Chapter Nine Adela #2
I can see the pegasus cliffs in the far-off distance in one direction, the forest to my right, and the matching hut and its meadow in the nearer distance to my left.
For a moment, I feel as if the valley inhales, waiting for me to choose a course between three life-changing paths, which is silly.
The big life change just happened. I became the matcher.
My life is determined.
I click my tongue at the mule, a signal to start going again. There is a fence to fix. Etana moves in front of us and lowers her head, her horn pointed right at him. He throws his head back, taking a step backward and then another, bumping into the wagon and pushing it off the path.
I hurry forward to stand between them and clap at Etana. “Stop. We do not threaten our friends. Especially not while they’re working.”
Etana stomps and tosses her head at me. The mule tries to move sideways, to get away from this strange, threatening creature in his path.
If he pushes the heavy wagon any farther into the field, we’ll all be stuck in the soft, lumpy earth.
I step close to Etana, and she bows low like she did before the matching ceremony.
“Not again. You’re pregnant. And creatures aren’t for riding.” She snorts at me, and I rest my hand on her back, sighing. She is even more stubborn than the mule. “But I’ll follow, if you insist.”
After a long moment, she moves forward into the firmer, untilled meadow and out of the mule’s path, which he takes instant advantage of. He maneuvers the heavy cart around then stomps toward home at the quickest clop I’ve ever seen any mule achieve. He does not need me to lead the way.
Before he is even fifty yards away, Etana begins moving quickly across the uneven ground, and I have to half walk, half jog to keep up. I know where we are headed, and the closer we get, the more my stomach roils.
She stops before the hut, practically on top of the narrow porch. I hear a thumping, low and steady, but I’m uncertain whether it is coming from inside the hut or my own anticipatory heart.
I want to run.
Thud-thud. Go away. Thud-thud. Run away. Thud-thud. Get far, far away.
But I do not run. I creep up to the door, creaking across the porch to whatever waits, impatient and hungry, in the dark.
I should be wearing a mask or should at least cover my face in some way. I know this. And yet, a deep part of me also knows it doesn’t matter. The worst has already happened.
She is waiting to welcome me back.
I open the door and scan the dim room. There on the top shelf sits the phoenix. I swear I hear it singing. A song of relief, of joy, of satisfaction.
Mesmerized, I step closer and reach up. My fingers barely brush the beak. I look around, find the step stool just to my left, and tug it over, climbing closer until I can gently lift the skull.
On, on, on, it sings to me through my palms. Yes, yes, yes.
I should not do this.
And yet, I do. I rest the phoenix on my brow. The fit isn’t perfect. I need to adjust the leather bands, hollow out a bit at the brow to better suit my face, and pad the bone to sit snugger on my cheeks, but that would all come later.
Right now, I sway as the phoenix’s feelings rush through me.
I experience the joy of flying, the grief of losing an egg out of a precariously high perch, the contentment of nesting with my soul’s mate.
Interspersed with her living memories are her current feelings.
Elation at being awake after a long sleep.
Her fondness for me. Satisfaction from seeing her mate match with Kian.
I wonder at that, and the phoenix responds, sending a visual image of Kian and me, naked, together in a nest of blankets, enjoying the intimacies of our featherless bodies pressed and moving together. Paired. Forever.
“No!”
I pull at the mask to remove it, my face hot.
But now that the phoenix has put the image in my mind, and feelings in my heart, I can’t seem to shake them.
The broad expanse of his shoulders, the definition of his arms, the perfect expanse of his stomach.
The softness of the fine, dark hair on his legs, tangled with mine.
I know what he would feel like, his body on my body, and I want that again with a fierceness that terrifies me.
But he was temporary. Not forever.
I tug the mask again. It does not budge. I feel around in my hair for the leather ties, my fingers scrambling, but they hang loose. Nothing holds the skull to my face but the phoenix herself.
She will not release me.
I pull again, digging along the edges of the skull, scratching the skin on my nose and forehead as I tried to leverage better purchase.
I begin to panic. I pour on oils, massaging them into my hairline, and then when that doesn’t help, I dump the old, leftover water from the pitcher onto my face. I splutter, wet and oily, bleeding.
“Phoenix,” I say aloud, “let me go. Please.”
If a long-dead bird could laugh, she does. She floods me with feelings and images. There aren’t specific words from her, but it feels like, There is no letting go. Our souls are joined. And until you acknowledge that joining, I will not release you.
Impossible.
It’s impossible.
A keeper, matching with a skull. It is an abomination.
Magnificent, flows from the phoenix.
I whimper, feeling sorry for myself for one long moment; then I get to work.
I spend the afternoon doing everything I can think of to pry the mask from my face.
I use tools. Cajoling. Empty and then very sincere promises.
Threats. My own fingernails, trying to dig under the edge of the skull, until they are broken and my face is bleeding.
Nothing works. Finally, exhausted, with eyes puffy from crying and fingers sore from trying and failing to pry the bone from my face, I exit the matching hut.
Etana waits.
This time, I climb upon her proffered back, too exhausted and desolate to protest. She takes me to the village square, to the steps of the great hall.
I try to climb down. I want to go home. Preferably before anyone sees me and I have to explain why I’m wearing a fucking skull.
But before I can slide off, Etana trots up the steps of the hall, and pushes open the larger double doors with her head.
With a great shiver, she throws me off her back into a heap, right into the middle of the meeting of elders and order.
I stand in my dirty woolen shirt and trousers, covered in oil and dirt and water, and look into the face of my father. He’s sitting at a large, round table, the eight keeper elders surrounding him, along with High Priestess Sarai, her assistant, and the newly matched, and unmatched, novitiates.
I feel Kian start forward before I see him. Apparently the bond between our matching phoenix skulls comes with a disturbingly precise knowledge of where that too-beautiful man is at all times. I shove away the numerous implications of that; one crisis at a time.
I turn to the shocked, despairing face of my father and feel as if I am three again, instead of thirty-three.
“Dad.” My voice cracks. “Help me.”