Samples from: Kayak, Catacombs, & Comatose
by slaveofone

As the life-fluids washed her hands beneath the dying mother, Cora felt pride inflame her. The infant in her hands was so small, so unformed...so important.

The mother’s body, which had writhed and undulated between silent tears and jerking cries, slowly went still with the release. A final breath left her body through chewed, twisted lips, never to return.

Forget the present days, for I have rewritten them! the child’s father shouted to the assembly. Mark it on the Sigil, for today is the New Year!

The shrill sound of the strange metal trees, with their unnatural vibrating hum began to rise from the hall. Every time one of the Branchers swept their fao across the trunk, it made her feel as though fingers beneath her skin were pushing the life-fluids up from her chest to her head. Shivering, she shut her eyes tightly for a moment to focus her mind off the feeling. In the distance, other trees scattered across the city began to join in with their sounding. Her jaw went numb clenched so forcefully. Her head began to throb. Perhaps she would breathe her last too, her skull opening to release its pressure like the legs of the mother who released hers.

And then it was over. The last tremors of the sound sent her into fits of shivers once more before they faded. It was a noise sweet to the race of her masters, the Ealdei, but no sound like it had ever come from her people. If anything, what she heard in the metallic din was an echo of her people’s collective memory when humanity had been torn from the side of god. That’s what she heard in the sound. It was like the scream of the Original when she was separated from the Undying. But the Ealdei had forgotten. They forgot that their ancestors and the ancestors of those they enslaved were the same.

And then her ears took in another sound that chased her thoughts away. The baby. She looked down on him as he worked his new mouth, practicing the interesting sounds he could create. The baby, being Ealdei, was coal-dark black-the skin of the master race. He would grow tall and thin, braiding a strand of hair for every year of life. She imagined a picture of the infant in later years reigning over the unified provinces and an unwanted image intruded of her people, the shorter, pure white Jild’enn, kneeling at his feet.

Any other time, all this would remind her not only that language was part of the curse, but also this small pile of worthless tissue. Children! A person before they were! Even though she had never experienced anything different, her people remembered a past where there was no contrast of skin, no childhood, and no knowledge of age and time...in the beginning...in Enn.

Any other time, she would have felt disgust looking on the thing that wasn’t yet human and would have to strive to become it, but today was different. Today, it was Corael Je, breed of a slave race meant to touch nothing but dust and dung, who was the first to touch the next Empyrean. No other Jild’enn could hope of such an opportunity. Maybe it was the sign of a turning point. Maybe she would be among the first to rise from the dust and begin the journey back to Enn. The wrinkled face, still coated with life-fluids, smiled up at her. She smiled back.

Her master plucked him from her arms to display to all the people and she quickly found the knife to sever his belly cord. I write his name Ular’kanic, because he is the cradle of dominion!

Setting the blade to the belly cord, Cora prepared to cut a path for her people. And it was then that the short implement seemed to elongate, growing heavier with its increasing length until it seemed to her eyes that she supported in both hands a double-bladed sword with a silver blade. In the clear, crystal handle was nestled a large, oval stone.

A disembodied voice whispered to her, and it seemed, to her alone. All right, I’ll show you. Just watch yourself. If you slice your little fingers, Sourin will feed me to the cattle!

She didn’t understand. Who was speaking to her? Was she holding a sword or a birth knife? Who or what was Sourin? And she wasn’t very young-at least, her fingers weren’t little. The thoughts began to knot in her head, each single string unbroken and undefined wrapping incoherently around the next. And then a luminescent strand vibrated hard enough to shake the jumble loose as though plucked by a finger of terror. What would the Empyrean think if he saw her holding a sword over the child?

It felt like her brows climbed halfway up her scalp as she backed away, holding whatever it was away from her as if she had stumbled into some brush and accidentally took hold of a sitherfang.

The Empyrean turned to her. She saw confusion in his eyes. And then he seemed to speak. What do you think?

What is it? she breathed.

Kybaerleun, her master answered. No, someone else had answered.

The name was somewhat familiar. It was pronounced oddly. Words had been twisted and strung together in an unusual combination. But she knew it was supposed to be aerli’kybiun, Ealdei for companion beside me.

And then for an instant, her master wasn’t the Empyrean, standing before the courts of Aial, robed in the twelve cloths, and holding the newborn child. For a brief moment, almost beyond discernment, an old farmer, half-dressed and with strange skin, standing in a wooden enclosure and holding a sheath in his arms, blended with and passed over or through what she saw.

She stumbled back and dropped the implement.

Cora? Ishan ran to her and helped her up from the floor. What’s wrong? Cut it, she whispered fiercely at her ear.

Seeing that the knife was now only a knife, Cora rushed forward and in one motion, raised the short blade up and through the cord.

The trees again began to hum. Dropping the knife for good, she ran. Someone else would have to finish the ceremony. It didn’t matter to her anymore. She had to get away. From what? The sound. No, it wasn’t the sound. She had to get away from the eyes. No, it wasn’t the eyes. She had to get away from him. No, not him.

Her flight took her outside the temple where, on a massive marble balcony overlooking the city, she slid and fell to a halt. Something had happened back there...inside her-something that shouldn’t have been. She tried to crush the memory, but couldn’t. That’s what she had run from. And it was the fear of it that held her immobile against the white rock wall of the temple.

The curse. To be pulled further and further from the Undying until death itself, that perpetual annulment, overcame you. It had to be. What else would explain it? The stunning admission sank in, and she let it, until it was hard to believe the curse and woman were not the same.

It made no difference that she received and cut the belly cord of the Empyrean when she was so far from Enn that the curse was being manifest this vividly in her flesh. She thought she could howl, but nothing came. Her gaze drifted over the capital city of the habitable world...so far from Enn.

It was hours later when she saw Ishan approach, still draped in ceremonial attire and carrying the bowl of blessing. Ishan’s face was beautiful-almost untouched by her station...unless it was so because of the honor shown her through it. The woman was courageous and strong, and Cora loved her for it. She had watched without turning away when her eight children were sold off to the southern provinces. And she stared the Examiner in the eye when he made bare her promised keep for the Empyrean’s approval.

Ishan was bondknit to her without her knowledge before Cora ever entered Ateirnum Seyenth, the Temple of Earth and Sky, to serve the Empyrean. But she was glad of the union. In many ways, Ishan had been a strength for her. The bowl she carried, carved inside and out with the never-ending name of the three beasts, evidenced the honor placed in her. And the fact that her face hadn’t paled or her step wavered from the task was proof of her courage. Cora forgot her despair long enough to stand and take Ishan in her arms.

I know you’ll return. No one better could be called. For the first time in a long time, she saw Ishan’s face fall. I would do it, but you were called to the bowl.

Cora’s hands fell from Ishan’s side. If it was possible, her senses were deadening. No...no, I can’t.

Ishan pressed the bowl against her and spoke soothingly. I know you can. I will be with you all the way.

It was all Cora could do to shake her head. Being called to the birth knife was impossible enough. It was too much to comprehend being called as well to the bowl.

I saw you take up the birth knife and do what none of us could’ve done. The Empyrean favored you in front of everyone. What Ealdei can call us down now that in the Temple of Earth and Sky, Corael Je, a Jild’enn slave, brought forth their Empyrean? And now the blessing of the Empyrean will be carried by a slave.

She started to cry on her, and Ishan held her face against her own. Have my strength, knitsister. All you have to do is take the bowl to the Affeless, dip it in the pond, come back, and pour it for the blessing.

Ishan caressed her cheek. It’s a simple thing, and when your name is sung, we will be one step closer to Enn.

Cora found the words to say, but said instead, What if...it...waits?

Ishan took her firmly and spoke and the softness in her voice fell away, replaced with strength and determination. As Cora looked into those steadfast eyes, she was suspended. Then you will face the Kiai. And perhaps a Trial will begin that should have begun long ago by which our masters will be judged!

Cora took a deep breath and turned the wooden bowl in her hands. It looked smooth, but was rough to the touch. No metal or stone was used in the carving-no metal or stone instrument could be applied. She traced the name with her finger. I will go.

Ishan took her robe and placed it over her as she memorized the name on her finger. Last, Ishan kissed her and said, I will wait for you at the wall.

She nodded, but her thoughts were elsewhere. As she left the temple accompanied by her knitsister, she wondered why the Empyrean had so favored her. Surely there were others-Ealdei-more suited to the tasks. And any Ealdei would’ve said so.

Was it possible that the philosopher Ishan spoke of was right when he wrote of a designed purpose for creation? What had the philosopher likened it to? A banner. Creation was a banner on which the lives of people as small as her were instrumental in forming its ordained image. Maybe she had a part to play in the world beyond the life of a slave who would die and be forgotten.

A hurried passerby slammed into her side, throwing her against Ishan and sending them both sprawling across the octagonal cobblestones. Cora looked back. The Ealdei kept to his pace down the road and was quickly lost in the crowds gathering further out from the wall. She was beneath his notice. In his mind, they should have stepped aside when he approached. Because they didn’t, they were deserving of the shove at least, if not the fall.

Ishan helped her up and they continued toward to the great barrier. In her head, she tried to imagine a world where the Jild’enn were free. See could see them coming from every province, masses and masses untold. They’d abandoned the garb of their slavery and were wreathed for the first time in the cover of the Enne. And then the mountains spoke the Song of Deliverance. Like a wind, it rushed down into the valleys and filled them with their voices. And where Ser’Yeyag had once stood as the gateway to Enn, she watched her people join in the Song and cross the Bissis to the fields between the Undying and mortal world.

Too bad it was only a dream. She knew her place and the place of her people. And so did they. If her Master said bring the blessing, she would bring it. If he said kneel, she would kneel. If he said die, she would die. It was her lot. If this were the design of a banner, she would spit on it.

As they drew closer to the wall, the city became more and more desolate. The buildings were dilapidated and crumbling. Refuse was scattered haphazardly everywhere. Patrols rarely came this close to the wall. Not even slaves would be housed there. Only desperate criminals or the deranged would make their bed in this place. But compared to what might be waiting beyond the wall, the dangers around her paled.

A breeze caught her robe and lifted it back. It was then that she realized they were standing in one of the open gateways of the wall. Behind them, not a sound could be heard, nor soul seen. Above, chiseled into weathered rock, were the words NESSET KIAI ABADAL. It was an old Ealdei warning, and enough to turn back any but the most persistent. No gatekeepers were needed.

Unlike every other city she knew of, the capital of Reyem was not built inside its walls, but outside. As the city of Aial grew, it circled around its wall until it joined on the other side, and then stretched out into the land. There was no wall on the outside, only sparse regions of farmland and pasture where home, shop, or city-street ended. Always, the city grew out from the walls, never in. This was because the real enemy-or, at least, the only one they feared-was here in this abandoned sanctuary that others who didn’t know better might have thought stood at the center of the capital: the Affeless.

Ishan squeezed her arm and Cora turned to her.

You can’t wait for me here.

I can and will, her knitsister said, so you know you have to come back to me. I didn’t ask to be bondknit to you. But I am, and I’m glad. Where you go, you take part of me with you. And I want it back.

Cora hugged her. Before she drew away, she brushed an eyebrow against Ishan’s, a sign of intimate affection for their people, especially so among lovers. But Ishan didn’t blush. It was different for the bondknit. Then setting her face toward a thin, shiny point piercing the sky at the horizon, she stepped out from Aial into bareness. She kept her focus on that single needle and let the passing of time usher her on.

It was said the Affeless was never built by Aial or his descendants, though no one would say how it was. The thing itself was monstrous-a shining black pyramid that rose to such a point in the sky, it almost seemed the blade of a sword thrust up through the earth. But this three-sided blade was twisted. It curved around itself once before it reached its pinnacle. And there were steps following each side’s ascent-steep and smooth. A foot placed without care or a glance to steal the view would certainly send the climber to his death. The steps, and maybe the thing itself, were made so any who desired the top couldn’t turn their eyes or mind away for a moment. Going down was the same.

She kept to a brisk pace and watched the black blade fill her vision until, much later in the day, she stood under it. Behind her, rows of cracked, stunted trees, briar infested patches of ground, and broken stone pathways led back to Aial. The city was so distant on all sides of her, and this place so shunned, she could have been in a desert beyond the reach of men and closer to rescue. If a dozen horns were blown from that place, their blast wouldn’t even reach the walls. And if they could, and if the people heard it, they would move further and build a new wall.

She’d never been this close to it before. No one she knew had ever been nearer. She could almost feel a presence watching from above, burning her into its mind, waiting.

As it was, she wouldn’t reach the top by night. Darkness would make the descent more hazardous, but she didn’t think anything could persuade her to stay overnight on the heights. It might be safer to wait for morning.

Sitting on the ground and folding the robe around her, she stared up at it-not because she wanted to. She couldn’t look away. This was where the Trials were held and eternally binding judgment pronounced. When the Trial was decided, nothing could revert the decision or the consequence. Some had undertaken to bring their challenge against another to the Affeless. But even the most sincere eyewitness and innocent participant could rarely know their own hearts and motives or have a clear understanding of events as well as the Kiai knew them. Many who had no doubt they would be vindicated, found the ultimate consequence unfavorable. That’s why it’s said, ’the victor in a trial is the one who never enters.’

As darkness began to fall, she felt her dread increasing. Her heart beat faster, her thoughts colder. There, at the top, she would be closer to the Undying than anyone else in the world because it was there that the mediator between men and god was said to dwell. Part of her longed to be there. Every Jild’enn dreamed of returning to Enn if only to be nearer the Creator. The other part, the part that confessed of the curse, was repelled.

If Ishan were there, she would already be climbing. She wouldn’t let her fear disable her. When she stood and put her first foot to the steps, she did so on the strength of her knitsister.

Take the bowl to the top. Dip it in the pond. Pour it over the child. Easy. Her finger traced the engraving. Shavatera Mavanari. No. If she thought it, she might say it.

She leaned forward and used her hands almost as much as her feet. But because the slope was so sheer, there wasn’t much room for leaning. She wished she could draw nearer, but as it was, her breasts brushed the steps.

It was slow going. Partway to the top, after what seemed half the night, she stopped to catch her breath and rest. Before her, those who’d been called to the bowl were given two days and nights before they were considered lost and another chosen. She had all night to climb, if need be.

As night wore on, she became more and more tired. She wanted to sleep, and she found herself taking longer and longer breaks. But as first light fell over the city and its bane, she crawled over the final step on hands and knees and sat there a moment.

The point was completely flat except for a circle of fourteen columns that followed the edge and a large bowl filled with a strange kind of water nestled in the middle.

She was half aware of motion-of images of beast and men being sculpted around the columns and dissolving before they were fixed enough for discernment-and the lack of it when she dipped her bowl into the pond and withdrew the liquid without disturbing the substance.

Simple, Ishan said. She was right. A hundred years of fear over a godless monument left to decay. She turned to take the bowl back, her thoughts filled with the ease of her victory, her body yearning for rest. But thought and sense fled when she heard the voice begin to speak.