17. Woven
Woven
The Turning of the Mirrors became a source of gossip in the Lattice, and even days after the event, Auryn could not be certain whether it worked in her favor or not.
For the most part, things remained unchanged.
After decades, she was used to the reproachful and disgusted glares of Councilors and Attendants.
But now, she worried as to whether the People's unexpected show of devotion to the Sokar would somehow bar her even farther from the Axis Hall. Her list of alliances was strained. Thin. Though Kailorien told her not to fret over it, she couldn't help but do so.
More days passed without reprieve from the strange heat, blurring together until one morning—eight days after the Estar—Lu’ma walked into the Resh’Agar’s wing carrying a perfumed scroll tied with zerani blossoms. Though Auryn hadn’t been active in the Jade Lattice’s social sphere for decades, she knew the moment she saw those pink and gold blossoms what the missive was about.
“An invitation to the Grace,” she said, and Lu’ma nodded.
The Pouring of Grace was a ceremony held in honor of the Companions once a Cycle, particularly after the completion of Estar.
It was an afternoon of leisure, rare tea, and heavy conversation.
Councilors of influence were invited. District representatives, too.
Anyone with ties to the Companions who wanted to bask in the glory of their achievements.
Auryn had never attended it. Even if she’d received an invitation, she would not have gone.
Sitting on a balcony for hours while sipping tea that was likely poisoned as she tried to ignore the glares of Councilors, Companions, and other political figureheads seemed like self-inflicted torture.
She didn’t have the political standing, influence, or reputation for the benefits to outweigh the risks.
But this time was different.
It was time to stop running.
Time to stop wondering how much influence she had.
Time to start building from scratch, if she must.
When Lu’ma extended the delicate scroll to her with a neutral expression, Auryn nodded.
“I will attend.”
Lu’ma’s brown eyes hardened. She raised her hands to sign, ‘Your Radiance, please allow this Nameless to go to the Servitor. There are gowns there. Reserved.’
“For Grand Festivals and Processions,” Auryn sighed. “Not for social calls.”
Lu’ma frowned. ‘Your Radiance. His Quintessence placed the order for new gowns only two days past.’
Auryn smiled. “And Zeera knows it. That is precisely why I have been invited. Either I decline and lose face, or I come to the event wearing a torn dress.”
She opened the scroll, admiring the impeccable penmanship and artistry of the invitation. The paper was thick and scented, the ink fine and sharp. This invitation alone must have cost several Gleams; an entire Cycle’s stipend for the Sokar.
Setting it aside on Kailorien’s worktable, she padded to the dresser.
Her one single gown hung there, the seam at the hip still crooked.
Once, it had been white and pristine, but time had painted it a yellow hue.
Its long sleeves, which had once trailed behind her like floating blossoms, now sagged—limp and lifeless.
Beside it hung one of her few remaining shifts and her glowshawl, the one luxury she’d allowed herself since arriving in this city nearly fifty-four years past.
As her mind churned, Lu’ma stepped in front of her. She was shaking her head.
‘Your Radiance, the look in the Sokar’s eyes unsettles this Nameless. Your Radiance is ill. Please. Do not act in haste.’
But Auryn had already made up her mind. If she didn’t have a gown to wear, she would Weave one.
Could she accomplish it? She wouldn’t know unless she tried.
Years had passed since she’d tried to use that power regularly.
Even at the Turning of the Mirrors, she'd used it with caution. These passing decades, she’d taken great care not to trigger it, for it always came with a heavy cost.
This is my selfishness, perhaps. But appearance is everything in this city. One cannot come as they are before the People. They do not see you unless you burn as brightly as the stars.
She glanced at her dress. Old, yellowed, and splitting at the seams. A mark of shame. A mark of a girl playing at godhood.
A mark she refused to wear any longer.
She reached up and plucked the dress from the hanger, laying it out on the floor.
“Lu’ma, stand aside,” she decreed, pointing to the wall. “Just there. Do not interrupt me, even if I…” Auryn swallowed. “Even if it seems that I will fall.”
The girl obeyed, but the expression on her face was mutinous. She wrung her hands together, pressing the ring she always wore on her thumb against the inside of her palm.
Taking a long, deep breath, Auryn raised her hands. White was the color of the Sokar. No other was allowed to wear it save for the Sovereign Flame. She thought of Shu’Khan, of his flowing white robes, of his golden bracelets and sandals, jingling as he glided across the marble floor.
Magic flowed through her fingers. The gown lifted into the air.
Auryn closed her eyes, imagining herself floating like Shu’Khan.
Untouchable. Standing above all others with that cold look in his eyes.
His skin like marble. His eyes frozen and unreadable.
His robes floating around him like clouds around the sun.
I want to Weave that.
To be that.
Even if it is just an illusion for a few hours.
I want to be seen.
She gasped as something pulled on her. Deep inside. Like a spear had punctured a hole in her chest and was bleeding her dry. But the magic held. Her body held. She Wove until Lu’ma shifted behind her.
Opening her eyes, Auryn looked up in awe and wonder.
The gown that floated before her was exquisite.
An image of Shu’Khan’s splendor but made to fit her form.
White. Brilliant, shining, shimmering white.
It was spun from starlight and sanctity—an opalescent cascade of silk-thin fabric that shimmered like fine mist. Each thread was veined with golden sigils visible even in the fickle Polis light.
Silver cuffs cinched the sleeves at the wrists and held the gown suspended at mid arm, leaving the wearer’s shoulders bare.
Long trails of misted gauze streamed from the silvery leaves and foils at the back in a regal train. Auryn would need no jewels or necklaces to accent her status. This dress was a moving, living relic. As if the threads of Doctrine themselves had chosen to drape her in their flawless grace.
A white gossamer veil lay on the floor beside the dress. And a crown. A diadem inlaid with crystals and silver strings of spooled starlight. Each piece caught the Polis-light, its spears fanned outwards like blades of judgment.
Lu’ma picked up the dress with shaking hands, and when she looked at Auryn, her eyes were brighter than she had ever seen them. She laid it out on the nearby divan and signed, ‘at last, a fabric worthy of Your Radiance.’
And Auryn smiled.
Smiled despite the stabbing pain in her chest.
Because the cost was worth it.
Somehow, it always was.