Chapter Nineteen

“Wake up!”

Tara groaned, closing her eyes against the intrusion upon her rest. The journey had been long, and she deserved this sleep. Besides, the bed she lay upon felt so... there was no word either in Andalonian or Pescari for the comfort she experienced. Her people may have lived a life of poverty upon the Steppes of Cinder but lived extravagantly in New Weston. She pulled her pillow closer and began to doze more deeply.

“I said wake up!” the voice commanded.

She opened her eyes drowsily, focusing slowly on her mother looming over her bed, holding a lantern and looking very stern. “How early is it?” Tara demanded. No light flooded the room.

“Felicima will rise soon, and we’ve work to do as Pescari.”

Tara rolled over, turning her back on the disruption. “Nice try,” she said, “Pescari only work under sight of your goddess. Even I know that!”

“You have much more to learn of our ways,” Flaya insisted, “and today is your first lesson. Arise, and demonstrate to Felicima your subservience!”

Tara breathed deeply, then let it out with a huff. This was her mother’s world, not hers, but she had made a promise. Tossing the blanket, she swung her feet over the side. “Leave so I may dress,” she demanded.

“I’ve seen you many times. Just dress modestly so Felicima is honored.” Flaya stormed from her room.

“Modestly?” Tara muttered. “I’ve been modest my entire life.” She rose, pulling on the buckskins she’d always worn. No matter her desire to be more Andalonian, she obeyed her mother. She loved her, even if they disagreed.

Flaya waited downstairs with two leather satchels, thrusting the heavier of the two into her daughter’s hand before leading her outside. The girl followed without checking its contents.

The humidity clung to the night, and the women could almost taste the moisture. The stars had not yet faded, and Tara noticed how the night sky was the exact same as it had been over her home in Loganshire. Only, there was more of it without mountains. Off in the far distance, she noticed a faint glow on the western horizon.

“That’s the caldera,” Flaya explained, “where Felicima descends each night for slumber. When I was a girl living on the steppes, and before we crossed the Forbidden Waste, it was close enough I could feel the heat of her fire. It’s also where we interred our warriors.”

“But not anymore?”

“The journey is still made across the Forbidden Waste, but only the bravest make it. It takes several days and there is little food and no water.”

“What of my father? Where was he laid to rest?”

“Taros’ body was carried to the caldera by your great uncle, carrying only a single waterskin and surviving on whatever he could find along the way.”

“So, Father was honored,” Tara observed. “Are all shappans honored so?”

“No. If a shappan falls in Shapalote, the new shappan decides.”

“What of his family?”

“They are shunned and their wives sent to the fireside, only their children can return to the village, but that is only after their naming ritual. Taros was like that. His father fell in Shapalote to Cornin, a cruel warrior who decreed the body lay upon the steppes to be consumed by carrion.”

“How awful.”

“It was to prove a point, but even then, Taros showed defiance. He eventually retrieved his father’s body and committed it to the caldera.”

“On his own?” Tara was shocked. “How old was he?”

“At the time he had not yet had his ceremony and only knew thirteen summers. He earned his name then and knew its meaning till the day he died.”

“What did it mean?”

“Each Pescari name holds different meaning for the bearer,” Flaya explained. “Yours I know, but it shall not be revealed until you are ready.”

“How do you know mine, if it has not been revealed to me?”

“It is my duty as your family to tell you when the time comes, or your great uncle’s if I do not survive to see the day.”

“So, he knows as well?”

“Yes, and also Eusari and two others who were present when it was earned.”

Tara fell silent then, wondering how and when she may have had time to earn her name. Her life so far had always been uneventful, boring, and even stifling dull at times.

The pair walked until they reached the far eastern edge of the city. Without a city wall, Tara expected the buildings to merely end and the prairie begin. But strangely, it withered instead. The tall buildings, sleek and smoothly black, lowered by an entire story each row until finally only tiny hovels remained. Beyond those, simple structures of animal skins stretched over tent poles. This village beyond the city was already awake, with women and children drawing water from a well and some baking bread in massive ovens. A middle aged man on crutches limped by, dragging a mishappen foot along the reddish dirt of the street.

“Where are we?” Tara demanded. “Why does Teot allow poverty when the rest of the city stands strong?”

“This is the fireside, where the shunned, lame, and lazy are sent. They are the first Felicima looks upon, fooling her into believing we are all wretched in hopes she turns her attention away before passing over the strongest.”

“So the western side of the city…” Tara remembered the magnificent structures along the shoreline and the tremendous harbor, “is where the wealthy like Teot reside. That’s why the entire city seemed so splendid!”

“Yes. Our strength resides there, while our weakest remains here. The rest are in between. That is the way of it, and how it must be.”

“Mother,” Tara asked quietly, “why are we here? Have we been shunned?”

“Though my husband was a shappan, he died honorably in battle so that others would live. I am one of the few widows to walk the city freely. No, we are here to meet with another whose father faced a different fate. Wait here.” Flaya stepped away, conversing quietly with a woman lugging waterskins. Her eyes never met Tara’s mother’s and stared at the ground while they talked. After a brief exchange, a finger pointed down the way toward a single home.

“Come,” Flaya commanded, and Tara hurried to catch up. The tent flap was closed, but the soft scent of a cooking fire wafted out from within. “Open and attend to visitors,” she told the occupants.

“Who demands this?” an older woman demanded from the other side.

“Flaya, wife of Taros, the slayer of Cornin.”

Shuffling and movement signaled someone hurrying to open the flap. It flew aside and a young man not much older than Tara stared out with wide eyes. Beyond him an old woman lay upon furs while a young girl fed her porridge.

“Forgive me for not standing and bowing, but I’ve struggled to do either for many years, granddaughter of Daska,” the elder said smugly.

“I am not here for homage, Kailani, I am here with gifts.” Flaya took the satchel from Tara and handed both to the young man.

“And you journeyed under cover of nighttime so as not to offend Felicima. Such a consummate believer, even when I lay condemned to die in poverty for the disgrace of my husband. What is it you want with a firesider, Flaya, wife of Taros? Will gifts of rich foods and clean water clear your conscience enough to sleep as soundly as Felicima? Why do you pity me?”

Flaya stood her ground stoically. The insults, if they bothered her at all, flew by without even a flinch.

“Well?” Kailani demanded. “Why are you here? Hurry, before Felicima sees you among the weak and discarded.”

“If you shut your ancient mouth long enough for me to speak, you will know!” Flaya finally snapped.

“Ah, your temper’s as fiery as your husband’s, I see,” Kailani said with smiling victory.

“I said I bring you gifts. The gift I bring you is also a favor to me.”

“Why would I grant you any favor?”

Flaya placed a hand on Tara’s back and shoved her forward. “This is my daughter, Tara, who knows nothing of Pescari ways.”

“The daughter of Taros?” Kailani laughed hysterically. “How is she a gift?”

“She is not my gift. I bring you both her ignorance and also some insolence. I think you will enjoy both with equal measure, as it is a reflection upon my failure as a mother. Succeed where I did not by teaching her what it truly is to be Pescari, and how one outcome can topple a queen.”

Kailani paused, nodding and considering. “Your gift is humility, coming to me with this task. You honor me, offering an old woman the opportunity to be seen and heard by more than just Felicima. I understand this task and will do it willingly.”

“Wait,” Tara exclaimed, filling with understanding and suddenly resenting her mother. “You won’t train me yourself?” she demanded of Flaya.

“No. Soon your great uncle will test you, so you may discover the meaning of your name. Learn what you can from Kailani. I will return for you in a few weeks to test you myself.” With that, Flaya turned from the room and departed, hurrying down the dirt road toward the waiting stone of the city.

“Come here,” Kailani said with a voice reeking of command. “My eyes are weak and I do not wish to strain.”

Tara complied, stepping forward and closer to the old woman, trembling slightly under appraising eyes and feeling her skin crawl with a mixture of anger and fear.

“Do you know who I am?”

“No. I do not,” Tara admitted.

“I am the widow of the shappan your father murdered. Do you know how he did it? What weapon he used to kill my husband?”

“No.”

“It was an ordinary day. The goddess had risen, the air had not yet warmed, and none of us suspected her wrath would unleash.” The old woman paused, wincing at some distant memory. “Have you ever seen a fumarole form or even its fire and steam belch from the ground?” she finally asked.

Tara shook her head that she had not.

“Pray you never do,” the woman snapped, then collected her anger and proceeded. “It rose up in the middle of the village, just at the division between us and the firesiders. Many perished that day under Felicima’s wrath, but we never understood the reason for her anger. That is, until your father returned from his morning hunt.” The woman paused in telling the story, groaning as she sat up. The girl attending her placed a rolled fur behind her back. “Taros defied Cornin and ran into the flames to find his mother. Lynette had earned her shunning and was to be left to die on the fireside as our custom prescribes. But he soon emerged with her in his arms, stepping out of the flame, untouched and unaffected by the heat. I watched as tongues of flame licked at his skin, but it did not blister or peel as it should.”

“He drew the heat?” Tara asked with amazement. “I saw Teot absorb the same way.”

“He stole it!” the woman wailed. “It did not belong to him! He robbed the goddess of her power, tricking my husband into Shapalote. Had Cornin known your father would cheat, he would have demanded a different set of rules. But how could he have? The battle ended as soon as it began with my husband, the most powerful warrior among the Pescari, burned to ashes and left to blow across the Steppes of Cinder.”

“I...” Tara stammered. She had no way of knowing any of this. Flaya had certainly left out many details. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“He marched us here, nearly destroying us with his anger, then later melted the Andalonian city into molten rock.”

Tara tried to open her mouth, but the multitude of questions dueled in her mind. She did not know which she should ask first if any. Kailani spared her from trying.

“What do you know of our ways?” the old woman demanded.

“Not much.”

“Then your training begins today. Go fill those waterskins in full view of the rising Felicima, so she may know you as a firesider and begin her full judgement.”

The young man handed her four waterskins, his eyes, once friendly and welcoming, were now filled with anger and avoided her own. Tara pushed the tent flap and scurried toward the well she had passed along the way. By the length of her shadow, she knew Felicima stared at her back appraisingly. The girl inside the budding woman wept.