had pulled out something that by all appearances was a wooden tool box. He set it on the desk and started unlocking it as Ren’i returned indoors. Ren’i looked around. The walls were still barren, but the room was undoubtedly cosy. There was a sofa and low teatable pushed into a corner close to the desk, as well as a chair of the most unusual design that Ren’i recognised at once as a tattooist’s chair. Its wide armrests could be adjusted to any position and direction necessary, while the seat and the footrests could be turned on whichever side of the backrest. It was then that Ren’i recognised the tool box, too.
”We ought to celebrate your secondment before you leave,” Oerei said, noticing the questioning look on Ren’i’s face. He’d placed a collection of ink wells, needles and spare blades on the table.
”One would usually continue the tattoo only after the mission has been completed.”
”Yes, well.” Oerei hesitated. ”I just thought that we might not get a chance once you’re back.”
”Should you never come back,” was what Ren’i read from his father’s expression. Ren’i felt a lump in his throat, but forced himself to smile.
”Good idea. I’m sure to be woefully busy while the city’s celebrating its hero’s return.”
Oerei took off his overcoat. He was only some centimetres shorter than his son, but where Ren’i’s body was strong and shaped by military life, you’d never have believed looking at Oerei that he’d ever had the strength to lift a Kishan longsword even with two hands. He was on the lankier side in that same, long-limbed manner that Ren’i had been upon coming of age: like a youth who’d shot up some twenty centimetres over the course of one summer without his weight keeping up with the sudden development. He’d been even skinnier when Ren’i had been little, probably because his time had been spent chasing after his only, and hyperactive, child down the palace corridors. Nowadays he no longer had to fear that Ren’i would keel over and hit his head on the corner of a chair as soon as he turned his back, but he still seemed watch Ren’i with the same look on his face, torn constantly somewhere between concern and relief.
Oerei pulled a thick book from the shelf and pushed it in Ren’i’s hands. ”Take a look at this. I’ve been looking for a suitable image these past few days and have some suggestions in mind, but the final decision is yours, of course.”
Ren’i threw himself on the sofa with the reference book. It was old, stank of leather and ink, and many pages sported stains left by moisture, old ink and blood splatters. Its images were categorised by theme. Most of the ones marked by Oerei were related to war and the military, but there were also mythological images and nobler symbols, such as birds and lions, among his selections. The Kishan black bear to symbolise a higher calling. A crown of spreading bellflowers, the sign of prophetic dreams and destiny’s call. Eight swords forming a circle, the symbol of the eight gods and the imperial army, which already marked Ren’i’s skin.
He stopped flipping on the next spread, which was dedicated to symbols of Quan. Ren’i already carried the taivashi ancestor’s face on his back – the very same that was carved on the wall of Oerei’s library –, as did all members of the royal family. Most of the images were somehow related to fire; it was said that the gift of fire had been the gods’, especially Quan’s, gift to the nascent world, after all.
”How about this?” Ren’i asked.
Oerei turned to look. He blinked slowly upon seeing what Ren’i was pointing at. ”Interesting choice.”
The picture was modest in comparison to Oerei’s suggestions. The burning flame resembled a watercolour illustration, brought to life simply in black ink: thin lines, gray shading.
”I thought something more traditional would bring good luck,” Ren’i said. ”I don’t have anything fire related yet. You, Chuja and aunt all have a flame of Quan on the shoulder.”
”Yeah.” Oerei’s eyes were still locked on the image. ”Times change. We’re not the only ones who have taken the symbol as their own.”
”I know.” Ren’i had seen it too many times with his own eyes to ever forget. The riots still came to his dreams sometimes. ”Though this one’s way nicer than… Well, you know.”
The sign worn by the rebels was a crude line drawing, hardly recognisable as a flame. They had been smudged all over the walls downtown during the worst years, even drawn on the rebels’ clothing in charcoal, but he’d never seen it on anyone’s skin. A tattoo was too serious a matter for something like that; no one would carry marks on their skin that they weren’t prepared to take to the grave. A Kishan was as good as their tattoo – what one carried on their skin was the bearer’s truth, honour and life.
”That is true. And in the end we ourselves give the images we bear their meaning.” Oerei smiled wryly. ”You might have chosen wisely. We can finish that in one sitting.”
Ren’i returned the smile. ”And it should heal quickly. I don’t exactly have the same washing opportunities on the road as I do at home.”
Ren’i rested his chin on the chair’s backrest, left arm stretched to the side, and closed his eyes. He’d received his first tattoos in Oerei’s room; they, too, were his father’s creations. A court tattoo artist could have made them, but Oerei had insisted to take on the duty himself, as had been traditional back in the days of yore. Ren’i appreciated the sentiment. Though he’d been anticipating the tattoo and the adulthood that came with it anxiously, the pain had still taken him by surprise, and he’d cried the first hours until he’d finally grown numb to it. He recalled his dad’s soothing voice and the hand that had stroked his hair when the pain had been at its worst. He knew Oerei had sung to him as if to a child as the needle had cut into the sensitive skin of his back, leaving its eternal mark on him, though he could no longer remember the words or even the melody.
Ren’i did not fear pain anymore. He thanked his father for that.
He shuddered, feeling a damp cloth wiping his shoulder. The stinging smell of disinfectant made his nose itch.
”You’ll have to keep it away from the sun for the next few weeks,” Oerei said. He brushed Ren’i’s hair over the other shoulder. ”Goodness, you have so much hair.”
”Like a soldier’s supposed to,” Ren’i pointed out. The longer one’s hair, the longer it had been since one’s last campaign, and Ren’i had let his grow after the storm had claimed the Liqarian fleet. ”Besides, it’s not like your own’s that much shorter.”
He heard Oerei looking for something, and a moment later felt him pulling Ren’i’s hair into a ponytail, tying it tightly.
The first minutes were always the worst. He gritted his teeth as Oerei set to work. The needle was cold against heated skin, and the ink made it smart. Oerei hummed as he worked, and Ren’i focused on listening to him. Little by little the pain abated into a dull throbbing, growing stronger, then receding again in waves. He realised he’d adjusted his breathing to it, letting out the breath he’d been holding when Oerei lifted the needle off his skin and wiped off the excess blood and ink. The smell of broken skin blended together with the sweet scent of hot chocolate.
Oerei said nothing, just continued his humming. He handed a cup of hot chocolate to Ren’i, waited for him to drink, then carried on working on the image, lost in his thoughts.
Outside daylight waned until the sun set and brought the coolness of a spring night with it. The needle in Oerei’s hand stilled momentarily and Ren’i felt the air vibrate as he released his ashay. The lanterns on the balcony and inside the room lit up at once as though on their own.
”I wish I could make fire out of nothing,” Ren’i sighed. He couldn’t entirely mask the bitterness in his voice.
Oerei didn’t miss it. ”You can’t make things out of nothing,” he replied, the pressure of the needle against skin easing for a second.
”Well, that’s at least what it looks like.”
”You know it doesn’t work like that. All things, animate and inanimate alike, have memories. If you feed the memory of burning matter it will catch fire again.”
”You sound just like my old teacher,” Ren’i said. ”That says nothing to me.”
Oerei laughed. ”I just give the lantern what it needs to get the fire going again – warmth and oxygen. I can’t create them out of nothing, but I can take them from the environment and direct them where I want with my ashay.”
Ren’i could feel the warmth of the flames when he reached towards his ashay and concentrated hard. He felt the surroundings buzzing with life, big and small; felt the glow of hundreds of lives between the citadel walls, even the moths clustering around the flowerbeds and the birds slumbering in the garden trees. He was aware of them just as they were aware of him, but couldn’t grasp them beyond that. It was as if a glass wall stood between him and the world, a wall through which he could look but never touch. He gathered his ashay, but it had no place to go.
Ashay was every demon’s nature, their deepest essence and source of strength, an indelible part of the three souls. In the olden days, when the blood of the gods had still flowed fresh in their children’s veins, demon blood had granted them the skills to work magics, wondrous, unlimited magics the likes of which the modern taivashi many ages later could only dream of.
”Don’t be too hard on yourself,” Oerei said when Ren’i let go of his ashay and let out a frustated huff. He’d repeated the same words many times over the years. ”Very few can do it anymore nowadays.”
”But you can. And so can aunt, and even Chuja.”
”Only minor things.” He placed his hand on Ren’i’s untattooed shoulder comfortingly. ”They say that in the Age of the Gods Melkem was still young and full of magic. Stories say that those we nowadays call gods could raise a mountain range out of nothing, control sea currents or cause a volcano to erupt. There’s no one who can do that today, full-blood or not.”
”Do you believe it’s true? That they really had so much power?”
”There’s plenty of proof of it left in the soil. The Mountains of the Highest are much younger than the landmass of the continent that they rest on, and the geologists of the Imperial Academy have been able to date the collapse of the southern coast to the same time as the separation of Awa.” The chair creaked as Oerei shifted. ”Don’t worry too much. Ashay is part of us, but we’re much more than just that.”
Oerei cleaned the needle, opened a new bottle of ink, and continued with the finishing touches.
The night-time breeze blowing in through the doorway felt pleasant against Ren’i’s tingling skin. His shoulder was red and sore when Oerei finished his work around midnight. Ren’i stretched the stiffness of the past hours from his limbs and slouched to the mirror to inspect the results. He couldn’t help admiring his father’s neat handiwork. The image wasn’t a copy of the book’s illustration, but rather it had taken inspiration from it. The lights and shadows could have been painted with a brush.
”Well, what do you think?” Oerei asked.
Ren’i grinned. ”It turned out great. Thanks, dad.”
Next chapter (coming 15th May) >>