Prologue #2
Yet this Nameless had never seen a person so entrancing.
Not because she was beautiful, but because the air seemed to shift around her.
Her Radiance looked like something painted in a dreamer’s thrall.
And when she noticed her Attendant and turned to look at her, those silver eyes pulled everything into them…
Like a vortex.
A siphoning.
“Lu’ma,” she said in that voice that could have been the world’s breath.
‘Your Radiance’, the Attendant signed. ‘This Nameless brings sustenance. Tested for poison. Your Radiance has nothing to fear.’
She held up the tray and padded to the pile of books.
“It’s alright,” Her Radiance said. “I do not wish to eat. There is still much to do before the Procession.”
Safe to report: Her Radiance’s health is deteriorating steadily. Complexion poor. Too pale. Too drawn. Voice is frayed, but this is often the case after the Littany.
The Attendant placed the tray on the floor beside her Host. Her hands signed graceful pleas as she bowed her head low.
‘Your Radiance must eat today. This Nameless brought more. Removed the hexing.’
The Sokar looked down at the tomes. When she spoke again, her voice took on a certain quality. Low. Desperate. Pained.
“Lu’ma…I have found it…at last, I have found it…”
Lu’ma.
Lu’ma.
Not safe to report: The name given to this Nameless. It cannot be accepted. It is improper. It breaks code. But I yearn to hear it.
Just for a moment. Just here. With Her Radiance.
Lu’ma looked up.
‘The answer,’ she signed. ‘The reason why His Quintessence allowed the Sovereign Flame to bleed him in the Vox Ring.’
She recalled the ritual. Remembered standing at Her Radiance's side, sensing the tension in her slight frame as the Sovereign Flame drew the dagger down the Resh'Agar's back. They'd held it in the Altar Deep, within the Vox Ring, where once the ritual of Estar had been publicly performed.
Her Radiance nodded, her eyes so full of agony and torment that Lu’ma’s throat tightened beneath her choker. She swallowed to remove the discomfort, rubbing her thumb along the inside of her hand. The ring there scraped flesh, bringing her to her senses.
“I know now what the magic took,” Her Radiance said. “It was his memories, Lu’ma…when he left for this Campaign, he was so cold…we hardly spoke…and I do not…” she took a stuttering breath, as though something crushed her lungs. “I do not know now how much of me he remembers at all…”
Lu’ma rubbed the ring against her palm.
Steadying. Anchoring.
She signed, 'The Void is impartial.’
Her Radiance flinched. “He was never impartial to me…and now he has paid a price for it. To protect me. To find a place for me within this cage. The Council wanted to oust me, and he carved a seat for me beside him with his blood…”
Then quieter, “With his memories of us.”
Lu’ma rubbed the ring harder against her palm.
'Your Radiance, how would they have dared? Krystopolis has waited for a Sokar for centuries,' she signed.
But Her Radiance shook her head.
"They waited for the Sokar. For the Resh'Agar to find their prophesied chosen.
His sacred consort. But not me. They do not approve of me.
They never have." Her hand tightened, crumpling a wad of parchment in her fist. "But I am not a blade to be tempered.
I am not stone to be hewn from its mountain and sanded into the shape of Doctrine. I am myself, Lu'ma."
The Attendant stayed silent, unable to find words to comfort her Host. So, she asked questions instead.
'And Your Radiance believes the ceremony with His Quintessence was held to silence them?'
"Yes," the Sokar answered. She tossed aside the crumpled paper in her hand and lifted a large tome into her arms. "The Rite of Scars is a privilege granted to the Resh'Agar to overrule the Council, even the Sovereign Flame.
A break in the balance of power. Most tomes speak of price paid in blood, but this is all surface conjecture… "
She flipped through the pages, an unhealthy glint in her eyes.
Obsessive. Fierce.
"This is the only place it is mentioned. The truth of it. That there is magic. That it takes from him. Because the Void must be impartial. He must be impartial. And anything that affects that is erased." She bent forward over the book, pressing her forehead to the pages. Her shoulders shook.
"It took his memories…I cannot say how much…"
No words came to Lu'ma's tongue. Not even questions. The grief in Her Radiance was so profound that Lu'ma flinched from it as she did from all emotion.
Hands do not feel. Hands do not reflect. Hands only serve.
This Nameless must serve the Host.
Safe to report…
Safe…
But nothing came.
She took a breath.
Not safe to report: Her Radiance has found the answer she has searched for. More than two decades of reaching for relief, only to find pain instead. Trusted this Nameless with truth. With her fear. That if His Quintessence returns, he will not remember his Sokar.
Reflection: How can this be? The Sokar is the Resh'Agar's sacred counterpart. How can they guard the Shields together if one does not know the other?
Safe to report…
Safe…
But still, nothing came.
Hands do not disobey. The Choir Mother’s orders demand the condition of the Sokar. A report must be made.
Hands give reports. Pass information.
But…
Hands do not have names.
And this Hand is Lu’ma.
The silence stretched long between them until Lu’ma shifted the tray closer to Her Radiance.
‘Please. Eat today. Your Radiance must eat.’
The Sokar looked down at the food, still warm and steaming in the enchanted tray.
Her silver hair was tightly braided and pinned atop her head beneath an ivory diadem, save for a single thin braid of gold threaded with a violet ribbon.
This strange thing that did not match the rest of her moonlit strands.
This bit of hair that Lu’ma was never allowed to touch.
Always at her shoulder, carried like a scar.
Her Radiance touched it now. Stroked the soft gold strands, the violet ribbon threaded into them.
Safe to report: The Sokar touches the golden braid when emotionally compromised. This ritual remains unchanged.
‘This Nameless knows the selection is meager,’ Lu’ma signed. ‘This Nameless will not allow this negligence again. Batcher observed. Plan in motion.’
Small hands reached out to stop Lu’ma’s words in mid-air. Her Radiance shook her head, eyes fierce.
“No. You must not risk yourself on account of meals, linens, or anything of the sort. These small discomforts do not trouble me.”
Small discomforts?
Lu’ma’s eyes noted the way Her Radiance’s breath fogged the air. How her hands were colder than the stone beneath the Attendant’s feet.
‘A discomfort is a bruise, Your Radiance,’ she signed. ‘This is dishonor. The Sokar’s wellbeing was entrusted to This Nameless.’
“I am well. Not ill. Not injured. I am…safe…” Her Radiance insisted.
‘His Quintessence must know of this,’ Lu’ma signed. ‘He must know that the Sokar is not treated according to the sacred Law.’
Her Radiance paused at that. Her hands returned to her lap. She glanced at the tray, her brow furrowing, her fingers once more stroking the golden braid at her shoulder.
“This comfort, too, he bought with his memories,” she said. “And it is for that reason that I must endure. Until he returns. Until I know if the magic has erased me from his heart…”
She did not finish her thought, only picked up the spoon and began to eat. Lu’ma’s knees would have softened had she not been kneeling. Relief. Aching relief. Each bite Her Radiance took brought overwhelming gratitude.
Safe to report: Duty carried out. Host consuming sustenance.
Not safe to report: The name persists, and This Nameless can no longer deny its pull.
Lu’ma.
It echoes.
Hands do not have names.
But this Hand answers.
And somewhere beneath the choker on her neck, something tightened.
Not magic.
Not Doctrine.
Something else.
Something that would not be silenced.