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“GET UP!”
The woman’s screech dragged her from the deepest, darkest depths of whatever dimension dreams live in. It could have dragged a demon from Hell. She tossed and turned in her bed, hoping to cling to the last hours of peaceful slumber. But no. The curtains were drawn, the sun was high, and time crept ever forward.
“Today is the day,” the woman reminded—again.
The tired reminder provoked only a roll and a groan as she nestled herself deeper into the blankets. People were always reminding her of things. Don’t slouch. Don’t speak. Remember to smile. Remember your temper... And the worst, and probably most frequent, remember your birth. That last one irritated her most of all because it was the one thing she couldn’t actively change. Postures, expressions, tempers, yes. But birth? That was a sentence. One with no chance of bail, no chance of probation. A sentence that ended only when your life did.
As were the events of today, she thought.
A sentence marked by a symbol on her wrist that, from one day to the next, appeared without warning, without remorse, without the simple passage of time that turns seeds into trees and hair grey. It simply appeared where it had not been before—where it wasn’t wanted. She should feel lucky, or proud, like most of the children her age would under such circumstances, but looking at it now, the pesky symbol happily nestled in the centre of her wrist, all she felt was sick.
She almost got away. The countdown to her birthday began only two weeks before, and her mother had been on edge about her mark—or lack thereof—ever since. After all, everyone in her family had been marked, so, why hadn’t she? And then, on the eve of her twelfth birthday, much to her mother’s triumph—and her own dismay—it came. Some would have rejoiced. To them, it was a mark of dignity, a mark that branded you special, divine even.
Not to her.
Instead, she sat alone in her bathroom crying, attempting all manner of painful ways to wipe, scratch, and eventually burn it off, but to no avail. To her, it was a branding, like the one given to cattle sent to slaughter.
She rolled over reluctantly. It made no sense to prolong the suffering. Out of the corner of her sleep-encrusted eye, she spied two others standing expectantly at the door. One bit his nails, the other bit her lip.
“You brought an entourage,” she mumbled in reply.
“You’re being difficult,” scolded the woman as she ripped the sheets from the bed. “You know how important today is.”
“Yes ma’am.” Her apathy shone through the words.
“Your mother is waiting.”
“Yes ma’am,” she repeated with a moan.
“And stop with the sarcasm,” the woman growled as she wagged a wicked finger.
The automatic “Yes ma’am” caught in her throat. She figured it wasn’t worth it to pick fights today, so she nodded silently instead, watching as the woman rummaged through her wardrobe on the other end of the room.
“You know, most children wouldn’t have slept a wink last night,” the woman added with a slight bitterness to her tone. “You should try showing a little more gratitude.”
She was right, of course. Most children would’ve been over the moon to be in her position. But again, she wasn’t most children.
“This will look lovely on you.” The woman turned back to her with dress in hand, looking positively chuffed at her choice. As she spoke, she paid more attention to the awful ruffled, yellow tulle dress than to the young woman who would be wearing it. “And please try to remember your behaviour is a reflection of the entire kingdom, Your Grace.”
She didn’t need to be reminded of what today meant. She couldn’t forget, no matter how hard she tried—which she did actively. It nagged at her, every hour of every day since that pesky symbol appeared. She opened her mouth, ready to release a defiant remark when the woman glowered at her again.
“Get dressed. Now.” The woman spoke with a finality to her tone that stopped any further replies dead in their tracks.
She didn’t bother to comment that the dress would sallow her skin. It would only lead to a lecture neither of them had time for. Besides, the other two were still waiting at the door to wash her and tie her hair in knots.
With a heavy heart and a sinking feeling in her stomach, she stumbled from her bed to the balcony. Staring down at the mounting festivities and then out beyond the kingdom towards the famed Middle Isle, the birthplace of all powers, her intestines bunched themselves into something the size of a pebble. At least by tomorrow, the nagging would be over. By tomorrow, there would be no more wondering or worrying. By tomorrow, she would have her powers.
***
THE FIRST FIREWORK to light up the night sky made even the sun look dim. It was as much political statement as it was celebratory commencement. Everything about this day was. The air vibrated with excitement, nervousness, and a touch of something magical. It whispered through the crowds in a language long forgotten yet ever-present, lurking just beyond the realm of sense. But this year, something else accompanied it. Something sinister tinged this magic, imperceptible, save to a lucky few, the kind of people who saw ominously moving logs for what they were: crocodiles.
Stone bridges bubbled up from the turquoise depths of the ocean on its command, connecting each nation to the one and only Middle Isle. These bewitching gates opened of their own volition, as they always had, and always would. Through them, separations fell flat. Five nations—earth, water, fire, air, light—became one people.
Thus, began Divination Day.
The Harri, people of earth, crossed through the first gate, one made of granite and embellished with flowers and iron ore. The Ur, people of water, owned the second gate, one of glimmering blue ice, lined with dagger-like icicles and intricate carvings of fish. The third gate belonged to the Argia, people of fire, and was made of glowing amber with a fiery lava core. Gate four belonged to the Zerua, people of air, and stood imposingly from a sea of low-lying clouds, made of the purest white marble. The fifth gate, that of the Izar, people of light, was a mass of moonstone and quartz.
Off in the distance stood a final gate that caused no awe and hummed with no life—a neglected gate. Shrouded in shadows and mystery, it blended seamlessly into the background. This sixth, now darkened, moss-covered gate stood abandoned, reclaimed by nature like a monument to a long-forgotten past. But left to their own devices, forgotten pasts have a curious way of repeating themselves. Wrapped in the mounting joy of the festivities, not a soul paid notice as the sixth and “forever sealed” gate budged.
The crowds climbed into the ancient amphitheatre, awaiting the night’s festivities. This year’s lucky twelve-year-olds trembled on the edges of the stage, waiting patiently for their names to be called off the list. Energy radiated from some and only fluttered in others, but no matter. A lot or a little still meant special, chosen. The mark on their wrists still branded them divine.
Tonight, they would become kanala, wielders of one of the six powers that governed Visanthe. Tonight, the magic claimed them.
Amidst the commotion, five leaders took their respective spots around a six-pointed star in the centre of the amphitheatre. At the heart of the star stood a final pedestal holding six gold rings, each with an engraving of its nation’s emblem: a leaf for earth, a droplet for water, a flame for fire, a cloud for air, a star for light, and circle for something none remembered but all feared.
A great fire rimmed the arena, lighting it up like an earthbound sun. At the stroke of midnight, and not a moment sooner, the proceedings began.
“We welcome you, one and all, to the 775th annual Ring Divination Ceremony,” boomed the seasoned voice of the Harri leader. He clapped his stubby hands together, sending a rippling echo through the arena. The crowd stifled cheers and held their tongues. The voice had come from a man short and sturdy. He stood firm like a boulder, stroking a salt and pepper beard with sun-browned hands. His different coloured eyes—one moss-green, the other a vibrant, almost glowing jade—looked proudly out at his people.
“On this day, our children become kanala,” spoke a voice as cold as the one who wielded it. With frosty white dreadlocks hanging from her head and skin so dark it glowed blue, the queen of the Ur looked like an ice sculpture, only twice as firm and infinitely more cold. She jabbed a sharpened sceptre into the stone floor, unmoved by the festivities. Her frost blue eyes scanned the crowds like a polar bear out for its next prey.
“This year we are proud to divine twenty children, originating from each of our five nations,” chimed a voice as sweet and rich as fine golden honey. The words left her delicate lips like notes strummed on harps by angels. The air around her was warm like the afternoon sun. Golden curls bounced just above her broad shoulders, and eyes that sparkled like crystallised amber glowed against her sand-coloured skin. Framing her figure was a cape of delicate white fire. The queen of the Argia brandished a dazzling smile, drawing attention to a steady face, rather than the stream of flames she fidgeted with between her fingers.
“Blessed be, spirit, he who brings light to our darkness, air to our lungs, blood to our bodies, fire to our hearts, and flesh to our bones. Welcome, Iturri,” said a voice that rolled like thunder to the heavens above. The king of the Zerua coughed from behind a fluffy white beard. He stroked it lightly as his cloudy grey eyes scanned the amphitheatre, stopping on the face of each child apologetically. “After today, you will become channels for one of the six powers that govern our land. You will be bound to them, and them to you.”
“Honour them. Respect them. And they too shall do the same,” said the final leader. Her delicate voice seemed to resonate deep within the souls of all who heard it, as if she were speaking to a light somewhere far beneath the skin. Though youthful in appearance, legend said she—-princess of light, leader of the Izar—-was as old as time itself, and somewhere in time, gravity lost its charm over her. Blinding white waves of hair hovered around her petite body. Two especially wide sapphire blue eyes sat perfectly nestled in her ageless, caramel skin. “But be warned. Iturri, and Iturri alone, chooses its host and its form. From the moment it settles, there is no turning back.”
Each year it was the same speech, yet each year it garnered more applause. Possibly because the people to which it referred were now a small minority. The kanala, wielders of power, had steadily been decreasing for years, but never had the number been so low. Compared to last year’s two hundred and thirty-seven divined, this year’s twenty was nothing more than a sick joke. One more reason why this Divination Day felt wrong.
Silence fell over the crowd as the first child stepped up to the platform. One by one, she placed each ring on her middle finger before waiting patiently for her judgement.
Suddenly, the girl let out a shriek. The Zerua ring began to glow and burn. An energy like no other surged through her spine, turning her moss green pupils a cloudy grey. The ring grew tighter and tighter until it had sunk into her skin completely, leaving a plum-coloured bruise in its wake. In the centre of the bruise was a small, almost invisible cloud shape. The other, once strong, metal rings broke off as if made of nothing more than sugar. Under her feet, the floor began to move outwards to one of the points of the star.
“Welcome, my child,” said the elderly man with the fluffy white beard in a tone of practised melancholic monotony as he baptised her with a sprinkling of cloud dust. She bowed politely and joined her new cycle, gently rubbing the new scar on her finger.
The next child followed suit, stepping up to the platform and placing the rings onto his finger. This time the surge was less prominent, his pupils remained a light blue, and the floor beneath his feet shifted to the leader of his home cycle.
“Welcome home,” said the icy Ur leader. She wasn’t the smiling kind. The most she could muster was a slight lift to the side of her mouth, exposing teeth like glowing pearls against a crushing ocean of darkness. But the attempted smile wasn’t for him. Once again, it was political. Her nation gained a kanala, and with it, power. She showered him with a light ocean mist and let him run back proudly to his parents.
By the later hours of early morning, nineteen children had been divined. After each, tumultuous applause, and of course some tears. But now it was time for the last child. The usual respectful silence before each child was replaced by murmurs and confusion as the last child took her place on the platform. Some were surprised to see their rumours confirmed, others were just surprised. The child that stood nervously before them on the star-shaped platform was none other than the young Argia princess.
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SHE STARED OUT BLANKLY at the sea of gossiping people, intimately aware of their whispered comments and judgmental glares. She was the first royal to be divined in almost three decades, and it seemed people had forgotten the precariousness of such a situation. Her mother claimed there was nothing to worry about, that their blood was always divined Argia, but not even her mother could deny the eerie feeling of wrongness that accompanied this divination.
Her mother watched from the Argia pedestal, fidgeting with a stream of flames between her fingers, a charming smile plastered across her face. If her mother was nervous, she hid it well. She was not gifted such grace and poise. The pair of them, last heirs to the house of Orrin, true leaders of the Argia, were as different in appearance and mannerisms as night and day.
Staring up at her mother’s eager face, she couldn’t help but recoil. Standing before the massive crowd, their eyes held her captive, their tentative scowls restricted her breath. Sounds blurred as they hit her ears. Dizziness took over. Her eyes lost their focus... and distance. Too much distance... from the stage... from her body...
She was surrounded, and yet, so alone.
With a deep breath, she waited for the sensation to pass, knowing she couldn’t falter, when, through the spell, a single face took shape. This face which had never shown any expression other than blank disinterest now looked unequivocally sad. The leader of the Izar tilted her head, scrutinising the Argia princess with a sobering frown. Her floating hair seemed to droop, as if gravity had regained its hold on her.
Unlike the others—the stubborn Harri lord who was said to have once cracked a mountain with a single fist and always smelt of sandalwood, the icy queen of the Ur who froze the hearts of traitors and drowned her foes on dry land, the quiet king of the Zerua who hovered rather than walked and reshaped clouds for her on boring political visits—she knew nothing of the Izar leader. Her mother had once remarked that being so old meant nothing fazed her, but it didn’t seem that way now. Now, she looked worried, and the young princess couldn’t help thinking if the Izar ruler was worried, she should be too. Suppose it was all a mistake, her being here...
Iturri doesn’t make mistakes, she thought. Only messes.
A great boom brought the world back into focus. Reality cut in like a strike of lightning. The Harri leader must have clapped again.
Before her, the rings had appeared. Around her, the crowd waited. Inside her, something tensed.
The young princess hesitated momentarily before sliding all six rings onto her finger. The world held its breath as everyone watched in nervous anticipation...
