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The Book of Rites opens with a soft susurrus of parchment, leatherbound cover rasping against the Reader’s calloused hands, and the Pyres flare to life.
It is stifling, this close, beneath the mask (though Jodariel is certain that the flames are not real; they exude no smoke, no heat, do not burn the errant hand that strays too close as she deposits the orb into them, though the embers do tingle, faintly, as they pop against her grasping fingers), her neck itching fiercely beneath the stiff leather hood. Perhaps it is because the Pyres merely function as pathways to elsewhere, the starless void that seeks, always, to enfold her, embrace her, draw her into the velvet darkness, but it feels, at times, as though they seek to devour anything in close proximity—the Celestial Orb, a careless limb, the light of the stars above. Their very breath.
A slow exhalation as Jodariel draws herself up to her full height, rolling broad, rigid shoulders, affording Hedwyn, beside her, head thrust forward eagerly, a brief glance; Fae, at her other side, she knows, will be shifting her weight from foot to foot, swaying in an approximation of prayer, relishing the openness of these consecrated grounds, the opportunity to feel so close to her beloved Scribes.
A shrill howl pierces the silence, summarily splintering it; the Dissidents, standing across from them, strain against invisible bonds, slavering tongues lolling free of their jaws, desiring carnage, the thrill of the chase. Barker, as always, heads the pack, one paw digging furrows in the loose soil, fangs flashing white-white-white in the silver light of the moon. He would like nothing more, Jodariel knows, than to close those tapered jaws over her slender, furred ankle, to bear her to the ground, to tear at the yielding flesh of her belly, bury his muzzle in the pink, glistening mass of her innards, howl his triumph until the whole of the Downside reverberated with the sound. He would certainly like to make an attempt, she amends, as she lowers a hand to caress the cracked leather cover of her own copy of the Book, feeling those incorporeal bonds begin to weaken, dissipate, but she would just as likely tear him in twain, and scatter his bones for the Howlers to gnaw upon, no cairn erected to mark his grave. Better that they are bound to the truce, and their auras prevent them from veering too close to one another, that touch is forbidden. Better for all involved.
A rustle of fabric draws her attention for the scantest of moments; the Reader, head cocked, as if listening intently, recedes further into the shadows at the very edge of the arena, and, not a moment later, the Celestial Orb descends, cratering the powdery earth at the center of the ring, the ground beneath her hooves trembling with the impact. Without hesitation, Jodariel surges forward, Hedwyn flanking her, Fae darting ahead in an attempt to seize the crystalline mass before any of the three Curs might. She does not succeed; a lean, grey-furred beast dissolves her with a pulse of his aura just as she reaches it, and snatches the orb with a whoop of laughter. Jodariel grunts, eyes narrowed, hooves firmly planted in the soil, her aura a barrier, and as he attempts to gallop past her, she lunges, venting a soft, satisfied growl as his right forepaw lands squarely within the circle of it, and he disintegrates into red cinder-shreds, to be reborn within his Pyre.
Press the advantage. An echo of the Reader’s voice within her head, and some small, distant part of her thrills at it, at the knowledge that she is not alone on this particular battlefield, that she has some direction. She steps forward, seizing the orb (she is slow, she knows, ponderous, a glacier, rather than the bolt of lightning they require to stand against Barker’s determined assault, but she is closest, and she knows what must be done), feeling a sense of approval wash over her, a kind of warmth concentrated in her limbs.
(The Reader’s influence is—not the assumption of control, but the impression of an incorporeal hand at her elbow, silently urging, guiding, the occasional low murmur against her ear, reverberating within her skull, snatches of dread, of apprehension, of elation, of trust. Trust, above all else; they are not as they were, with one Liberation Rite won and gone, Rukey returned to his mother in the Commonwealth. The Reader has secured victory for them, in her calm, methodical way, too many times for even Jodariel’s stubborn suspicion to persist.)
Pass it to Fae, whispers the Reader, and she acquiesces, tossing it behind her without a backwards glance, feeling a measure of the Reader’s amusement and relief wash through her as Fae charges past, restored, bearing the orb, dodging between the relatively compact auras of Barker’s pack and hurling it into the midst of the flames, which leap and crackle for the briefest of heartbeats before flickering lower, doused.
Jodariel surrenders herself, then, to the pulse of the field, to the Reader’s gentle instruction; she presses forward when she must, retreats when their opponents press them in return. The orb passes from hand to hand to hand, and the flames of the Dissidents’ Pyre are nearly flush with the earth, soon, nearly ground down to ashes. Their own has suffered a few dousings, but it yet burns, yet claws at the star-flecked sky, yet pulses in rhythm with their stubborn, fervent hearts.
(Hedwyn has momentarily disappeared, banished to the between-place and yet to be restored, and Fae is flagging beside her, shoulders drooping, head thrust forward, the circle of her aura shrunk to no more than a hand’s-width. A hitch in her pulse, a spike of urgency that she understands to be the Reader’s; Jodariel lunges forward, snatching the orb just before the lean grey Cur can get his claws around it, barely managing to dodge his outstretched aura as it roars past, licking at her heels. A sliver of space between the remaining Dissidents, there and gone again, disappearing and reappearing as they prowl, gathering themselves to strike, their Pyre reduced to mere cinder-shreds—
Now, says the Reader, low and breathy against her ear, and she plunges in among the guttering embers, and grazes the edge of eternity.)
* * * * *
Later, when the triumvirates have separated--Barker is surprisingly jovial for all his previous intensity, offering the gathered Nightwings little more than a leering grin and a perhaps-insincere word of congratulations, an assurance that next time will be different, though Jodariel suspects that his desire for victory still, in some ways, supersedes his love of sport, and that his pack will be thrashed severely for exposing him to the indignity of defeat once they have departed from this consecrated ground--and the raiments and Books have been removed and replaced within their holding-place, Jodariel steps out of the Blackwagon (grimacing, subtly, at the way it lurches and heaves once relieved of her weight) to find the Reader standing just beyond, arms folded, peering intently into the sky, one fingertip tracing the unseen ley-lines between the distant stars. She stands in silence for a moment more, relishing the touch of the cool night air upon her face, the soft flesh at the base of her throat, before she says, gruffly, “Where?”
“Mm,” says the Reader, hesitating for only a heartbeat, head cocked, before she splays her hand, nodding as if satisfied. “The Pit of Milithe again.”
“So be it. We set off at dawn.” The Reader inclines her head, as if in acknowledgment, before sidling closer, shoring her slight bulk against the side of the Blackwagon. “A decisive victory, today.”
Jodariel, leaned back with eyes lidded and arms folded against her chest, snorts softly. “I suppose it could have gone much the worse for us.”
That startles a low laugh from her. “You don’t give yourself nearly enough credit. I only wish I could have seen Barker’s face beneath the mask when you made that last leap.”
The image of Barker’s consternation—his lip curled back to expose a single canine, muzzle wrinkled in abject frustration, claws digging furrows in the crumbling soil—coaxes the ghost of a smile to Jodariel’s lips, though she schools her expression to stillness quickly enough, her eyes closed. A slow lapse into silence, though it is companionable enough, no tension to the set of the Reader’s shoulders, the hollow of Jodariel’s throat exposed. Still, the Reader seems to feel the weight of it keenly; she clears her throat, after a time, shifting a sandaled foot across the soil, and says, softly: “I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”
Jodariel merely grunts, cracking an eye. “Ask, then.”
Beat, and breath; then: “Do you want to be volunteered to return at the next Liberation Rite?”
The question should not surprise her, but it nonetheless feels as though she has been struck with the heel of a hard, unforgiving hand, somewhere below the curve of her ribcage, the breath summarily snatched from her lungs. She affords the Reader a long glance, expression inscrutable, says, only: “Why?”
“You have dependents,” the Reader replies, brow furrowed. “I’m certain they’d be thrilled to see you again. And—you’ve been trapped here for so long, I’d thought…”
That she should relish the opportunity to escape, to return to the Commonwealth, to once again stalk the Bloodborder, await the recession of her horns, her claws—to become human again, if the transformation can be reversed, in truth. Some small, distant part of her, some fragile thing, frayed nearly to nothing, feels that she should seize the opportunity, but that latent weariness only grows more profound at the notion. Perhaps she has grown too accustomed to the Downside, to eking out a simple existence, to struggling for her own survival, for her own sake. Perhaps she has merely grown tired of the Commonwealth and its endless bid for expansion, for ever-greater glory, the perpetual conflict that awaits her at the fringes of the Bloodborder. Regardless, this simple truth remains: she does not yet know if she wishes to return, if she will ever desire to, and, regardless, there remain to the Nightwings far more deserving candidates—Hedwyn, for one, though he would deny the opportunity, righteously stubborn as she is. I promised that we would all be free together, he would say, not unkindly, and I will not rest until it is so.
“It has been many years since I have seen those children,” Jodariel says, aloud, shaking herself from that brief reverie, conscious of the Reader’s gaze. “I’d given their care over to another long before my banishment. They would scarcely recognize me.”
“Hedwyn did,” comes the quiet rejoinder; Jodariel snorts softly, affording the Reader a brief shake of the head. “Hedwyn and I worked together for some years after he left my care,” she says. “It is different.”
“And I’ve no doubt that some few of the orphans you took in after him stalk the Bloodborder now,” the Reader says, at length. “They will hear stories of you throughout their careers. It will augment their memories...perhaps replace them.”
That assertion is—troubling, to say the least. Jodariel grunts before lapsing into contemplative silence, brow creased. It is not as though she has not considered the possibility—their parents were soldiers, their caretaker likely remained a soldier, and it stands to reason that they would aspire to emulate her, to take up the mantle when they came of age, to become outriders and skywatchers and—yes, perhaps even captains in their own right. The cycle of violence, without end. Dread a weight in the core of her, as cold and smooth as stone. There is concern in the Reader’s gaze, now, for the sweat beading upon her forehead, for the color that has drained from her, the shallowness of her breath, and, with an effortful, galvanizing shudder, Jodariel turns away, teeth set, the sinews of her neck standing in sharp relief.
“My work here is not yet done,” she says, voice smoke-rough. “Choose another to return.” Then, anticipating the Reader’s dismay, making an effort to gentle her voice: “So eager to see the back of me, are you, Reader?”
“Certainly not,” she retorts, and, to Jodariel’s surprise, she edges closer, resting a light, uncertain hand against the ridge of Jodariel’s shoulder. “If you do not yet wish to return, I would not force you. And our victory is not assured, anyway. I’d—only wished to encourage you to think on it.”
“I have thought,” Jodariel says, tersely, though she makes no effort to pull away, to move aside, to break contact; indeed, some of the tension is draining from her at the Reader’s touch, as those gentle fingers curl against her shoulderblade. “I have thought a great deal.”
They remain in this position for some moments afterward, mutually motionless—the Reader standing close enough now that Jodariel can feel the warmth she radiates, the irrepressible thrum of life—until the door of the Blackwagon creaks, faintly, heralding the arrival of one of their compatriots, and the Reader steps away, hand falling to her side, her face impassive, now, affecting calm. It is Hedwyn who emerges, with Ti’zo perched upon his shoulder, affording either of them a faint, quizzical smile in passing, a murmured all is well?
“Yes,” says the Reader, perhaps too hurriedly. “We have our destination, and—good work, earlier. Fine work. We won handily.”
“It seems so,” Hedwyn says, still smiling, and Ti’zo burbles agreement, but his eyes are appraising, now, his brow creased contemplatively. Jodariel returns his gaze coolly, expression smooth, inscrutable, while the Reader glances away, feigning interest in a discolored whorl of wood upon the side of the Blackwagon. Hedwyn shakes himself, then, briskly, before moving on—ostensibly to check the perimeter, secure it against any opportunistic predators (he would not, he has confessed, put it past Barker to launch an offensive when he is not beholden to the truce, attempt to eliminate the competition, exact revenge for those myriad embarrassments).
The Reader turns to her once more as Hedwyn disappears into the brittle scrub beyond their circle of firelight, laughter shivering in her throat. “He looked as though he’d caught us at something.”
Hadn’t he? The proximity had, admittedly, felt—intimate, perhaps unreasonably so. Few individuals have dared approach Jodariel, even in her previous life, and it has been some time since she has endured a friendly touch—she will tolerate brief contact, certainly, a good-natured nudge, an urgent hand upon the arm, perhaps even a fleeting embrace in moments of farewell, but she does not relish it. But the Reader’s touch is—comforting, in a way, frank and warm and without judgment, expecting nothing. Spots of color bloom high in her cheeks, unbidden, and Jodariel angles her face away, willing the heat to fade, for whatever has stirred within her to return to dormancy. Tenderness will only complicate matters; sentimentality will only make them prone to error, provide their opponents with a weakness, however minute, to exploit. Better, she thinks, to maintain some distance, to devote herself, wholly and without reservation, to the trials ahead. Better for all involved.
But the Reader is still regarding her (and her face is shadowed by the hood she insists upon wearing even among the Nightwings, even under cover of darkness, but her eyes are still visible, faintly luminous, as if retaining a touch of starshine), amusement supplanted by apprehension, one hand raised, as if debating the merits of reaching out, as if uncertain that her touch would be welcome (and it would be, says some great, yearning force within her, flaring briefly to life, Scribes, it would be). Jodariel inclines her head, shoulders loose, a touch of that warmth still suffusing her face, and the Reader appears to relax, lowering her hand once more. “I understand,” she says, suddenly, “that you aren’t ready to return. But I do intend to send all of you home. You deserve that much.”
Jodariel arches a brow. “’All of you.’ Not all of us, Reader?”
“You know it isn’t possible,” the Reader says—gently, and without outward bitterness. “You heard Sandalwood, I’ve read you the passages. Only those who participate in the Rites can return.”
“Hedwyn is adamant that—”
“Hedwyn’s aspirations are admirable.” Edge of impatience to her voice now, her shoulders squared. “But I don’t believe I’ll be able to slip past on a technicality. I’ve resigned myself to life here, truly. If it means the rest of you are permitted to go free, then it will have been worth it.” A brief shake of the head. “You’ve taught me how to survive well enough. When you’ve gone, I’ll be able to forage. I’ll likely have the Blackwagon, if Sandalwood doesn’t haul it home with him, to keep the Howlers away. I might,” she says, with a wry smile, “even have Ti’zo for companionship. He was born here. I don’t yet know if he’ll wish to leave.”
“You’ve given up,” Jodariel says, feeling—perturbed, really, and irritated, mystified, by that perturbation. It is the Reader’s choice to make, of course, but she has fought so fiercely for their futures—it is disquieting, in a way, to know that she is unwilling to fight for her own. Perhaps she, too, has tired of the ceaseless struggle, Jodariel reflects, brows drawn down. Perhaps she, too, craves the comparative simplicity of survival.
A soft exhalation, gravity playing at the edges of her mouth, though there is no irritation apparent in the set of her shoulders. “Perhaps I have. You must understand…there is no place for me in the Commonwealth.” She vents a soft, watery chuckle. “I have no family, few friends. No one, I think, who would miss me if I never returned.”
“You have a place with us,” Jodariel replies, voice soft, hoarse (with me, says that great, yearning thing, and the notion is—not altogether unpleasant; the Reader is strong, level-headed, a capable leader, her company pleasant, unobtrusive), and the smile the Reader affords her then is like the first spill of golden sunlight across the plains at the break of dawn, suffusing her with a languid warmth. “You are a Nightwing. Little could change that.”
“Thank you,” the Reader murmurs, and, after a brief hesitation, she extends a hand, rising onto her toes, reaching to cup Jodariel’s face, the calloused pad of her thumb just brushing the curve of Jodariel’s cheekbone. She starts, briefly, makes as if to pull away, expression wrenching, but, ultimately, she remains still, standing rigid, eyes lidded, as the Reader meets her gaze, holds it, eyes aglow with—affection, desire. Gratitude. “Jodi.”
Apprehension dissipating under the Reader’s touch, Jodariel lowers her head slightly, lip curled back to expose a single canine, venting a low, rumbling sound as the Reader grips the base of her horn with her other hand. “Hedwyn will return soon,” she says, fumbling for the words, tongue thick in her mouth, clumsy with the advent of this long-dormant want.
“Yes,” says the Reader, shifting closer, flush against her, Jodariel’s hand resting against the small of her back, now—and pulling her, with that characteristic gentleness, that strong, guiding hand, into a long and breathless kiss.