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Last Excerpt Monday I baffled, weirded out, and possibly tantalized readers with the creepy prologue to one of my many novels-in-progress. A fantasy novel with romantic elements, this story is founded on ancient medallion magic and features a young heroine who is married to a foreign lord against her will and learns that her worst enemy may be the only man she can trust. (Or something like that. I’ve still not mastered the logline to this story.)
CHAPTER ONE
As the shamans chanted, Taria tried not to choke on the stench of burning flesh. The flames beckoned with a promise of warmth, but these fires offered no comfort against the cold. They were funeral pyres, so Taria shied away so the spirits of the Ticanee dead could escape to a better place. A much better place.
She watched her tribesmen sway in grief beneath the totem poles, closing their eyes against every gust of frigid wind. But Taria’s eyes remained open, her blue gaze following the pillar of soot up into the winter sky. Overhead, Republic pilots held their griffon mounts in tight military formation on the wind. From so far away, the wings of the great creatures looked tattered and frayed, and she could barely see the men that rode them. She could not imagine the courage it would take to climb upon such a beast’s back and take to the skies, especially since, in Taria’s experience, nothing good ever came from above.
There was little chance of another attack today, but these patrols were supposed to be reassuring in the aftermath of Shamibelian raids. Unfortunately, the spectacle of the giant screeching birds in the sky made Taria’s people feel like carrion left for vultures. To make matters worse, the funeral was nearly over and the Oshta still was not here.
If Taria wore the medallion, she would never let her people mourn alone. But the medallion was not hers. She was not the Oshta–not yet–so she said a silent prayer to the totems that her father would come see the dead rendered to ash. He had to come for the people, and he had to come for her too, because Taria had something to tell him and she wasn’t sure how much longer her courage would hold.
The shamans had finished their chanting over the pyres, and now All-Seeing Urtenia hobbled towards Taria with rattling bone beads in one hand and a walking stick in the other. The gnarled old woman was wrapped so tightly in wolf-pelts that only her three eyes were showing—the two she was born with, and the one tattooed in the middle of her forehead. “Daughter of my Oshta,” she said. “Trouble is coming in the shape of a boy.”
Taria followed the old woman’s gaze to where the dirty haffie boy crouched in the shadows of the snow-capped totem poles. He was crying and Taria knew he wept for his dead mother—a mother who had never openly acknowledged him for he was the get of a Shamibelian raider and horribly deformed.
With the boy’s orange-tinted skin and ghastly horns Samar was an outcast and, as such, banned from the tribal meeting grounds. Nonetheless, the boy’s eyes pleaded with Taria to let him approach his mother’s pyre.
“Keep him away,” Taria sighed. It wasn’t that her heart didn’t break for the boy. It wasn’t even because he was monstrous. It was because she was sure he would throw himself onto the pyre. He had the death-yearning look—a look Taria knew too well. It was in the downcast eyes of the demoralized warriors, the false smiles of the brothel girls, and the gaunt faces of starving children.
“One day, you’ll make them a brighter future,” the wind whispered.
Taria knew it was the medallion that spoke from afar, but she kept silent because the last time she admitted the wind whispered to her, her father had whipped her bloody. And as she remembered this, the longhouse door swung open.
Taria’s father emerged wearing his ceremonial loincloth, which left his legs bare to the cold. His flame-red hair stood in a topknot, secured with carved bones of creatures he’d killed. Around his neck hung the sacred clan medallion, which caught the light of the pyres, and sparkled with its ancient magic. Passed from generation to generation, the medallion held all the memories of her people. Taria worried that soon, it might be the only thing left of the Ticanee.
It was All-Seeing Urtenia who approached the Oshta first. The old woman was thick as an oak and her voice scratched like dried leaves. Everyone leaned in to hear. “Oshta, we thank you for seeing off the departing dead. The raiders stole some children, and one of our huntresses. But they came on griffon back. We couldn’t follow their trail.”
There were gaunt hollows under the Oshta’s far-away eyes and he only grunted in reply, so the old woman straightened, “Oshta, when will our Firan allies let us out of this stone cage? Our dried meat won’t last the winter.”
Taria’s father glanced at the stone wall, rock piled upon rock towards the sky, then spit in the snow. “The Firans say it’s too dangerous to leave the city walls until their soldiers drive off the raiders. In truth, they just don’t want us to hunt on their land. So much for citizenship in their precious Republic.”
Taria’s father always blamed the Firans for everything. Every time he did, it made Taria’s stomach twist because her mother was Firan; he had taken a Firan wife to cement the alliance he now condemned, so Taria knew that he condemned her too.
Without warning, the Oshta turned, and retreated back towards the longhouse from whence he’d come. Taria was startled; she thought he might offer some words of comfort, some wisdom for the Ticanee.
“Wait!” Taria fingered the beads on her dress like worry stones. Urtenia seemed to sense Taria’s unease and gave her a reassuring smile. The elders were always kind because they said her unnatural blue eyes were a mark of favor by the totems. Taria didn’t believe that, but she was grateful for their support now more than ever. “Father, I’ve something to tell you.”
The Oshta turned, glaring at Taria as she came forward. When angry, the Oshta swung the lash without mercy; Taria’s back was welted from a beating not two nights ago. But she feared some things more than she feared her father. Finding her nerve, Taria said, “Oshta, I’ve known seventeen winters and it’s time for my Rite of Passage. I’ve chosen my tattoo and vocation.”
His face was impassive. “And what have you chosen?”
“I want to join the city garrison.”
Taria hadn’t been expecting anyone to cheer her decision, but she was stunned by the silence. An elder wheezed, but no one spoke. Only the birds overhead cried. Snow began to fall.
And Taria’s heart pounded in her own ears.
Her father was angry; very angry. The scar on his neck crimsoned beneath the tattoos on his face. “You want to become a Republic Guard? A Firan soldier?”
Taria nodded. “Yes. And I want their insignia inked on me in our tradition.”
His face went hard, his mouth a mean gash. “I always knew your Firan blood would out. You’ll abandon your people for a shiny insignia and the coins that come with it.”
Taria steadied herself. “No. I’m only doing this because…since the war, our people have dwindled. I know. I’ve counted. We suffer, but in spite of facing the same enemy, the Firans prosper. We have to be more like them to survive. I’m the daughter of the Oshta. I should set the example.”
Taria knew her sentiments were deeply unpopular. The Firans, with their legions and stone cities, with their bigotry and complicated laws, were often thought more as oppressors than allies. So it was not surprising that the crowd grumbled at Taria’s words, and her father scowled. “You want to lend your spear to guarding this foreign city?”
Taria had practiced what she was going to say a hundred times, but it was so much harder now. “This is our city now too. And citizenship in the Firan Republic is a valuable thing. It gives us rights; if we make the most of it, it can give us power.”
Her father cut her off. “Firans sneer at us. They think we’re filthy refugees.”
“They do. That’s why I want to join the guard. If we fight along side of them, they’ll know we aren’t helpless beggars. When they think of us as partners, things will change for us.”
The Oshta waved a dismissive hand. “Nothing will change.”
She shouldn’t argue with her father, she knew. He was the Oshta and she was embarrassing him in front of the Ticanee, but if she didn’t speak up now, who would? “Things must change, Oshta. I want to protect our new home.”
“This is not our home!” her father shouted.
There was no avoiding confrontation now. “I’m a woman grown. You can’t keep denying me my Rite of Passage year after year.”
If the Oshta was angry before, now he was furious. He wanted to beat her, but the medallion was fighting him. She could sense it in the way he grasped the golden disc as if wrestling with it. Taria’s father was only ever truly tempered by the medallion. It was supposed to guide him and his rule, but somehow, Taria knew it protected her, so she pressed on. “So then, I ask you, Oshta, before all the people. Will you forbid me my chosen mark and vocation?”
She had him now as surely as if she’d laid a snare for a fox. He could not refuse her again with the shamans as witness—not without giving good cause why she must stay a child another year. And All-Seeing Urtenia seemed to know just the trap Taria had laid. “She’s a clever girl,” the old woman chuckled. “The wolf totem is strong in her.”
The Oshta gave Urtenia a poisonous glance and it was several moments before anyone dared to speak. “I won’t forbid it,” her father finally said. “But you need armor to join the guard.”
“I’ve saved enough for leather armor,” Taria said quickly. “If you loan me a few stenis, I’d have enough to buy bronze—”
“Not a single coin,” the Oshta interrupted.
Then he abruptly turned and slammed into the longhouse, leaving Taria standing in the snow. Recovering from the shock of it, Taria chased after him. She found the door bolted against her. “Let me in!”
But the door stayed latched. There were no windows in the longhouse, so Taria could only listen to her parents argue. Inside she heard her father kicking things in his rage. Meanwhile, freezing needles pricked her skin and Taria pounded on the door. Icy water seeped into her boots, but she dared not complain because her people went barefoot and in rags except for the shamans and the girls who sold themselves at the brothels. “Oshta, it’s starting to rain ice!”
“Then you’d best find shelter,” her father shouted. “Because you won’t sleep here tonight.”
Fear made the hairs on the back of Taria’s neck bristle.
He couldn’t mean to leave her alone out here without even a blanket. Not even her father would do that, would he? Would the medallion let him? Taria counted five of her own heartbeats before she spoke. “You’re locking me outside?”
“A dose of hardship will make you remember what it means to be Ticanee. Maybe it’ll make you grateful for your bedroll, instead of longing for the soft beds of the Firan barracks.”
“Enough.” It was her mother’s voice. “She’ll freeze to death.”
“Let this be her Rite of Passage then,” her father thundered in reply. “If she survives the night, she can have her tattoo. She says she’s an adult now. So, let her prove it!”
The fiery blood of Taria’s Ticanee heritage rushed to her face. The uncontrolled emotions took her by surprise. Fury rushed past her ears like the screech of a bird and she slammed the butt of her spear against the door. “Gods and Totems, I’ll prove it then!”
Taria bounded into the snow and strode past the dying fires, unsure of where she was going. She couldn’t stay with the Ticanee; if they sheltered her, there would be retribution from her father. So Taria cut through a stand of snow-laced trees towards the gate that enclosed her people from the rest of the city, knowing she’d have to find refuge somewhere in the sprawling mass of brick and marble that made up the Firan capital. Meanwhile, her anger would have to keep her warm, and it burned like an inner fire. Hopefully it would light a path for her too, because even without the freezing rain, it was getting dark.
Behind her someone called through the sleet. “Taria!”
Taria turned to see her little brother. His topknot bounced from side to side as he splashed through the slush to catch up, and Taria was suddenly seized by guilt and fear. “Did the Oshta lock you out too?”
“No.” Vahlon took a moment to catch his breath. “Come back to the longhouse. Mother changed his mind.”
But Taria’s temper was too high. “I haven’t changed mine.”
“Come back before he kicks you out for good,” Vahlon said.
“Let him.” Taria clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering. “I hate him.”
Vahlon’s eyes widened. “But you can’t hate him. He’s the Oshta.”
“He hates me, though, doesn’t he?” Taria began walking again. This fire that flowed through her veins was what made Ticanee warriors so brave. It also lured them to foolish mistakes like the one she was probably making now. Taria knew that, but couldn’t tamp it down.
“You shouldn’t have asked in front of the people,” Vahlon argued. “You forced him to consent!”
Taria pushed evergreen boughs out of her way as if the trees were enemy soldiers blocking her path. “I couldn’t let him refuse me again this year. We’re the last of the Ticanee and the people need to know that we don’t have to wait to die. We can do something, each of us, to change our lot.”
Vahlon shivered. “But father accepts our fate.”
“Well, I don’t accept it,” Taria said, walking faster.
Vahlon tried to keep up, but Taria’s legs were longer. “You’re really not coming back?”
Her brother sounded frightened to be alone in the longhouse with their father and Taria didn’t blame him. The Oshta might punish her brother to get back at her. That thought softened Taria’s resolve. And then of course, there was her certain knowledge that she could not willingly leave the medallion. “I won’t go back tonight, anyway. He said if I survived the night–”
“But-but,” Vahlon stuttered through chattering teeth. “It’s bitter cold. Where will you sleep? You aren’t…like the other girls.”
He meant that she was the Oshta’s daughter. She couldn’t trade her virtue for survival the way other girls did. “You’re right. I’m heir to the medallion and I can take care of myself.”
Proud talk, but the fact remained that she had nowhere to go. As her brother reluctantly left her standing there in the sleet, Taria told herself that she’d rather freeze to death than apologize to her father. Wouldn’t he be sorry when they found her lifeless body on the snow? That would show him!
She imagined the Oshta grieving beside her body on the pyre, telling her how much he regretted his unkindness…but that was the death yearning. Taria shook it off, and chastised herself for even thinking about dying from pride while her people died at the hands of enemy raiders, and from crueler killers, like hunger and sickness. Better to turn back; better to surrender her pride and ask her father’s forgiveness.
But as Taria contemplated humbling herself, she heard the fading screech of a griffon overhead—half-cat, half-bird. A giant feather floated down and landed sodden at her feet. Suddenly she knew exactly where to go. Ticanee totems lived outside, carved on ancient poles, but her mother was a priestess of the Firan bird goddess. And that goddess had a temple with a fire.
If she could find her way to the Temple, she might yet keep both her pride and her life this cold night.
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