“Until tomorrow, then.” I squeeze my mother’s hand on the way past the throne, but she doesn’t return my gesture, her fingers cold and lifeless in my hand, like her ghost is already gone. I pause, waiting for Chanísh and the priest to leave. Then I kneel before her. “It doesn’t have to be this way.”
“Itisthis way.” Her voice does not have the rasp of grief. It is hard and cold like the stones under my knees. Like the light of distant stars in the black of night. “You’ll understand when you find your Alara, Oljin.”
“It may be Chanísh,” I remind her.
“It will be if you don’t seek your mate. Don’t hide from your fate in the palace. Alioth’s favor cuts deeper than any knife.” Her eyes shutter, and I know I will hear no more from her lips. I take her point, though. The Frathiks can wait another day if it means Irra finally has a queen.
Outside the throne room, Pravil’s waiting for me. He and I apprenticed to the same warrior when we were greenlings, and I trust him with my life. Good friend that he is, he does not press me for details of the meeting.
Some consider him unsuitable to associate with the future Jara because of his coarse upbringing in the outlands. It’s true he lacks the formal education I received, but he has a special type of intelligence. Maybe he learned it tracking saidal though the tall grasses, watching for every twitch and rustle, or maybeit is something goddess-given, but Pravil has the ability to see hidden motives. He can predict movements others can’t see.
He is loyal, too, but not mindlessly. I had to earn it. And he isn’t afraid to break the rules when it is called for, something I cannot do because of my position. These are useful attributes for a future-Jara’s advisor, even if not for a future-Jara’s friend.
“Let’s go somewhere,” I say. We head down the narrow, winding streets that hug the steep cliff on which our city is built, high above the grasslands that sustained our ancestors.
When we reach the main road, he asks, “Pleasure house or pits?”
“You know my answer.” I’d prefer the archives. The rows of scrolls, the quiet. Knowledge at my fingertips.
Pravil snorts. “I don’t, in fact. Chanísh would choose the pleasure house. I would choose the pits. You never choose. But my guess is you’ve had enough fighting for the day.”
“Observant, as always.” He never misses anything. He knows my weaknesses, another reason why he will advise me when I rule.IfI rule. “Not to mention, I doubt I’ll find my queen on the other end of a blade.”
“If only. You might have to fight me for her if you found a warrior queen.” Pravil flashes the points of his teeth at me, his skin’s faint blue hue letting me know he’s only joking.
“Who knows, maybe Alioth will smile on you instead of me. Maybe that’s what’s taking her so long.”
He jostles my shoulder as his reply, like he’s demonstrating his roughness, his unsuitability.
“It happened before,” I remind him. “Jara Vennin was fromthe outlands.”
“Never heard of him,” Pravil says. Of course he hasn’t. Jara Vennin ruled ten generations ago. I doubt even Chanísh knows the name. Only scholars spend that much time reading the scrolls. Scholars and me.
I’ve always loved our history. Sometimes I wish I was born in another time, without the trappings of the palace and the priesthood casting shadows on me.
“You still haven’t answered.” Pravil’s steps slow as we reach and pass the entrance to the cavern that houses the largest fighting pits on Irra. He wants to go inside and watch the fights, I can tell. And why shouldn’t he? He’s not the one who is tasked with the impossible.
“Go ahead,” I urge him. I hand him my coin pouch. “Place a few bets for me. I must do my duty and sniff every female in Gren’Irra, or the priests will nag me even more tomorrow.”
He takes it, grinning as the coins time together. “When you’re sick of sniffing, come find me to collect your winnings.”
“You’re so certain you will win?”
“I have a talent for picking winners,” he says, his face suddenly serious. “Go find your queen.”
I let my skin briefly flood green to thank him for his faith in me. For his loyalty. I couldn’t ask that of anyone else on Irra, not even my own brother.
Bracing myself for a dull afternoon, I wander the cliffs. Necks bend everywhere I go as people recognize the white, embroidered sveli that marks me as Honhura’s son. A few parents push their daughters out to greet me, and even I can’t help the hope that rises in me each time a new pair of eyes meets mine.
My senses are drawn by some, but is my heart? Many smell of herbs and flowers and other pretty things. Is that the scentmy father recognized when he met my mother and knew she was his queen? I wish I could ask him.
I take the names of the best-smelling candidates to give to the priests. My feet are sore from the stones by the time I reach the bottom of the cliffs. Before I jog up the zigzagging streets to rejoin Pravil, I take a few minutes to rest near the spaceport that stretches out a cleared area of the flat grasslands, watching the ships kick up dust as they take off and land.
My father opened up Irra to trade with other species when I was a soft-clawed greenling, but space travel still looks like magic to me, these hunks of metal flying through the air like birds. Irrans do not possess such technology, nor do we wish to spend our time toiling to produce it.
But I can’t deny the appeal of flying, nor the appeal of the coin it produces when we sell our epylium ore to other species who need it. It’s no longer rare to see all kinds of beings mingling in our markets, bringing new flavors to our food and new languages to our ears. Some Irrans frown on mixing with other cultures, but nobody complains about the prosperity it has brought our planet.
Well, the priests complain about the dilution of our traditions, but they don’t decline the generous offerings made at the temple, either. When I am Jara, I will find a way to balance on this blade’s edge, preserving our traditions while welcoming new ideas. I will see our planet thrive.
