Page 1

Mourning

Rumi

“You are asking for war!”

she cried, slamming her fist on the large table.

Her heart bruised her ribs and her shoulders shook.

If she unclenched her hand, Rumi was certain her fingers would be trembling.

Indignation boiled her blood, curdling the remains of breakfast porridge in her belly.

Rumi did not know why she had expected anything different from him.

She glared at the aged mural behind Aba’s throne, fuming at the peeling paint.

Tendrils of green vines draped down the image creating the illusion of verdant snakes constricting around the depictions of their ancient rulers.

Rumi wished there was a snake wrapped around her aba’s throat, to hold him down so he would heed her words.

Aba stood, and the heavy, furred pelt—the prize of his first Hunt—fell from his shoulders to the woven chair.

Long, sharp spines lining the collar of his cloak clattered together when they hit the throne, as his ebony eyes scanned the great hall.

The clamoring of voices fell silent as a hush rippled through the room.

The elders surrounding the table dropped their heads and lowered their eyes as his shrewd gaze met their subservience with an impassive stare.

But she refused to submit to him.

She would not bend—not this time.

Aba’s heavy brow drew down over his eyes, so similar to her own, and the muscle in his jaw flickered.

She recognized that, too.

His wizened skin reminded her of tree bark.

The black and blue tattoo lines that laced around his temples and over his bald head were a testament to both his years and authority.

The swirls twisting over his eyebrows disappeared into the valley of his forehead.

One day, she too would have just as many markers on her skin.

Someday, her tattoos would extend from those on her cheekbones and wrap around and above her brow.

In time.

For now, a single rune between her brows claimed her as the heir.

Perhaps if she had more markers, he would listen to her.

Sensing the surge of ancient wisdom stabilizing her mind and body, she inhaled the sweet morning air and drew strength from the wooden floors beneath her bare feet.

Aba stepped down from his pedestal, pacing in tight circles, never once granting Rumi reprieve from the intensity of his stare.

She lifted her chin and her heavy earrings clinked as the metal and beads collided.

“You dishonor me, Rumina.”

His voice was low and even, but his anger shuddered through the walls and thundered into her bones.

Her eye twitched, and she swallowed hard.

“I meant no dishonor, Aba,”

she replied, her lashes shuttering over her eyes and locking her anger away behind the show of respect.

A wave of relief passed over the table as Aba inhaled and paused his prowling.

“Sit.”

Rumi clenched her teeth at the command.

She took a breath and stepped forward to object, her brow furrowing.

“But, Aba, the people cannot—”

“I said sit!”

His palm hit the table with a resounding crack and Rumi jumped, flinching from the fury in his eyes.

The air stilled as if everyone held their breath.

Tension filled the room like the taste of lightning just before the strike.

She had made a grave error and would certainly regret it later.

Lashing the words and indignation behind her teeth, Rumi lowered herself into her seat directly across from his throne.

She raised her head, meeting his eyes with her own seething stare.

Though he had absolute authority, he would not win this.

He could not.

She refused to be cowed, especially when she was right.

No one spoke for many moments.

Aba turned his back on them and returned to his seat with a heavy sigh.

“For too long, our southern clans have been at the mercy of High Terysahd.

The eastern borders are being manipulated and the clans have been exploited.

Our people must unite under one banner.

They must return to the fold so that we may afford them protection from those who would seek to steal our resources and ruin our way of life,”

he said, his eyes flicking to Rumi’s.

She turned her head so he would not see her anger.

“Send word to the clans.

By the new moon, we shall have a summit to discuss matters further with their chosen representatives.

Then we will come together as one, just as we were in the days of old.

United and unstoppable.”

A murmur of agreement passed through the council, aged heads bobbing like flowers in the rain, bending to the aba, their king.

Rumi shook her head, her hand closing into a fist again.

If he refused to listen, she would make him.

She would force him to see.

Rumi stood, her heavy robes swishing around her feet, and marched out in a huff.

He did not understand the balancing act he would disrupt by uniting the clans.

It was difficult enough to maintain the peace with the floating cities, her betrothal to Zinhar already uniting two of the great clans.

She had heard whispers of disgruntled tradespeople just a fortnight ago.

Her shoulders had ached with the effort of carrying the crates of oritium and tún onto the tradeships.

Though she had been involved in trade for several years, the sidelong stares had not ceased.

Many humans still stole to the other side of the paths when she encountered them.

It mattered not that the Arryvians shied from violence, preferring to commune with the ancient trees and weave their clothing.

With an exception to the Great Hunt, her people rarely had use for any weapon at all.

Yet, their pointed ears and connection to Ti’la set them apart.

The humans saw no difference between the Arryvians and the great beasts that dwelled in their forests.

Aba rarely met with the people.

He did not see.

But Rumi had traded with High Terysahd and Orthaea both.

Ever since stepping into the position of Ambassador of Trade, she had perfected the balance that kept all the clans happy, as well as the other cities.

She knew how the outsiders looked at her people.

They were itching for an excuse to fight, and if the Arryvians rallied and became a nation under aba, as he hoped, then there would be more than tension and unrest.

There would be war.

And her people were not ready for war.

Would they even lift a weapon to stop the violence that would inevitably dump itself at their feet? Some would.

Most would not.

The guards snapped to attention as she passed, their spears nearly reaching the top of the arched doorway.

She had always loved the way the braided branches of woven trunks bulged and twisted, creating bubbles of bark along the walls.

Perfect for running fingers over to hear the rhythm of the forest.

It gave a sense of belonging and oneness, comforting her with the whispering of life all around.

Her mother had often shared those secrets with her.

Late nights spent with their eyes closed, listening to the ancient wisdom that passed deep beneath the rooted tendrils.

They spoke of the gods, of life and death, evoking nebulous images of places Rumi longed to go.

A hazy drizzle greeted Rumi as the outside doors opened, moisture gathering on her skin and the folds of her dress.

Her feet squished into the damp moss that coated the bridges connecting the trees and she lifted her face to the sky.

The canopy of woven leaves above blocked the rains, allowing only the barest of drops to touch her skin.

But the scent…How she adored the fragrance of afternoon rain.

Temlee, Rumi’s guard, stood and bent at the waist as Rumi approached.

Sezsha stood too, tucking her long hair beneath an ornately embroidered hood.

She was beautiful, with her bronze skin and rosy cheeks, long dark lashes that cast shadows over her cheekbones.

And her smile—her smile had caught the attention of many.

The tattoo that ran down the center of her lip and traveled down her chin and neck only amplified that winsome smile.

Rumi had the same bold line on her face, as did most Arryvians who came of age.

Sezsha wore Rumi’s colors, red and gold, with decorative leaves and beads appliqued to the silken fabric.

Her large earrings clinked as she dipped her head to bow to her mistress.

Temlee’s gaze—as it often did—drifted toward Sezsha.

A secret smile turned up the corners of his mouth.

Rumi, of course, said nothing of their affair.

In truth, she was happy for them both.

Temlee was as handsome as he was tall, and his strength and skill had caught the eyes of aba from a young age.

His hair hung in long thin braids plaited into a single column down his back and, though often hidden behind his stoic exterior, his eyes were bright with laughter.

Both Temlee and Sezsha had been with Rumi for many years, and she could not think of a better match for either of them.

Especially since neither of them could wed.

Both Sezsha and Temlee had sworn their lives to their duty before they had been old enough to realize all that entailed.

Rumi turned her eyes away from the stolen kisses and lingering touches.

She kept herself busy at the Sicktree so Sezsha and Temlee could have their secret meetings and indulge in that happiness.

Many an afternoon was spent at the Sicktree, cradling fevered heads and feeding soup to the ill—and there was always some ailment to battle—which would have her dropping to her bed, utterly exhausted, as the sun dipped below the trees.

She could think of no better use for her Ti’la than healing the ailments of others.

The fact that it also allowed Sezsha and Temlee their rendezvous, well, that was just a boon.

“My lady.”

Sezsha interlaced her arm with Rumi’s, their bracelets clacking together.

“You came out sooner than I expected.

I am guessing things did not go well?”

Her brows rose in concern.

Temlee stepped to Rumi’s other side as they walked down the bridge, the wood creaking as it swayed with their steps.

His strength was reassuring, even if he spoke little.

“No, it did not go well.

He will not listen to me.

He refuses to see the people as they are, preferring the company of his councilors and their fawning, and yet claims to know what is best.

The people are not ready—the Outsiders are not ready—and I am fearful of what this means for the clans.”

“Fret not, Lady, for he speaks to the gods.

Surely they would not lead him astray,”

Sezsha said, patting Rumi’s arm.

“That is what I worry about, Sezsha.

Which god does he speak to? For if he speaks to Verenestra, then perhaps all will be well, but what if he is communing with Morthis? He brings naught but war and bloodshed.”

Rumi sighed and shook her head.

“He has changed so much in the time since my mother.”

“All will be well,”

Sezsha reassured her again.

The trio continued their walk through the treetops, the bridge rocking under their weight.

Rumi hoped Sezsha was right.

“Tomorrow is Eosetra and I wish to visit Behiba’s temple before the sunrise.”

“As you do each year, Lady.

I will be ready.

Has the aba told you when you will meet Zinhar again for the banquet? He is very handsome, as I recall, and quite taken with you,”

Sezsha chuckled and nudged Rumi’s ribs.

Rumi’s cheeks heated, and she nodded, glancing sideways at Sezsha.

“He is nice to look at.

His people like him too, which I feel is a good sign.

I believe Zinhar will be coming to the next summit.”

Her toe scraped the bridge and her fingertips twisted.

“I would be lying if I said I was not a little excited to see him again.”

Sezsha and Temlee shared a knowing look and Sezsha squeezed Rumi’s hand.

“I will make sure you look resplendent.

He will want to bond with you right then and there without waiting for the ceremony!”

Their chuckles echoed through the trees until birds and frogs called back to them in the raucous laughter of the jungle.

***

Tendrils of fog crept along the forest floor, a sea of rolling mist that obscured the verdant greenery below the bridges connecting the homes of the clan.

A soft hoot echoed through the canopy as Rumi slid the door aside, disturbing a bird from his rest.

The grey fingers of pre-dawn light snuck through the trees, touching each leaf and ridge of bark, tasting the earth before the sun rose in its full golden glory.

A silent movement to her side drew her eyes to Temlee as he stepped beside her, the ever-present shadow and friend.

Rumi tugged the white hood over the intricate braids Sezsha had spent hours creating, her deft fingers weaving Rumi’s dark tresses back and forth.

She had added the traditional beads as well, their craftsmanship the envy of many.

Tiny wooden petals wrapped around each stretch of woven hair, each engraved with details that seemed impossible on something so small.

Rumi had sat by her mother night after night while she had painstakingly carved and shaped each one, her face illuminated by the glow of the fire, humming a song once so beloved.

A tune Rumi sang to herself in remembrance, though now the lyrics were faint in her mind as she slunk over the bridge toward the temple, her white robes likely creating the illusion of a ghostly figure emerging from the mist below.

The heavy fabric whispered over her bare toes, the mournful tune weighing at her heart.

In her hands, she clutched both the bracelet of woven shells and rocks her mother had worn every day until her last breath and the whittled wooden statuette of Behiba.

Sezsha met her at the Common tree, adorned in her own pristine robes, a single flower in her hands.

She joined in Rumi’s lament, and together they made their way to Behiba’s temple.