PRAJNA
by Roxanne Smolen

EXCERPT

CHAPTER 1

Anneliese Thielman awoke with a vague sense of alarm. She felt the walls of the underground cubicle around her, heard the hiss of the logra leaves upon the coals. Blinking, she looked through diffused light into the face of her fiancée’s daughter.

“Myetrae,” she said. “You startled me.”

“You were asleep,” the young woman accused.

“Of course not. I was just—”

“You were! Asleep when you should be meditating. How will Wisdom and Fealty bless this union? This, on your wedding day!”

Anneliese’s heart tumbled in her chest. Her wedding day. The events of her life continued to amaze her. Had it been only a year since she came to this world, since she first met Sayer-Kihn? At times, she felt she’d always known him.

She leaned back against the sweating stone. “I’m sorry, Myetrae. The steam makes me sleepy. Or perhaps the reek of those stinking herbs.”

Myetrae gave her a wry smile. “The only stink in this room is of you. Come. Your bath is waiting.”

Taking Anneliese’s arm, Myetrae pulled her from the cramped cubicle. Anneliese groaned, stretching against the kinks in her body, dizzy with hunger. She had been locked in meditation for the better part of a day with only her dreams to nourish her, awaiting the cave dwellers to pronounce her pure.

Cyla and Jaymar met them in the tunnel. They looked more like sisters than mother and daughter. Cyla had cut her hair to emulate Anneliese’s chin-length locks, as if to be in fashion. Anneliese laughed at the thought then tried to stifle the sound, succeeding in making a strangled whimper.

Always the mother, Cyla cradled her shoulders. “You look to have stewed long enough.”

“Did you have any visions?” Jaymar asked.

“Cloudy ones.” Anneliese sighed, allowing the three women to guide her to the bathing caves.

The air felt cool against her damp skin, reminding her that she was naked. A year ago she would have been too shy to be seen unclothed—but these were her dearest companions. Her wedding party.

Again her heart leapt. Was she doing the right thing? Wasn’t one disastrous marriage enough? Then Sayer’s face came to mind—his knowing smile, his amber eyes. She couldn’t imagine life without him.

They entered the bathing alcove. A pedestal held a shallow basin like cupped hands catching the rain. Anneliese climbed onto the edge, gingerly lying back. The water was hot and pulsing, splashing over her body and spilling into a cistern below. Her attendants sat upon the rim of the bowl, massaging her limbs with ground pumice, sloughing away the old skin until she felt smooth and new. As they worked, they sang in monotone.

Ancient words, Anneliese thought, songs steeped in tradition. A remarkable people, these Llaird: the forgotten children of a decimated race. It was hard to believe this vast barrow was once a burial crypt.

Jaymar sat with her feet in the water. Unsheathing her knife, she peeled away the bitter skin of a tanza root. “So, tell us of your cloudy visions.”

“Jaymar!” Cyla splashed her daughter. “You do not ask such of a prophet.”

“I do not ask her as our prophet, I ask as my friend.” Jaymar fed Anneliese a sliver of the root.

Anneliese said, “There’s not much to tell. I make no sense of it myself.” She chewed absently. Then, realizing they were waiting for her to continue, she said, “I saw a great city chiseled from a mountainside. The walls were crumbling into dust, and the people who lived there were all dead.”

“How romantic.” Jaymar giggled.

Myetrae slapped her hand upon the water. “Spirits and prophecies. I might have known.” She jumped to the floor then turned, hair flying, to face Anneliese. “You’ll say none of this to my father. I’ll not have you spoil his day.”

“I would never hurt him. I love your father very much.”

Myetrae glared, golden eyes reflecting the light. Then her gaze dropped. “Have you always loved him?”

“Not at the start,” Anneliese said. “But I’ve always loved you.”

Myetrae frowned, wrapping her arms about her chest, pulling away. Anneliese felt the distance between them. She tried to imagine what the young woman was feeling—the chiliarch’s daughter, once revered in society, now overshadowed by an outsider. Anneliese had never wanted to be named prophet. She would rather have remained Myetrae’s friend.

Cyla clucked her tongue. “Enough of this. Finish eating. We have yet to garb you in your wedding sinamai.”

Eyes closed, Anneliese opened her mouth like a hatchling. Jaymar laughed, dropping in three more pieces of the root. Juice sprayed down Anneliese’s throat. She sat quickly, sputtering, splashing her friend. Sliding from the basin, she stood upon the floor.

“What’s this?” Anneliese asked, motioning toward a biretta of fiery stones and silver feathers.

“It is the shulamite, your betrothal crown. My father created this while you slept through meditation.” Myetrae ran her fingers over the headpiece. “You wear this at the ceremony. I’ve told you of it.”

“Yes, but I didn’t realize it would be this elaborate.” Anneliese lifted the crown—a delicate filigree of bronze wires knotted about green-black beads. “Malpais,” she said, smiling, touching the stones. “And where did he get the feathers? Your birds are so scarce.”

“He found an abandoned nest in the lower hills. It is customary to use veils, but he thought the feathers would be pleasing.”
“Yes,” Anneliese said. She remembered first meeting Sayer-Kihn. He likened her to a bird struggling against her captors, stretching her wings for freedom. Indeed, she felt freer in his presence than she ever had before. “I am honored by this gift and accept it gladly. Will you honor me further by helping me dress for this special day?”

Myetrae hesitated then inclined her head. “Of course.”

Setting down the shulamite, Anneliese moved to the center of the room. A polished portion of the cave wall reflected her image like a mirror. Standing with arms atop her head, she watched the solemn women wrap her with strips of material.

“Red?” she asked, quirking her brow.

“Red is the color of happiness,” Cyla told her. “Of course, you could wear black, like Duessa-Kimmer.”

Anneliese shuddered at the thought of the soothsayer. She had requested that Duessa not preside over her wedding, but had been roundly overruled.

“My grandmother wore this sinamai,” Myetrae said, “and my mother when she wed my father. I wore it when I married Galit two years ago.”

“Then rejoice,” Cyla said, “that this may also be a lovely wedding.”

Anneliese heard the reprimand in Cyla’s voice, and she regretted the rift between her friends. Biting her lip, she appraised her reflection. The red strips crisscrossed her body in an intricate pattern, covering her from shoulder to knee. A length of material hung behind like a train, and the women lined it with tiny bells.

“Do you remember your dance?” Jaymar asked around the pins she held between her lips.

Anneliese nodded, sucking in her breath, pressing a hand against her queasy stomach.

“There,” Myetrae said, placing the crown upon Anneliese’s head. “You’re ready.”

Led by lamplight, Anneliese followed the three women toward the wedding chamber. The light, she knew, was for her benefit, not being able to see in the dark as easily as her nocturnal friends. Bells drew music from her steps. The weight of the crown lifted her chin.

Visions arose from childhood memories—half-remembered stories of princesses and fairies told with her father’s voice—and she wondered, had he agreed to attend her wedding, which would he think she resembled?

Then Jaymar extinguished the lamp. Anneliese halted, startled by the depth of darkness, part of her still clinging to the familiar dismay that always surrounded thoughts of her father. She heard the scrape of the lamp as Jaymar set it upon the ground.

“From here we go unfettered,” said Jaymar.

Myetrae moved near. “Put your hand upon my shoulder, Anneliese-Thielman.”

Anneliese felt a wave of nostalgia, remembering the words from an earlier time. In the darkness, it was easy to see Myetrae as she had then: her friend, her defender. But then she recalled the betrayal in Myetrae’s eyes as she told her of her plans to marry her father.

A lovely wedding, Cyla had said. How many of the Llaird wished her such?

In single file, they followed the tunnel. The women chanted an intricate prayer, their harmony woven of varied pitch and rhythm, beseeching the gods to bless the union, asking for the support of the barrow.

Anneliese blinked in pitch black. A current of air tugged at her, and she realized she stood in the entrance of a large cavern. Myetrae stepped away, leaving only her voice.

Anneliese felt as if she were in a dream. The breeze swirled about her, stirring the feathers along her face. She watched a speck of light move forward, tracing a path through the void, heard it clink into the urn she knew to be in the center of the room. Another coal appeared, and yet another, each adding its strength to the glowing vessel, until at last she could see the fingers which dropped them.

The rhythmic song swelled within the chamber as the attendees picked up the chant. So many people, she thought—well-wishers offering with heart and hand to light their way. She smiled, apprehension rolling from her shoulders.

Then from receding shadow, she saw Sayer-Kihn. He stood on the opposite side of the cavern, serene and self-possessed as a leader must be—but his smile bespoke a pride in her barely contained, and his eyes glowed like the coals of the urn.

And for a moment, Anneliese knew she was beautiful by the way he looked at her, knew she could be more than what she was, more than she dreamed she could be. Slowly lifting her arms, she began the nuptial dance, moving in step as if she had been born to such things.

Abruptly a woman screamed. A flurry of shadows invaded the room. Anneliese froze. She heard the muffled sound of a struggle, heard the slap of running feet.

“Cast out the Jefe-Naik!” a voice cried.

“Death to the false prophet!”

My God, Anneliese thought, were they speaking of her? A pounding roar replaced the chant. She covered her ears to block the sound. A man fell into the wedding vessel, scattering the lighted stones. She took a step to help him.

Were they speaking of her?

A hooded man leapt before her. A knife coalesced from chaos. As if in slow motion, Anneliese raised her arm, and equally slowly, the knife struck, the edge offering a glancing blow.

Then Wathe-Taln appeared, shielding her with his body, warding off the shadowy figure.

“Sayer,” she cried. “Where is Sayer?”

“Stay behind me,” her bodyguard answered.

But she could not. Fighting her way from Wathe’s side, she dove into the melee. People ran in all directions, knocking into her, spinning her about. The shulamite fell from her head, instantly swallowed by the confusion. Anneliese staggered forward.

Suddenly Sayer gathered her into his arms. “Anneliese. What have they done?”

“Seal the tunnel,” someone shouted. “Don’t let them get away.”

Anneliese felt the sting of hot tears. She buried her face in Sayer’s robe.

“See to the injured,” she heard the chiliarch say.

Still clinging to him, she gazed over the cavern. Shadows moved about the fallen. A keening wail settled over the room like a black cloak.

“They are gone,” Wathe said. “They knew our byways well, perhaps with assistance.”

“My people,” Sayer whispered.

Anneliese heard the pain behind his words. She glanced up at him.

He said, “Take our prophet to my quarters. Guard her well.”

“No,” Anneliese said. “I will stay with you.”

Wathe moved close. “You will walk or be carried.”

“My people.” Sayer said again. “The warnings were there. Why didn’t I listen? Why didn’t I see?”

“What are you talking about?” Anneliese cried. “Who did this?”

His eyes fell upon her, his despair holding him separate, unreachable.

“Sivlow-Rakin and his vile son,” Wathe said in her ear. “They have brought us civil war.”