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“This one.”
“White?” Cirali gapes. “The contenders will think you weak.”
At the words, the other women glance over at us, and their faces fill with shock when they see the dress. Warning whispers in my mind. Cirali is right. White is no color for a warrior, and the symbolism won’t be lost on my potential mates, nor on my mother.
But everything about my plan involves a different kind of strength—the kind Keliveth carries in his songs. The kind that lies in the sheltering roots of the maraseyas, which my people used to embody.
I rest my palm against the smooth bark of the branch beside me. “No one looks at a maraseya tree and thinks it weak.”
I strip off my plain pink skirt and wrap top and discard them on the ground, then slip on the white gown. The soft silk chiffon flows over my hips and down to my bare feet, with slits up to my thighs on each side. Two broad, gathered panels of fabric cross over my breasts and fasten behind my neck with a beaded clasp, leaving my back and most of my torso bare. The dress sparkles in the lantern light with each movement I make. Cirali spins me around, scowling as she straightens the seams and smooths out the wrinkles in the skirt. Then she steps back, shaking her head as if trying to conjure words that will persuade me to change into a different dress.
I finger the fine silk, then stand tall as I face my sisters. I swore I wouldn’t quarrel with them tonight, but neither will I bow to a tradition that serves no good purpose. If I really believe restoration can happen for my people, then I must be the first to walk that path.
No matter how the tribes respond.
A faint gleam lightens the branches around us. The white flowers shimmer brighter and brighter against the night sky, reflecting the light of the newly risen moon. Cirali gives up her attempt to speak, and the flustered whispers of the women gives way to more joyful chatter. Moonrise is here, and the real revelry is about to begin.
We gather our belongings quickly and prepare to return to the beach. My heart races with anticipation. What if the Seamother retaliates against my display? Worse, what if something happens to Keliveth in the chaos of the large festival gathering?
It will do no good to dwell on my fears. I exhale, calming myself. Then I beckon the others to follow me, and I lead the way out into the night.
Chapter 12
Evya
––––––––
We each grab one ofthe rune-lanterns and make our way out of our wooded enclave, moving carefully so as not to snag our long skirts on the branches. The journey out of the tree feels faster, our feet spurred by anticipation.
Lirana keeps pace beside me, a little behind the others. She looks especially lovely tonight, in a vivid blue dress that drapes over one shoulder and a necklace of ornate gold beads that sparkles against her dark skin. Her fluffy black curls are loose about her shoulders, braided back from her face and pinned with glittering ornaments in the shape of tiny maraseya leaves. But her expression is somber, and that gives me pause in the midst of the excitement. Either she is unhappy with my decisions, or something else is weighing on her.
Just before we reach the edge of the wood, she grabs my elbow and pulls me to a halt. I turn to face her, letting the rest of our company walk on without us. Her brown eyes are earnest.
Before I can ask what is bothering her, she reaches up and plucks a gleaming flower from the branch above her head, then pins it into the hair above my left ear. “If you’re going to present yourself to the tribes looking like this, you should make sure your message comes across clearly.” She picks another flower and places it just above the first.
“Do you think I’m disgracing myself?” The words slip past my guard, though I speak them so quietly that only Lirana could hear.
