Blood Moon Rising

 

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Prologue

    The young man stopped at a fork in the road and wearily brought his waterskin to his lips, drinking fervently from the tepid water he’d filled the leather with from a spring several miles behind him. He had been traveling for many days, over rough, treacherous terrain, and was eager for a respite. The path to the right appeared to be much the same as the path he had been traveling on since leaving Galatia almost a fortnight past. Turning his head, he regarded the path to the left. It was smooth, level, steady. It appeared well-cared for, and only his well-honed hunter’s skills set him on his guard, when he was itching to take this road, to give him an easier way of travel, if only for a little while.
    But why would this path be so well-taken care of and the other side little more than an animal trail? Somewhere in his mind, he thought that he might be overthinking the situation, but he had never been given to flights of fancy, or letting his imagination run away with him. He had always been, in his mind, logical, rational, and in possession of keen amounts of common sense. Those that knew him thought the same, with the addition of the fact that the young man had never shown any indication of any imagination – that he was, in fact, a bore, if a reliable one.
    He reached up to touch the amulet that hung from his throat, the long golden chain dull in comparison to the brightly glowing light that warmly radiated from the clear stone. Feeling that warmth underneath his fingertips, his thoughts turned to the woman who had given it to him. Those of his village had always had the highest respect for the Galatian Council, being a mere stone’s throw from the capital city of Galatia. He himself had never aspired to be anything more than a hunter for his village, to provide for his family, but he and his family had been properly proud when his little brother had been chosen on his tenth birthday to train as a Galanin, one of the priests of the Galatian temples. Even so, he had never been more surprised than when he met the Galarch, the head priestess of the Council. There were no portraits of any members of the Council, as it was forbidden, but the members were always spoken of as possessing the sort of wisdom that one can only gain with time, giving the impression that the Council was comprised of the oldest and wisest of their land. 
    But the Galarch, while wise, was certainly not old. She was a beautiful young woman, with eyes as blue as the ocean that he’d seen once in a portrait, and creamy pale skin without the barest hint of imperfection. She was small and slender, with curly copper locks that were arranged and held in place by the silver circlet that denoted her rank. He remembered touching her fingers as she had handed him the amulet and feeling two emotions at once – the passing lust that a man tended to have for a woman he was attracted to, when he already knew that there would never be anything between them; and pity, because in the hours that he spent with her in the Council Room, he did not see her smile once. 
    He shook his head, and thoughts of the Galarch left his mind, his mission replacing them. The amulet served many purposes – it would give him strength in battle, fill his weapon with magic to defeat those who would try and stop him with little difficulty, allow him to take heavy amounts of damage without falling, and alert him to coming danger, along with other lesser abilities. It had also helped him with making important decisions a time or two, or so it seemed. The touch of that calm warmth may have simply steadied him, cleared his thoughts so that he would not choose an option rashly. He sought this now, closing his eyes to think upon the choices before him, and the words that the Galarch gave him before he left came to mind:
    “The way is precarious in itself. It is the first test, and perhaps may seem the simplest, but it is the most important. Allow your faith and strength to guide you and you will not fail. Allow yourself to falter, to choose what is easy because you feel your strength fading, and you will lose everything.” 
    He felt power surge through him, coming from the amulet, spreading through his limbs in the blink of an eye, and he thought once more upon her words. “The way is precarious,” he said to himself, his voice a mere whisper as he turned his gaze from that easy path to the rough, rocky trail to the right. “No rest for the faithful,” he said with a little grin, taking a step forward and jumping from a rock to a ledge a few feet before it. 
    Hours passed, and he was chewing on some of the dried meat that made up his rations when he felt another flash of power from the amulet, this one strong, a biting current that he had come to associate with approaching danger. He tucked the pouch of meat back inside his knapsack and drew the long steel blade that hung at his side, allowing his hunter’s instinct to take over, pushing fear and emotion to the back of his mind. The bite of the amulet had been strong enough that he was willing to bet the danger was close, too close for him to attempt an ambush with his bow. He slowed down, letting the amulet guide him forward, all of his senses keenly aware of his surroundings. He could smell blood and ash, a light odor at first, growing stronger with every few steps that he took. Perhaps a village up ahead, he thought, that had been ransacked by bandits. Anger boiled within him for a split second, before he quashed it down once more. He’d been a hunter long enough to know that emotion could be his downfall. 
    He slowed to a stop as he felt a prickling at the back of his neck, having the sensation of being watched. A shrill scream seemed to erupt within his mind, crying out, “Behind you!” He whipped around, sunlight flashing on steel as he whirled his sword toward his unseen attacker, the blade coming to a sudden halt against the handle of a scythe, held by a tall man whose face he could not focus on. He felt dizzy for a second, trying to settle his eyes on the man, but then closed them and shook his head, finding his balance once again. His tongue drawing across his achingly dry lips, he took a step back and murmured a prayer to Galanta, the goddess in whose name this quest was being served, for protection. Focusing his strength into the amulet, willing its power to flow into him, he moved in, bringing his sword back for his first strike. He looked up into that face once more, and finally, it slowed, its whirling coming to an end as it settled into discernible features. He felt the sword drop from his hand, and he felt his knees hit the ground. He only had a moment to realize that the amulet was no longer warm against his chest, no longer pulsing with its own light. The Galarch had told him that would only happen if he lost faith. In the second that a tear slipped from his eye, and he murmured a prayer of apology to Galanta, he saw the scythe swinging toward his neck.

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Troubled Waters

    “No!” 
    As a young man met his demise miles away from the capital city, a woman fell to her knees, covering her face with her hands. Pain set her body on fire, and she clutched at her robes, feeling too hot and too cold all at once. She could feel that man’s lifeblood trickling from the fatal wound in his throat, mixing with the dirt beneath him. She could almost see his tall, thin killer walking away, carrying his scythe, disappearing in the distance. 
    An attendant saw the woman fall and ran to her side, silent as she slid an arm around her back, taking a hold of one hand as she helped her up. As soon as she had her feet back under her, she waved the attendant off and brushed her hands along the soft linen that made up her robes, ignoring the shaking that was the only indication left of her distress.
    “Thank you, Lidna,” she said, addressing the attendant in a soft tone, the sound a washing comfort over the girl who served her. “Please send for the High Galinin.” 
    The girl curtsied and murmured, “Yes, Your Grace,” before turning and leaving the room. The woman fought the urge to collapse once more and took small, measured steps toward the balcony of her room, opening the stained-glass doors and passing through them to stand at the railing which afforded her the best view of Galatia, the city over which she ruled, the city that sat in the center of their fruitful land and drew millions of people by the year to see the graceful architecture, to try their hand at serving as an entertainer or military citizen, to petition the Council in their need. 
    Amarysine Trinolta had been selected at the tender age of five to train as a Galine, a priestess of the temple. Priests and priestesses were normally chosen in childhood, but usually not until they were at least ten, when they first displayed their elemental talents or mental abilities. It was rare for any child to display power before they began the transition from child to adult, but Amarysine had displayed talent equal to a girl four times her age, and had frightened her parents, though they never said so. Her village, while proud to have the strongest Galine candidate in a hundred years, since the great Galarch Quinsa, had been glad to see the back of her. Without proper training, the latent powers could drive a person insane and cause them to become violent. 
    The girl, once at the temple, became something of a prodigy, but she always knew there was something missing. Accelerating as she did through the training, she never had a chance to make friends, or to simply be a little girl. The girls in her training class were all older and saw her as either a nuisance or competition, and the girls her own age, several classes below her, were intimidated. Amarysine became closed off emotionally, presenting a blank face to the world. She quickly learned to show no fear, anger, pain, or anxiety to the world. She grew up within the temple with no other thought than to become a Galine, even though she knew it would be several years before she was able to be inducted. One had to reach their twenty-first year before they would be allowed into the order, so Amarysine, having graduated training at the age of fourteen with a class seven years older than she, was assigned as handmaiden to the Galarch of the time. The Galarch’s handmaiden was typically a role assigned to a girl who was only a year or two from induction, and usually a sign of one expected to ascend at least to the Galatian Council after several years, if not the position of Galarch herself. 
    Ten years later found Amarysine as Galarch, the first seat of the Galatian Council, and head of the Galine order. The previous Galarch, Canja, had died unexpectedly in her sleep two years before when her heart failed. To everyone’s surprise, Canja had decreed in her last testament that she supported Amarysine as the next Galarch, though she had only been inducted a mere year beforehand. A Galine becoming Galarch before she was at least forty years old was unheard of, but Amarysine had served Canja for seven years, and the tradition was that the dying Galarch would put forth their candidate. The Council was not required to select that candidate, but they more often than not did, as the Galarch was the person most able to judge the power and heart of another priestess. Some questioned her judgment, but most knew what Canja had: that Amarysine was the strongest Galine in history, stronger even than the revered Quinsa, and that even if her face was always stoic, beneath it beat a fiercely loyal and compassionate heart. So she was advanced to Galarch at the age of twenty-two. 
    That was when the troubles began. 
    A knock came to her door and Amarysine looked over her shoulder, schooling her features into a passive expression. “Come in,” she called, and the door opened, allowing a man admittedly past the prime of his life entry. Tomar Brium had served in the Galinin order since before Amarysine was born, and had been High Galinin for three years when she was advanced to Galarch. She couldn’t help viewing the older man as a mentor, or a role model – he was old, certainly, but he had never let his age or his lean build get in his way. Amarysine had seen Tomar force men half his age and twice his size into submission during training spars, and the rumor was that he had forgotten more magic in his lifetime than others would learn in their entire span on Galatia. Further than that, Tomar, despite the decades between them, was one of the few people on Galatia that Amarysine counted as friend, one of only a handful to see the leader of their land melt into a shy, kind woman with an unsteady but real smile. 
    The door closed behind him, and Amarysine’s expression melted into a sweet, sad smile. “Tomar,” she said softly, and stepped away from the balcony to approach him, her hands lifting and reaching out to take those that he offered, the comfort she desperately needed seeming to slide from his hands into hers and warm her throughout. In some ways, she felt Tomar had been more of a father to her than her own had been. She could count the number of times she had seen her parents since going to the temple on one hand, and each time, they had had another child. Each visit had made her shut herself away even more. Amarysine could never shake the feeling of being replaced by parents who had become afraid of their own daughter and wanted nothing more than to forget her. She had finally told them to stop coming to see her when she was sixteen, and she could see the relief, mixed with hurt, in their eyes. They had loved her, she knew that. But she also knew they had only continued coming out of duty. They were afraid of her, and she didn’t want that for them, or for herself. They didn’t even know what she had become now – the names of the Galarch and the Galatian Council were never released. 
    “I would ask what is troubling you, Amarysine, but I don’t think there is a need. It is written in your eyes,” Tomar said, his strong voice carrying a soft tone. “He has fallen?”
    Amarysine nodded and glanced down. “In the same way,” she replied, releasing his hands and stepping away. “I was so sure that Matin would succeed. He was not fanciful, as Pawner was. He was a skillful hunter and tracker; he knew how to take care of himself, unlike Shef. He could best the majority of the boys here for training in the temple, and those he couldn’t probably wouldn’t have taken him on because they just couldn’t be sure. More than that, Tomar, he believed. You could see it in his eyes.” A hand lifted to shield her eyes, circle fingers against her temples as she continued, moving around the room while she spoke. “There was no doubt in his mind that Galanta would protect him. I was in his mind, in those final minutes. His faith did not fail him. He thought it did, and even at that last moment, he prayed. It wasn’t enough. We were wrong. It was not lack of faith that made the amulet lose its power in that moment. It is something about this…this…” she trailed off as she felt something heavy fill one of the pockets of her robes. Slipping her hand within, she palmed the hard crystal of the amulet, and her eyes darkened as she pulled it out. Cursing in the dialect of her native tongue, she hurled the amulet across the room. “What? What is it about this man that destroys our power, makes our countrymen unable to move past him?” 
    Tomar crossed the room and bent to pick the amulet up, taking it by the long chain and straightening, holding the crystal before his eyes, letting it swing as he regarded it. “I don’t know, Amy,” he said quietly, using her nickname in an attempt to calm and comfort her. “What I do know is that was the seventh man that we’ve sent since we learned that our magic is fading. We have to ask ourselves how many more we will send out on what is becoming more and more like a suicide mission. Is our magic worth one more human life? Is the dream of this artifact that might be able to save it worth the sacrifice?”
    “I have asked myself that more times than I can count, Tomar,” came the soft response, and he looked over to find Amarysine lowering herself into the chair at her desk, taking out parchment and pen, her motions deliberately slow as she filled the pen with ink and began writing in smooth script across the page. He knew she was writing a letter to Matin’s family, to let them know that he died in service to Galanta, and the land of Galatia. He knew that she wondered, as he did, how many more times that excuse would be used. In service of Galanta, he thought. Surely, if it were in her service, one of those young, brave men would have survived by now. Concentrating for a moment, he turned his eyes to the amulet and chain within his hand, and it disappeared, going, he was confident, as he always was in his own power, to the place that he willed it. He was confident, certainly. Amarysine was confident. Some others were. But the fact was that there were many now who were not, whose magic had begun to fail them. With a sigh, he crossed the room to the Galarch’s desk and seated himself across from her, watching for a few moments as she wrote before he spoke again.  
    “And what conclusion have you come to, lady?” he prompted gently, quiet grey eyes carefully watching the face of one he’d watched grow from a young, frightened, excited girl to the carefully composed, seemingly unemotional woman she was now. Tomar knew, as few others did, how much she hid away, as he also knew that she didn’t hide from him. His gaze did not waver from her as her head rose, her hand carefully ceasing movement so she wouldn’t ruin the letter.
    “I don’t know that I can call it a conclusion, Tomar,” she said, laying the pen to rest on the parchment, the fingers lifting to rub one of her coppery curls between them, a distinct sign of her anxiety, a movement that alarmed him as few others would. But he waited. Her worry was his, her anxiety mirrored his mind. In a way, he was glad for it. It meant that she understood the complexity of the situation. At times like these, he couldn’t help but marvel at her youth, such a surprise when one was aware of the wisdom hidden within her, that she wasn’t just another pretty face dancing around the Maypole in the summertime. She continued, and he pushed his own thoughts away to concentrate.
    “On one hand, I see the sacrifice of sending our young men on an errand for the magicusers, their ruling body, as petty. So the prophecy we found says that we cannot retrieve the artifact ourselves. Our history is littered with silly men who only wanted to make their riddles, disguised as prophecies, difficult. Ego, not necessity, ruled their words. How do we know this is not such as that?” Blue eyes moved to lock on his, and he fought the urge to smile. Tomar knew that he wasn’t meant to answer, that she had worked this out in her mind. He was eager to see where she had been led.
    “Indeed, Amy. How do we know?”
    “We don’t,” she said, her hand dropping from her curled locks and drumming her fingers on the desk. “We don’t, and so we have to trust in it. All we can do is curse the amadon who wrote it when we find the artifact and discover that it was all a ruse. But, if we do send a magicuser, and the prophecy is correct, then we are no longer merely fading. We are extinct.”
    “That is what we are told,” he agreed, rising from his chair and moving toward the cabinet behind her chair to bring out two glasses and a bottle of dense red liquid. Pouring a measure into both, he set one before her and resumed his seat. “If a magicuser crosses the border of the land where it is kept, a blast will ring from the heavens and smite their kin from the earth, never to be seen again. It is risky, to be sure. Our people have long looked to the magicusers to keep peace, to rule them safely and fairly, to be their line to Galanta and help their crops to grow true, their ventures to prosper. It could prove disastrous for our fellow wielders to be wiped from the land, not only for us, considering that we would be worse than dead – and as I am not nearly finished living yet, that would be a shame,” he said, and smiled when he saw her lips curve upward, a low chuckle leaving her throat. It was too rare that he saw her smile, heard her laugh. Galarch she might be, but she was also a young girl with too few friends and not nearly enough life experience. He could at least bring her cheer when she was troubled. Clearing his throat, he continued. “But it could prove perilous for those we lead as well. History cannot recount the last time that those without magic ruled, it has been so long. If the prophecy is true, Amy, then it very well might not simply be magicusers at risk. It could be the end of our land as we know it.”
    “Exactly as I thought,” she said with a nod. “If it were merely us at stake...I would forgo the sacrifice. It would not be worth it, so many lives…I would step down, dissolve the Council myself before I allowed such. But to save them all...Tomar, I believe that anyone would consider it worthy.”
    “Which is why you give them the choice,” he said, taking a sip of the sweet red liquor, letting the fire within it warm him and clear his mind at the same time. “You have not sent any of them out without letting them know of the risks, or why it needs to be them. That is honorable, Amarysine. They have all chosen to try and be the one to save our people. It is not your fault that you cannot take the task yourself. Even if you could, your people need you here, in your seat.” There was no other that could read the Galarch so well. Tomar knew that was the depths of her sorrow. By the prophecy, Amarysine was forbidden to take on the task that she felt should be hers. No other should have to be put at risk if she did not make the attempt herself first.
    “Do they?” she asked, and he could see the hint of defiance within her eyes. Tomar swallowed the laugh that bubbled into his throat, and instead gave her his quiet, passive eyes to let her continue. “I am but one woman. One very young woman, as I heard constantly for six months before the Council decided to approve Canja’s choice for her successor. You, Tomar, could easily lead our people. Our names and numbers are secret, our faces unknown. Our people would not know if it were me issuing their laws, or if it was you.”
    “You are being petulant, Amarysine. It does not become you,” he said, and had to fight not to laugh again as she muttered under her breath while she sipped her drink. It pleased Tomar greatly when he could see her act the way that she should have been able to during her childhood. It would be different if she were always this way, in front of their world. Were she such a female, she would never have even been suggested, let alone considered for Galarch. But to them, she gave a blank face and wise words. Here in this room, it was just the two of them, and she knew that she did not have to wear her mask. “Besides, it is semantics. You cannot go. You are forbidden by the prophecy. Even if you would put all of us, your kin, at risk, you would not risk the lives of our people. You’ve a compassionate heart, Amy. It is a good virtue. But do not let it make you feel as though you have not done what you could. No one but you could have crafted that amulet. It is good magic, better than any in our history could have worked. It saved our men from certain death a number of times before meeting this seemingly invincible foe. If you continue doubting yourself, Amarysine, we are doomed.”
    Amarysine knew that he spoke the truth; it was what she herself knew when she had to convince herself that it was the right thing. But how could it be the right thing when she would very likely be sending another man to his death? Deep in thought, she lifted the crystal glass within her hand to her lips and swallowed what remained of the liquid before setting the glass down, regretting it instantly as her eyes swam with red and her vision grew blurry for several seconds before clearing. Firewine, the drink that Tomar had served them, was not to be taken so quickly, in amounts larger than a sip. But once her vision cleared, she found that her mind had as well. Glancing at Tomar, she blinked to keep the tears within her eyes from spilling over before casting her gaze downward again. “We have to keep going, don’t we?” she whispered softly, taking the pen from her desk and twirling the dark feather between her fingers.
    Tomar rose from his chair and moved to kneel beside her seat, one hand stroking over the shiny copper falling in curls down her back, the other covering her hand, trying to comfort the woman that he’d come to see as a daughter when she’d been a quiet, studious girl apprenticed to his wife, the former Galarch. “Yes, Amy. We do.” His hand squeezed hers and he asked in a soft voice, “Who is next on the list?”
    For a moment, he thought that she might break down. Amarysine’s body tensed, her lips drew tight and thin, and she held her breath. Finally, after several long seconds, she reached over and pulled a drawer open, withdrawing a thin box and setting it on the desk. She opened the lid and pulled out a single sheet of parchment. Laying it on the desk, Amarysine let out a breath and took her pen to the parchment, drawing a line through the seventh name on the list, her eyes reading over all seven names, seven men who had taken the risk that should have been hers and died in the doing, before looking at the eighth.
    “Balan Magast, of the village of Caliniri.” She looked to Tomar, and a wry smile curved her lips. “That will go well. We will send Mikal to escort him. He is…most tolerant.”

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Summer's Coming

    The village of Caliniri was one of the furthest in distance to the capital city of Galatia, and one of the furthest in beliefs. While they paid tax and tribute to the capital, the citizens did not hold with the idea that magicusers should rule over them, or the idea that Galanta, the goddess that those of the land worshipped, who protected them, was the only deity to follow. Galanta was a goddess of magic and ingenuity, and the citizens of Caliniri recognized her as the goddess that created the land that they worked so diligently to feed and clothe them, but they followed one that they believed to be her brother, Sapann, he who first sowed the land that his sister created, made animals for companionship, assistance, and food out of the dust and sky, and showed the first man the way of the harvest. Those of Caliniri relied on the land for their survival. It was only right, in their mind, that they give their loyalty to the one who made it possible.
        Mikal Ifor was as out of place on the dusty road that led from the prime temple of the region to the village as he might have been in one of the crowded tavernhouses of Galatia, smoking icevine and grabbing the wenches who plied their trade. He had lived in the Galatian temple for the better part of twenty years, and had rarely left the city except on matters of urgency, which the Galarch had assured him this was. He had agreed to the mission before learning where it would take him to, something that he told himself he would never again do.
    “Caliniri, indeed,” he grumbled under his breath, plodding along the road on the horse that he had taken from the prime temple. The Caliniri people were well-known for their dislike of magicusers, the priests and priestesses of the temple. They had purposely founded their village as far from the prime temple as they could manage, butting right up against the sea that lapped at their shores. Their village expanded along the shoreline, their homes and practices constructed right on the beach in some instances, while they used the inland for farming and pasture. Some years, the sea rose and took out its rage upon the village, but they considered it a worthy price to pay to make their point. It was another well-known fact that, upon catching a magicuser in their village, they would most often strip him bare and carry him, hog-tied, to the boundary of the village, where they would then untie him and send him back on his way to the prime temple – still naked. They considered it sport.
    It was times like this that Mikal wondered if their policy of not using their magic against an attacker was a good one. He was not a violent man, by any means, but he did not enjoy the idea of allowing another to cause him harm when he could stop it. Still, at least being able to use it for defense was a decent compromise. A minor ward that would give a shock to any who tried to touch him without his permission did well enough, and, thinking about it, he called the ward in to layer against his robes, so that one could not use his clothing against him. He could see the spires of the village temple to Sapann against the sunset in the horizon, and knew he was drawing close.
    Mikal reined his horse in as he heard music sounding from the village square. Some sort of festival, he thought, thinking through what he knew about the Caliniri annual celebrations, their recognized holidays, and remembered that they were nearing summer. It was around the time that the citizens would dance and make offering to Sapann, praying for a summer of equal rain and sun, to allow for a good harvest come fall. “This could be a good thing,” he murmured to himself. He could immerse himself in the crowd, look for the charge that he’d been sent to find and bring back, without causing much of a fuss. Concentrating on another ward, to lay over the protective and cause him to not be noticed, he clicked his tongue to the horse and began to move once more.
    Entering the village, he noted that it was well-kept and clean, the houses in good order, and the roads maintained for smooth travel. When one normally thought of Caliniri, they assumed that the village was little more than a dump, as backwards in their town pride as they were in their beliefs. But Mikal supposed it was an easy thought, from those who didn’t want to think about there being any other way besides that of Galanta. The Galarch, he knew, was not one of those, another sign that she was wise beyond her years. She had cautioned him to not ignore the pride and beliefs of Caliniri, and to tread carefully. He admired that, just as he had admired, albeit begrudgingly, the clever manner in which she’d enlisted his assistance.
    Riding forth, he caught sight of the crowd and dismounted. He murmured to himself, “I am another villager, here for the festival. There is nothing out of the ordinary about me.” The words were not to bolster his courage, they were meant to lace into the ward that would allow him to move easily through the crowd without being hassled as a priest, so that, when a villager saw him, they would think him only one of their brethren. Mikal tied the horse to a post and moved forward, toward the music. He knew who he was to look for and used his mental abilities to skim the top thoughts of those around him as he moved through the crowd. If he went any deeper, it would be a crime, an ultimate invasion of privacy, but the topmost thoughts, the superficial ones, were easily caught by any, even nonmagicusers, though they rarely knew what they were seeing or feeling. Finding thoughts that pointed to his charge was easier than he expected, and he soon saw the reason why, as he reached the edge of the circle to find a couple within, involved in a dance – apparently, his charge was part of the entertainment.
 
    He walked around the girl standing in the middle of the circle, his eyes only for her, her own locked on his. Taking a step at the same time, they moved into an intricate dance, the music around them seeming to fade as their own music became the whisper of the wind, the crash of the sea, and the gentle hum of the trees. Each step brought them closer together, the pounding of their blood rushing through their bodies matching the drums that beat faster the closer they became. With one last thundering drumbeat, the dance ended, and the couple was within each other’s arms. His eyes lighting up as his lips flashed into a smirk, he leaned in to steal a kiss, only to find himself slapped – playfully, he knew, for it wasn’t nearly as hard as he knew her to be capable of – to the obvious delight of the laughing crowd.
    “Blast you, Balan, you pig-brained amadon,” the girl said with a laugh, whirling away from him in a cloud of colorful cotton skirts and braids the color of wheat in the summer sun. They had been chosen that season for the dance of sha’chin, summer’s coming, to honor Sapann and his consort, Raila, the goddess of rain and sky, and ask for their blessing on a fruitful growing season. It was their way – a man and woman of a certain age, the strongest, fittest, and fairest, were chosen for the dance, to best please the deities.
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