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Some of my friends have slowed to wait for me—Lirana, Cirali, Thallan, and half a dozen others in my close circle of warriors. They cluster together on the beach, exchanging speculative whispers as Keliveth and I walk away from each other.
Cirali gives me a sharp-toothed grin as I approach. She nods toward the group of men as they disappear around the curve of the island. “They’ll eat him.”
A warning growl rumbles from my throat.
The younger warrior recoils a little in deference, but there’s no trace of remorse in her face. She tosses her long, auburn braids over her shoulder and starts walking along the beach, her purple wrap skirt fluttering in the breeze. “Favoring him now will do little good when the maelstrom takes hold of him. I don’t understand. It isn’t like you to take pleasure in teasing a man with hope only to lead him to his death, even if he is an enemy.”
“Is that what you think I’m doing?” I ask sharply. I pull up short and scan the group, taking in the assumptions written on their faces. “You know me better than that, battle-sisters.”
“You mean you actuallywanthim as your mate?” Thallan folds her arms, and her freckled face scrunches into a quizzical look. “Why? Do you think his promises of a peace treaty will actually prove true? Falamar certainly isn’t looking for peace, if those soldiers gathering on the mainland are any indication.”
One of the other women scoffs. “The Seamother would never let such a treaty stand, even if the elf isn’t lying.”
“You’ve never doubted my judgment before now,” I say. “I choose for the good of the Atathari and the sea, just as I always have. Let my favor speak for Keliveth until he proves himself in your eyes.”
“If he can,” Cirali puts in. A few of the others giggle.
I don’t acknowledge the jab, refusing to go on with arguments that will not profit any of us.
“If the Creator sent him here, who are we to say he won’t succeed? Unless you doubt destiny itself.” I say the words slowly and deliberately. Their mouths snap shut. No one wants that accusation to fall on them.
I know my friends only want to keep me from making a terrible choice, and on an ordinary day I wouldn’t mind. But there is already too much heaviness hanging over me. I don’t want to spend the night quarreling with them.
“Evya is right.” Lirana stands beside me, and her voice is quiet but firm. “Let the Creator decide the elf’s fate in the maelstrom. This is not a night for arguments.”
A few of the other women mutter in annoyed tones, but I give Lirana a grateful look.
“Let’s go.” I force a smile and try to turn my mind to more immediate concerns. “We should welcome the maraseya flowers with joy. We have much to do before moonrise.”
I link arms with Lirana and we lead the way along the water’s edge. The others follow, and their apprehension slowly gives way to a lighter mood as we chatter over festival preparations. We make our way up the narrow beach until we reach the northernmost point of the island. Surf dances around our bare feet, sparkling gold in the light of the setting sun. As the last ray sinks below the horizon, we turn toward the cover of the maraseya’s branches.
Lirana unslings her bag from her back and pulls out one of the rune-lanterns she made especially for festival nights. The small glass sphere is strung on a braided cord, and she loops it over her head like a necklace. As the sun vanishes, the runes etched into the small sphere come to life and fill it with a golden glow. She passes the bag around and we each take one of the spheres. The lanterns light our path as we wind through a tangle of branches.
More lights flicker and dance through the wood. The night comes alive with laughter and chatter as other groups of women find their own paths into the cover of the tree. My foreboding retreats into the deeper recesses of my mind as the familiar, cozy excitement of the Shantura festival settles over me.
At last we step into a chamber formed from pillar-like roots that descend from ancient, moss-covered limbs. We set our rune-lanterns down, some on the ground and some in the branches, so that the alcove shines with light. Then we open the baskets and bags we carry.
Each of us has brought something to contribute to the festival finery. Cirali and her younger sisters produce a pile of dresses and scarves made from brightly colored silk, each garment their own handiwork. Thallan brings out a bag filled with faceted gold beads and begins braiding them into Lirana’s hair. While Thallan’s fingers fly through her black curls, Lirana carefully unpacks the rest of the contents of her bag: six small, watertight pottery jars, each filled with a different color of body paint.
I lower my satchel from my shoulder, unfasten the flap, and carefully empty its contents onto the sandy ground. Delighted gasps rise from the others as strands of pearls and coral and foreign glass beads tumble out. As the Seamother’s daughter, I’ve received gifts from every chieftain and ambassador who has ever visited our territory. Over the years I’ve painstakingly strung the gems onto silk cord and crafted them into elaborate necklaces and bracelets. The others kneel down around the pile of jewelry, sorting the pieces by color and picking out their favorites.
Thallan calls out the first line of an old Shantura song, and I send back the refrain. Within moments the entire group is singing, our voices weaving together and carrying into the dusk. The melody sweeps us into the rhythm of preparations. All ten of us cluster together, twisting each other’s hair into elaborate braids, painting the traditional patterns of ten-petaled flowers along each other’s arms and cheekbones, and draping each other in fine clothing and strings of beads.
I smile as I watch my battle-sisters lose themselves in a world of colors and patterns. Before the war began, Lirana had been known as a fine artist, Thallan as a favorite singer, and Cirali and her family traveled to every seaport city to trade for rare fabrics among the elves and the humans. Here in the shelter of the maraseya, we all remember a little more of what we once were—and what we could be again.
I’m in the middle of pinning small blue astyn flowers into Thallan’s light brown hair, when Cirali grabs my shoulder and turns me around to face her. She holds out two dresses sewn from splendid fabrics and edged with glittering beads. One is a vivid coral-red satin, and the other a deep crimson brocade. She gives a sly smile.
“These should turn any warrior’s heart to you. Which do you want?”
A cold knot forms in my stomach as I touch the folds of the gowns. I shake my head. “They’re beautiful, but I won’t wear red tonight.”
Or ever again, perhaps. The very sight of the blood-colored gowns stirs too many unsettling visions. When I wore crimson the first night of the festival, I was playing the role expected of a warrior seeking a mate. Now I have chosen a different path, and I want the color I wear to send a different message.
I secure the last few flowers to Thallan’s braids, then kneel down by the pile of garments and carefully sort through the delicate silks.
A flash of white catches my eye. I lift the dress from the bottom of the pile, and my breath catches. The garment is a cascade of snowy chiffon with tiny pearls and faceted glass beads flashing along the wide panels of the skirt, as luminous as the blossoms that grace the branches around us.
White for the maraseyas. For hope and peace and shelter. This is what I want to symbolize tonight, not the ruthlessness of a warrior.
