She croaks out one word before the gloaming takes her: “Mmi?”
10
Every new road is a choice, and every choice, a new road.
—Hazmaggi proverb
Shay isn't in her body. Or at least she can't feel it.
She can't feel anything. Her mind sifts through a fog of silver light. She catches the scents of blood and sweat and something deep and earthy—smells she associates with the act of birth. Soft voices murmur, coming from an unknown location, from every direction, and none.
Shay can't move. She'd say she's floating, but even that requires being attached to a body. Distantly, she thinks she should panic, knows something has gone wrong with the hjabat, can conceptualize what an appropriate level of concern should look like even if she's unable to rally it.
The silver cloud that holds her feels neither threatening nor peaceful. Neither warm nor cold. She is lost and found. Alive and dead. Everything and nothing. How strange. And how perfectly natural.
The murmurs grow louder. Women. Shay picks out four distinct voices, each honeyed and smooth in its own right, before their words start making sense.
“This one is yours, Iman. She belongs to the silver pantheon.”
“I can see that, but I don't think she's ready.”
“Find a way to make her ready. I can't bear these conditions much longer.”
“You've endured this for a hundred solar cycles already,” a fourth voice chimes in. “A little longer won't hurt. Think of it as an extended vacation.”
“I'd never willingly choose to vacation in a dank and dusty cave,” the third one argues back. “These conditions are wreaking havoc on my complexion.”
“Seriously, Noor?” the first voice asks. “You do realize you're made of glowing minerals?”
“This isn't about our comfort,” says the second voice, the one belonging to Iman. “We all know things have taken a dark turn in our absence.”
“Is she the one we have been waiting for? Where are her companions?” questions the third voice, the one called Noor.
“Alas, she is alone.” This, Shay is mostly sure, comes from the first voice. “And it doesn't look like she will awaken anytime soon.”
“Metaphorically speaking?” Noor asks.
“No, physically,” the first voice answers. “Glory to heavens, the rocks aren't the only dense things in this cave.”
“Stop that,” Iman scolds, clucking. “It's because of the hjabat. She can't move as long as it's on her finger. It seems she hasn't crossed the veil using her own powers, probably doesn't understand that she could. She's only here because the talisman has been spelled.”
“How tragic,” the fourth voice declares. “If only we were there to help her.”
“Why are you all looking at me?” Noor asks, sounding exasperated.
“It is your moon season,” Iman says dryly.
“Oh, fine.Wake up.”
The last words are spoken into Shay's ear followed by two quick snaps. As though riding a shock wave, she becomes aware of the hjabat's heavy pull on her finger. Then a sensation of greater heaviness, like wet sand filling her bones. She blinks, and her vision clicks into focus.
Ashen branches make fractal patterns above her like the network of arteries in Ghita's anatomy books. Beyond, a red moon casts the night sky in a sheen the color of fresh-spilled blood.
That can't mean anything good.
Pine needles poke into her arms and legs. Cold seeps through the fabric of her djellaba, moist soil clinging to her back. The air smells less metallic now, more like rot. The voices grow softer and move farther away, blending into a slippery blur.
A crisp rustle alerts her to the movement of something nearby. The smell grows so strong, Shay would gag if everything other than her eyelids weren't paralyzed. In fact, she's not entirely sure she's breathing, although she must be. She isn't dead—at least, she doesn't think so.
