Chapter Five Adela
I meet Beadda in the horseshoe curve of grass in front of all the keepers’ houses.
There are fifty houses in total, with a new one under construction for newly engaged Ezequiel and Mathew, who are standing together cuddled tight, flush with excitement.
Everyone loves the arrival ceremony and the day of feasting that follows.
Or typically they do.
This morning, very few keepers stand with us.
Cecelia’s large family is there along with Dad, the elders who didn’t trek to the forest to find and protect the order, and a handful of others.
Nearly no one with children, and none of the oldest amongst us have come.
The arrival greeting isn’t optional, but it appears as if my fellow keepers are willing to risk the elders’ ire to stay safe in their houses today.
Not that Bartholomew’s house kept him safe.
“Will the others join us for the feast at least?” Beadda asks quietly, her breath fogging in the morning air.
I look her over, and find her smile strained. I know that nervous expression; it looks just like Cecelia’s. She’s scared, but whether it’s of her new role or the rogue dragon roaring through the valley, I’m not sure.
“Of course,” I assure her, though I’m not certain of anything of the sort.
At least we are sartorially prepared for the meeting.
Beneath Beadda’s inky cloak, she wears a recently refashioned gown of deep lavender, embroidered with silvered bone beads.
Her mask—also once mine—is silver-covered aspen carved to look like seedlings, stretching up as if in worship of the hot summer sun.
While she wears her hood up to protect herself from the cold, I know her silky hair has been twisted into three braids of three strands, secured in a bun at the back of her head—the style I wore every arrival and matching night for a decade.
My own styling tonight is much more elaborate—six braids of six strands secured with a jackalope femur carved into the shape of a piece of wheat.
In addition to the hair stick, I wear hematite-and-dragon-bone earrings, and a collar that once was wyvern ribs.
Even the beads embroidered into a starburst pattern on my now-aubergine gown are made of bone, dipped in gold.
On my hands, I wear four rings, each carved from a different creature’s bones, each set with a different gem.
I steal a glance at Beadda’s hands, warm and protected in their gloves. Until tonight, I also always wore gloves. Only the matcher and the paired novitiates will touch the skulls with their skin.
My cold hands twitch, unable to remain still, and a ring snags on a bit of the top layer of my skirts.
I curse silently and smooth the chiffon.
I have participated in this night for years.
I know what I need to do, and still, I cannot shake my dread that something will go horribly, irrevocably wrong.
Beadda clears her throat. “Everything alright?”
I startle, the golden mask slipping slightly on my face. It is not the elaborate open-work mask as it ought to be, a golden twin to Beadda’s, but that one is now nothing but ash and smoke, thanks to the dragons. Thanks to me.
This mask is still carved from a blessed aspen, like all matchers’ masks, and gilded. All keepers wear masks around the creature skulls, out of reverence and tradition. Keepers must never show our faces to the skulls; we are not permitted to match with them.
The most welcome aspect of my mask tonight is it hides any truths Beadda and the others may see in the subtle expressions of my face.
“Everything is great,” I lie again, and step into place.
The others move to stand behind us without me saying a word.
Before us, twelve-year-old Danni wears a bronze mask—carved slightly less elaborately than Beadda’s—and holds her torch, a symbol of how the Great Goddess will always guide us.
Together, the three of us represent the three aspects of the triune goddess.
As one, our procession steps forward and begins to sing, but before we can move out of the circle of houses and into the surrounding meadow, the sound of galloping hooves on gravel makes my voice falter.
With shaking hands, Danni holds up her torch.
Not that it’ll help us see through the fog any better.
Behind us the song stops, the notes turning into a murmur of concerned voices.
A prickle of worry tickles at my hairline, and I peer across the meadows.
My mind flashes to Bartholomew’s body, lying crumpled in the burned-out shell of his house last night, but I force myself back into the present. These are hooves, not wings, which means it is most likely just a normal horse.
Pegasi would not bother running when they could get to where they’re going quicker in the sky, and kelpies would not stray so far from their streams. Besides, I realize with a pang, there’s now only one left in the world, and she is no doubt grieving the loss of her mate, whose body Dad returned to the river this morning.
And while they might be gentler than the others, unicorns are also the most reclusive.
With thousands of acres to roam and clear preferences for their own territories, they almost never venture near the village.
Unless something’s wrong.
Half a moment later, I hear the flapping of large wings. The whole group of us practically flinches in unison, but I look up. I relax to find Lathai looping above us.
Now I know who the galloping sounds belong to.
Sure enough, a half a breath later, Etana arrives out of the mist. Lathai’s unlikely mate and my star sister.
She’s panting and snorting hard, no doubt annoyed that he made the journey faster.
Though she has an excuse. Her belly is heavy with a miraculous pregnancy—a unicorn-and-pegasus hybrid, the first of its kind as far as we know and a bright symbol of hope as the valley struggles.
“Hello, sweeties,” I say, and put my hand out to Etana. She nuzzles my palm, looking for a treat, and I scratch around her horn instead. “I don’t have anything for you tonight, my darling girl. No pockets.”
Lathai lands with a heavy thud behind Beadda, causing her to jump.
He’s loud and dramatic in the way of all pegasi, which obviously makes my new assistant nervous.
He nudges her back with his nose, and she scoots away, which causes him to press more aggressively, rubbing his horsey head against her cloak and marking her with silver-tipped black hairs.
She groans, brushing them off unsuccessfully.
He nickers and flicks his wingtips as if laughing. A crack of lightning splits the air.
“Lathai, stop that,” I scold, but he is only playing. It is nothing like the storm he could cause if he truly wished to.
“Is Etana alright?” a woman’s voice calls from the crowd. Everyone is worried for her. I see Dad pushing forward. He knows these two better than anyone.
He checks them over quickly, running his palms along their bodies and legs, lifting their feet to check their hooves—calm and thorough, even as everyone grows restless around us.
It’s unusual to stop a procession, and if their thoughts head in the same direction as mine, they’re worried it’s an ill omen.
Also, no one wants to stand around in the open, mere hours after a dragon attack.
Dad turns to me and shrugs. “Nothing’s wrong that I can find. Just being odd and dramatic.”
I release an unsteady breath, and nod. That isn’t so unusual for these two, a cross-species mated pair prone to hijinks. Typically, that involves stealing freshly gathered apples or tripping their keepers while we attempt to clean or shoe their hooves.
“I suppose let’s press on then?” I ask Dad. Technically, I am in charge of this night, with Beadda as my second, but seeking Dad’s approval is as habitual as morning chores.
He nods his agreement, stepping back, but there’s a certain tension in his jaw that I recognize. He doesn’t return to his old place near the middle of the group, but joins Cecelia in the front.
He’s worried.
We turn, and I indicate to Danni we should start again. A bit shakily, she lifts her torch and opens her mouth, but before she can sing a single line, Etana whinnies, a sound somewhere between a traditional horse’s voice and the sound of breaking glass.
I wince while Beadda covers her ears and Danni falters. Instinctively, I reach out to Etana, but this time she doesn’t let me scratch her horn’s base or rub her cheek. Instead she drops down to her knees, as if bowing.
Beside Beadda, Lathai does the same. Beadda takes a hasty step back.
From her kneeling position, Etana tosses her head as if impatient. I turn back to Dad, and he gestures to Etana. “Looks like you get a ride to the meeting.”
It’s impossible. We have horses to ride if we must travel farther than a few miles, a few oxen to pull wagons and planting equipment, donkeys, and dogs to carry supplies when we need them to. We never, ever ride the creatures we care for and keep. Not that it’s forbidden. It’s just not done.
As a sign of respect, I suppose, or just because. I honestly don’t know why. But if I were going to choose a creature to ride, it would never be a unicorn. They’re proud, temperamental, and fabled to eat people who annoy them.
Besides, Etana might be large for her kind, but she is pregnant, and I’m not a small person to carry for a creature unused to carrying humans at all.
Etana whinnies again, Lathai matching her with his own shrieking call.
Deep inside me, I feel the pull. The wanting. The one that I try to repress, to stifle, to drown. The one that never leads me anywhere good. I do not trust that pull. And yet, despite my most sincere efforts, I cannot ignore it.
I am already moving toward Etana when I hear Dad urge me. “Go on.”
With shaking legs and hands, I step forward, curling my fingers in her mane. She bends lower still, and I hike my layered skirts and cloak with my free hand. The gown’s high slit opens as I throw my bare white leg over her back.
Etana stands almost instantly, my additional weight seemingly insignificant.
“Adela.” My name is a plea from Beadda, and rightfully so.
I would whimper, too, in her place. Lathai is stalking her—getting close, then bending, standing to stomp his foot when she backs up rather than stepping nearer, then repeating the dance again.
A few refrains of this move, and he traps her between the others and himself.
His head is lowered as if in a challenge.
“He’s going to put his head beneath you and flip you onto his back if you don’t climb on willingly,” Dad warns. “Then you’ll fly through the valley backward on your belly. Looping your knees over his wings and holding on to his mane will be easier than holding on to his hindquarters.”
I see the jaw of her mask shift downward as if she’s opened her mouth to argue, but no intelligible words come out as Lathai lowers his head and stomps toward her. Instead, she throws her hands up and shrieks, “Fiiiiiine,” which makes the pegasus pause.
She awkwardly climbs on, sitting half atop his neck to avoid his wings. “Just, no flying. Deal? Lathai? Lathai?” I swear he smiles a horsey smile before he extends his wings and launches into the sky. “Laaaathaaaaaiiii,” Beadda cries.
At least he’s headed in the direction of the matching hut, I have the clarity to think before Etana jumps forward, galloping with unnatural speed.
“See you there?!” I call over my shoulder, unsure if I am already too far away to be heard. I cannot risk turning around to look, for fear I’ll lose my grip on her mane and be dumped in an unceremonious heap on the frozen ground.
As we get farther away from the others, I push my hands deeper into Etana’s mane, enjoying the feel of her muscles working beneath my clenched knees.
I can almost feel her joy, a pleasant hum much like the skulls I oiled yesterday.
But it must be my imagination. We don’t hear the living creatures, not like the skulls.
They express their emotions the same way animals do, with physical tells and rare vocalizations.
Somewhere far off above us, I hear the call of Lathai, and Etana’s ears prick forward. She bellows back, the sound ear-shattering and fierce, and then her horn begins to glow.
I’ve only ever seen a unicorn’s horn glow a handful of times, and not since I was a child.
Once was when a new unicorn was born. I was six. Her parents’ horns had glowed for a week. I remember my mother’s wistful explanation that it was the unicorn’s sign of ultimate contentment, of bliss; that everything was right in their world.
Before the filly’s death, I remember taking my mom’s larger hand in mine and asking, “Like ours, Mama? If I had a horn, it’d glow when I’m with you.
And yours would glow when you were with me.
” But even at six, I knew it wasn’t actually true.
It was just the relentless hope of a little girl.
My mother was horribly unhappy here in the valley, her misery leaking out of her between every good moment until she followed her own deep, irrepressible wants. And left.
The unicorn filly died of some common illness Dad hadn’t even known they could catch. Her parents followed soon after. Dead, I think, from grief.
If I had a horn, would it glow like Etana’s, as I had hoped for when I was kid? I think of Dad, back with the others. I think of Cecelia. I think of Bartholomew, before, and push away bleaker images of him. Instead, I think of my new role as matcher. My friends and community. The creatures I serve.
I think of the phoenix skulls and how I was able to bring them back with the mere touch of my cheek to their cool bone.
I think of Etana beneath me, carrying her joy within her, racing her mate toward a bright and beautiful future.
There is joy and pain, all tangled together within me. And all through it, want.
I try to suppress the want, which has things I can’t face wrapped around it, something around letting go of my worries and sorrows and pain.
It is the real reason I try to ignore the impulses, to repress my reckless desires.
And yet, it is somehow still undefinable.
But now, in this moment, I don’t worry about the details of who I am or want to be.
I simply let the pure, hungry, wild pleasure finally bubble up beneath my skin and flow.
If I were a unicorn, I might not glow, but maybe I could flicker.
This time when Etana calls out, I open my mouth and join her.