My stomach churned as I walked the sandy path to the grand pavilion where the Ceremony was held. It did a couple of somersaults and a cartwheel, twisting itself into a tight knot no matter how I tried to comb out my fears, insisting that this wasn't a gymnastics contest. I was shaking so bad, I felt like one touch would push me over. The filigreed gold arm bands had been soothing the moment they touched my skin, but now all they did was grate. I itched to take them off. I kept my head held high, but inside I felt like running away to hide behind my mother's arms. I swung my hands confidently by my sides, but I felt like chewing my fingernails to the roots.
You are a Chieftess, a buried voice in my head reminded me.
You rule all of them.
You are light.
You are air.
What would happen if I decided to bolt?
You are stone.
You are the mountain that yields not to the storm.
You do not feel.
Even if it wasn't my Agecoming, it was still my birthday. I was supposed to be excited. Maybe that's what made the thought of the ceremony seem worse.
Suddenly, it was there—a grand building supported by six marble pillars, an ornamental stone carving hanging from each corner. A lick of flame, a droplet of water, a gust of air and a pile of dust. A brass bell, green with time, dangled off each carving, chiming amiably. The tiled roof curved up into a point that jutted into the sky. Each side was open to the four winds, except the back, which had a golden altar in front of it. A ragged looking but finely made long carpet with tasselled edges trailed from the altar to the bottom of the steps. Nothing was ragged for no reason here. The carpet was probably unable to be changed, or likely there as a reminder for the brides that had walked down it, the citizens that had had their Agecoming here, the Chiefs and Chieftesses crowned here. A reminder that even if the rest of Kirasea, the rest of the land, may have succumbed to modern culture and technology, this temple was still sacred. A part of it would forever remain untouched, free for the elements to wash through.
Everyone who needed to be was there already, except me and my father, whose strong palm was a guiding star on the small of my back. I grappled with the urge to look over at him. I knew I would find the same sharp features—the white flecking his crisp hair, the fine wrinkles lining his dark skin, the shadows under his blue eyes that I pretended to ignore.
On top of the altar was a regal statue of Nyoraia, the Goddess of Creation and therefore everything else in the world. Her serene lapis eyes stared at me, unblinking. As I walked towards her, I found myself studying the details of her metalwork. Every strand of her flowing hair had been carved, every fold of her robes hammered to perfection, her expression unyielding and unflinching and unbending.
What have you to offer, young Chieftess?
In her cupped palms was a small pool of water, between her crossed legs was a flickering candle, and the area around her was scattered with sand. Sweet, cloying smoke floated around her head, completing the elemental circle.
Water, Air, Fire, Earth.
Four smaller figures knelt at her feet in varying positions of worship.
Aquanaya, the Goddess of Water, knelt with her nose pressed against the ground and palms facing down in front of her. A completely vulnerable position. One that I didn't feel complemented her titles—Stormbringer, Rainsinger, Thought-Stealer, Lady of the Waves.
Auralainei, the Goddess of Air, crouched in a position like one about to be knighted in a fairy story—one knee in the air, the other on the ground, hands clasped in front with elbows bent. A clever position, for the Cloudraiser, the Windweaver, the Lifebringer; suitable for kneeing someone in the groin lest they come too close. Ouch.
Aithnaton, God of Fire, was only half bowing; one hand on his back, one outstretched mockingly forward. A pose suitable for stepping into action straightaway, but otherwise the picture of arrogance. What I would imagine when I thought of the Heat-Devourer, the Flamekeeper, the Lord of Light.
Alderhawke, the God of Earth, stood in a generic bowing position to the far right of the group. While Aithnaton was arrogant and Aquanaya timid, Alderhawke was perfectly in the middle. Earthshaker, Dustcleaver, Forest-Raiser. For some reason he shared a title with Aquanaya—Thought-Stealer. Respectful but not rude or overly flattering.
I stopped just before the marble altar. The headdress had already started to dig into my scalp.
A few seconds passed. Then it began.
The holy man, the priest, started to recite in the old language—the one the tribes of the Northern Lands used to record the events of the past. My basic knowledge of the ancient words hurried to keep up with his rapid croaking. What had I been scared of? Falling asleep during this speech that sounded more like a lecture?
The next part he spoke in the common tongue, not twisted and flowery, but in the crisp way that a weather reporter might announce the forecast for the next week. "Only a chosen few possess Nyoraia's rare gifts, the gifts of her children, the Elementals. At the Agecoming we not only celebrate how Nyoraia created us and all life on Kirasea, but also determine who receives her gifts—the gifts that have the power to shape your future. Do you accept this possible burden and gift, Chandani-Amita Zarramere?"
"I do," I replied, a little puzzled. But it was what Father had told me to say.
What would have happened if I said no? If I hadn't accepted whatever these gifts were?
Here, he motioned for me to put my hand out, and that I did, curious. As I watched, the cloud above Nyoraia's head dissipated and turned into a gust of wind, which agitated the pool of water into a trickle that flew directly into my palm. I stared in wonder. This must be what the holy man meant by gifts—he must have a gift of air. Maybe this was also why details about the Agecoming were kept in the dark so often; I'd never seen a single soul practice their gifts if they had any in public. I thought it was silly that he'd poured the water into only one palm. It would drip onto the floor straightaway.
I was correct. Only a second before the wind turned back into a cloud hanging over Nyoraia's face, I felt a wetness creeping across my bare feet, etching lines into the dust collected on them. Oh, I thought. The test must be that if the water stayed into your palm, you had the Water gift. I stared at the water trickling across my palm. Anyways, the water ran out fast enough.
Undeterred, the man blew a stronger gale of wind at me and I stumbled back clumsily before I could stop myself. Was this the Air test already? Wait, I wanted to cry out. I wasn't ready! It seemed to be enough for the priest, though. Just like that, I failed the Air test. The slowly settling cloud of sand around me seemed to be saying, BOOM! You just got rejected by Big Air Mama! It wasn't like a maths test; I couldn't revise for it, and I didn't know the subject. But it was also kind of like a maths test, because I spent ages trying to prepare myself for the mental agony and hey presto, the second question is 'calculate the mass of the sun'. Easy! I had no idea what was happening. Since when had this magic existed, beyond the realm of the gods?
Next, I predicted, was Fire. I really hoped he wouldn't set me on fire and wait until I surely didn't have the gift before dousing the flames. I wondered why the tests only worked on the Agecoming, because all the children had surely seen the elements before. Huh. It was a good question. Why? I yelped as a searing heat brought me back to reality. I hadn't guessed right this time, but close enough. The man had set fire to my headdress. Everyone wore the dramatic headdress to their Agecoming ceremonies (we had let go of some of the more outdated Agecoming traditions, but we kept this one—never mind that it made literally anyone who wore it looked like a prize peacock), which were strangely never seen again. Until now, I'd never questioned why they weren't proudly on display in every home.
Now I knew why. They were all burnt to a cinder.
In a split second where the flames flickered so close to my face that I could see them out of the corner of my eye, a tiny thread attached to the edge of my heart tugged, so thin it was almost non-existent. As I protested and tried to focus on the orange blaze slowly nearing my forehead, the warmth searing, it pulled insistently. I could feel it strengthening, wrapping around itself to form a gradually thickening string. It tugged again, and I felt like I was about to collapse. I stood my ground, and it persisted. I didn't know what it was trying to do, trying to make my heart move to the other side of my chest?
Still the rope heaved against my interior objections. My vision was getting blurry with the pain. Someone screamed, a bloodcurdling sound that sliced through the thickening atmosphere like a knife. It took a while for me to realise that I was the one screaming, as my self-control was wrested from my grip. I was sure I must be writhing on the ground by now, yet the flames still burned, the headdress still stood straight and tall on the crown of my head.
The rope cracked like a whip through my body, and there was pain, pain as the fire lanced through my bones and set my muscles on fire, pain as my blood boiled with flames of ruby.
Then that snake, the one that bit me over and over again where nobody could see, who injected that smarting venom inside my bones, inside of me, latched onto the other side of my ribs, and suddenly it was a chain, a chain that pushed the fire out and kept it in. A chain that burned and burned and did not melt, a chain that held me together and tore me apart.
Burning, just like that day, those days I had run or worked in the heat of summer, when my hands felt not clammy with sweat but aflame like a torch. Burning, blazing, flaming.
When the fire had touched me and yet not, when that tiger had greeted me as a friend. How long had it been since the first links of the burning chain had been forged deep within my soul?
I could see my grandmother's face in my peripheral vision. Her lined cheeks sagged, grim. How were the delicate feathers on this headdress so flameproof? Like they knew. Like they knew that the Fire test took longer than the others, that the Gift of Flame was harder to master. Why? Why me?
I felt voices entering my mind, voices that were not mine, that didn't belong to me or anybody I knew. They were old, controlling. They overlapped over one another, but one rang out over the rest, laced with humming power. The voice of a god.
You wondered why the headdress has always been kept. Why it must be so flamboyant, and over-the-top.
You see, two birds' feathers are traditionally used to make them. The rooster—my own symbolic animal—and the dove. The dove is a symbol of the soul, because the Agecoming, whether you believe it or not, is a ritual that has the power to delve into your soul and alter your destiny. And the rooster is the sign of a new start, an awakening. Part of my power, a manifestation of myself, is now rooted in your soul. The power awakens within you. It is yours now, a true awakening of the soul. I claim you. I claim you as a child of fire.
Embrace it.
With a quiet pop that seemed to me like an explosion in a battle of wills, the flames receded. The half-burnt headdress toppled from where its remains clung to my black hair to the ground. A smattering of black ash surrounded it, and it looked evil, like the cinders were the gates to a fiery hell. I fell to my knees, back hunched over and gasping for breath. When I raised my hands from the ground, they were covered in a layer of dirt and sand and ash. I hadn't realised I'd been sweating so profusely.
I thought it was ironic that I was in such a pitiful position, the absolute opposite of Aithnaton's insolent pose before Nyoraia's altar.
You are the mountain that yields not to the storm.
You do not feel.
You are the fire that forges the blade.
I didn't get it. I was Chandani-Amita Zarramere, and I was a protector. I got my mother's gentleness, not my father's often warlike brutality that he possessed along with some other qualities. Perhaps I'd also inherited, in part, my mama's ability to flare up horribly when things were wrong.
I felt the air in the temple, hidden away in the woods, thicken until it was like butter. There was no sound, not from the gathered crowd and not from the forest beyond. I felt like even the trees had realised the enormity of what I'd just done. What had I done? Even though I'd technically done nothing. But judging from the shocked expressions of everyone around me, I estimated that this wasn't in most people's schedules for typical first-day-of-summers.
I didn't feel just emotionally exhausted. Physically, I was drained to the bone. But I still found it in myself to summon a lick of ruby to my forefinger, gazing at it in wonder and fear, before I hauled my deeply fatigued body onto my two feet and turned to face the crowd. My dress trailed the ground, covered in flecks of ash and dust.
I couldn't blame the gaping crowd. I couldn't believe it either.
The air became even thicker, like the density of solid rock. Tension shadowed every breath. I didn't know it was possible for a place to be more silent, but even in the perfect stillness everyone hushed even more profoundly. Out of the blue, the room exploded into whisper-shouted conversation. And through it all, I saw my grandmother sitting in a corner, still as a stone, face as uninterested. Grandpa wasn't there. I don't know why I was surprised, as he disappeared shortly after my parents married. Why I expected him to be here, even though it was the biggest day of my life.
"Grandma," I breathed. She floated over, graceful as always. Time stopped as she held me in her arms, wrinkled like prunes. "Look," she said with an attempt at a smile, lifting up her heavy skirts. I was shocked at what I saw. She was hovering a few centimetres above the ground. "I do prefer flying," she whispered conspiratorially with an exaggerated wink. "I just have to hide it," she confirmed. "You'll find out soon enough." She pressed a kiss to my sooty forehead.
"That isn't helping, Grandma," I hissed, the tang of betrayal morphing my voice. Grandma had lived with it for sixty years. Why had she never warned me?
"Shut your mouth," she snarled, her face suddenly transformed into seething severity—the face of the High Chieftess. "This is a gift. One day, you will learn to cherish it. Do not disgrace yourself before Nyoraia herself."
With a swish of fabric, she was gone, melted into the crowd. Grandmother had the Air gift? I was right all along when I said that she didn't walk, she flew. She really did. But why...why did she have to hide it? Years ago, I would've been delighted if I knew that magic existed. Now I just felt...betrayed.
This seemed...like it was not possible. It defied everything I had ever learnt, a miracle, a phenomenon.
A curtain had suddenly been pulled back, and I saw the other side of this world like never before, and I wondered how I had never seen the sunlight that streamed in from outside that window, how I had never sought to remove the fabric that covered its rays.
Then the clouds covered that sunlight, and the rain poured, poured and didn't stop.
Then monsters emerged, sopping from rippling puddles of darkness. One held bloody chains and a whip, another a knife, one a purely animalistic snarl. This was adulthood, I realised, this foreign world I'd just entered. The veil had been ripped apart. There was no putting it back.
The yelling got louder, and even though I as Chieftess held a higher position than most of them, I felt strangely small. As if I were a helpless mouse cornered by all of a crazy cat lady's felines, all of them arguing as to who would get to eat me.
The temple was open to the elements, the control yielded to the gods. I could breathe, and yet now, there was nowhere for me to run. Between the bickering horde, the silent forest, and Nyoraia's steely regard, I was thoroughly cut off.
Mama's voice caught me by surprise. "We're sorry, Amita."
I knew she was sorry. She had even deigned to call me by my preferred name instead of the royal one she gave me. I swivelled to face her. I wanted to be angry. I hoped she could see the cornered desperation in my eyes. I hoped she could see the sleepless nights. I hoped she could see the shadowed whispers that withered me.
You must never show weakness.
I settled on an acceptable answer. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"I couldn't," she whispered. Suddenly I could see the nobody village girl she used to be. "Father can explain."
I swallowed the urge to retort. Can he? Can he really?
Father waved a hand and the whole procession scattered. I never noticed how much power my family wielded. The all left without a word. "There's a lot to explain."
"Well, duh," I pursed my lips, fighting the urge to roll my eyes. Still raising that superficial shield, the bravado that would ultimately never last.
"This is serious, star." He sighed. Laugh at me, sure. My nickname is Star. Great nickname, I know. But when the time came that I began to cherish that little fact, it had already faded to nothing more than a shimmering memory. "How do I tell you this? Alright, I'll start from the beginning. Remember what the priest said?" I nodded mutely. "Good. Like he said, very few are blessed with Nyoraia's gifts. Kaleveh's royal line was chosen because our genes have more of her creation lifeblood, so we're more likely to have the elemental powers. Usually, we wouldn't be surprised. But the fact is, over almost a thousand years of existence, Kaleveh has only yielded Airbenders. Like your grandmother. The thing is, people with the Gifts are often persecuted, for some reason. They disappear, vanishing into thin air."
"Like the ones that disappear after the Agecoming?"
"No," my father answered gravely. "Not at all, actually. Whoever's abducting them wipes everyone around them's memory, takes away their possessions. Everything. The only reason I've noticed them disappear is because we keep modern records that can't be destroyed. There's a reason we keep magic secret. We think it's the work of demons."
"We have guns and tanks and stuff, though. Why can't we kill these demons?"
"People have tried—there are stories. But the demons are creatures of fantasy. They don't take so well to modern weapons. The legends say the only way to best them is by magic."
I had millions of questions, but something told me to let my father keep talking.
"And about the people who disappear afterwards—the only thing to say about them is that they choose to. You see, people with Air and Water Gifts can hide them more easily, although Water has not been seen for literally ages."
"Why?" I couldn't stop myself from asking.
He shrugged. "Their Gifts are weaker." He said vaguely, leaving the thing I was most curious about out of my grasp. But yours, Fire? Aithnaton is the strongest. You won't be able to hide them as efficiently, especially as Chieftess. That's why people disappear. They either don't want to hide or they decide they cannot lie to everyone or their gifts are stronger than usual. So, they leave."
"They leave?" I was stunned. So all those times that Father had not seemed bothered by those disappearances, they had left? Left their homes, their families, the lands they treasured...of their own accord...for what? I could not imagine such a betrayal. Because that was what it once was to me; a betrayal of mind and spirit and body.
"Yes. Don't worry, I'm sure we'll figure something out for you."
"And if you can't?"
"Well, I would be more at peace knowing you left equipped with the right knowledge and supplies than taken in the middle of the night to who knows where."
I was speechless. That was Father's way of saying he would rather send me out to die, with the slimmest chance of safety, wherever, than let me get abducted by someone we didn't know? I mean, that made sense, the former was better, but for once I felt like using my status. I wanted to demand to stay here with everything about Kaleveh that I loved. I would take escorting annoying officials over being sent away any day. Because couldn't they protect me? This was my home. I was its ruler, an heir apparent. It wasn't like there was no magic here either. Couldn't they fend off the demons?
You know that feeling when you're a Chieftess and you're already powerful enough with a hereditary title but then you get blessed by Fire and now you're being asked to leave the only home you've ever known? Yeah...that's what I was feeling right now.
"Don't we have to finish the ceremony, at least?" My voice may have been shriller than usual. I wanted to stay.
"No, I'm sure—" Father's voice was cut off by a new voice. It was the holy guy, and who knows how long he'd been listening? He had defied Father's order to leave.
"Actually, Chief, it'd be better if she completed it."
"Why—" we both started to say. I certainly had no wish to go through the pain that had consumed my body just then.
"You can have two Gifts. All four, even, but it's extremely rare," the priest said by way of explanation. I thought his voice sounded harsher than before, but perhaps I was hearing wrong. What was his thing with the Gifts?
"What?" we both exclaimed.
The priest only nodded. I felt my stomach turn. It would be asking too much to have two Gifts, right? Surely.
Surely.
We returned to the altar. I suddenly thought that the hollowed-out space above Nyoraia's head seemed like a place to burn wood for a burnt offering, a sacrificial offering to the gods. I immediately thought of the tales of villages who sacrificed one maiden to their gods every year. I swallowed numbly as the final test began.
This time, the man spilled some of the dirt onto the floor, where it gathered into a small heap.
"Step in it," the priest instructed robotically. I supposed he must've done this hundreds of times before.
I stepped in it, my bare feet connecting with the grains of dust.
This time, there was no pulling of threads deep inside my chest. No inexplicable pain.
As another god took the place of the one presiding over my mind, sharing the space of thought, whispered in my ear, the grains flattened out into a perfect circle. Where Aithnaton had barged into my mind, my sacred space, and left behind him a road of pain, Alderhawke simply took an empty throne of rock and wood I hadn't realised was there. Gnarled roots popped up like bulging veins where he stepped.
Silence fell, even more overwhelmingly than before. What. Just. Happened.
"Not possible," breathed my father from behind me. I could not imagine what he was feeling, even as a shuddering wave of terror cleaved my world.
My breath heaved in my chest as I was struck with an intense realisation. There was no way I could hide this from whatever mysterious creature was out there that was taking the Gifted. There was no contest, no argument. I would have to...leave? Leave my home, all that I had ever known?
The priest turned slowly to me, gaping a bit. Then he bowed, lower than anyone had ever bowed to me before, utterly holy and at my disposal. The feeling did not suit me. "Hail, Chieftess Chandani-Amita Zarramere, protector of the spirit, daughter of Aithnaton, Heat-Devourer, Flamekeeper, Lord of Light. Gifted by Alderhawke—Earthshaker, Dustcleaver, Forest-Raiser."
As if summoned by his reverent words, I sensed a white-hot glow above my head. Looking up, I saw a rosy red spire of flame explode over my wide eyes, swirls of dust and leaves circling it. A claiming—by two Elementals. The sign melted slowly, drifting down and leaving flakes of blazing ash in my hair. Silence settled as gradually and surely as the dust.
"I'm sorry." someone murmured quietly, though all heard and swivelled around to face the direction of the mumbled apology.
I turned around slowly, not believing the croak of the voice, an ageing copy of the one that I had heard every day instructing me, reassuring me, telling me about the myths of our tribe. An old man was standing in the doorway. Despite never having met him, I knew from his posture, regal even in its hunched shape, who he was, who he had to be straightaway.
"Dad," Father said, his expression grim.
As if he were bracing himself for the events that unfolded next.