Page 2 of Of Blood & Stone

“Now you’re just being dramatic.” Sylzenya said.

“Are you blind?” She pointed to her small green sprout and held up her clear stone. “My power hasn’t grown since the day I arrived at the temple, and there’s no changing that.”

“Restraint isn’t weakness,” Sylzenya argued, “you might create less vegetation in one day, but you have one of the highest monthly harvests. Your consistency is what our kingdom needs, not sporadic moments of brilliance followed by days of dryness.”

Nyla stared into the blue sky. “I hope you’re right.”

“You know I’m right. Besides, you’ve gotten much quicker,” Sylzenya said, brushing her finger along the green sprout, “You’ll do fine in the rite today.”

“Today.” Nyla shot to her feet. “What time is it?”

Sylzenya grinned as she used her friend’s arm to pick herself up. “Calm yourself. The sun’s almost up, so we’re right on schedule.”

They grabbed their green cloaks, running out of the temple’s gardens and falling in step with the other women acolytes wearing the same green cloaks. Sunlight spilled on the dirt path like a river of gold, leading them towards their final ceremonial rite. Sylzenya’s white robe, hemmed with golden thread, peaked through the heavy green material, catching the light and reflecting its glimmer on the surrounding branches.

Smile widening, she wrapped her fingers around the clear orodyte hanging from her neck.

“Are you ready to see your parents?” Nyla asked.

Sylzenya’s mouth fell flat.

“Ready as I’ll ever be, I suppose,” she replied, a fingernail scratching along the stone. “And what of your Aunt?”

Nyla’s nostrils flared, her smile fading as she gripped her own piece of clear orodyte. “Ten years changes a lot of things. I’ve wondered if I’ll recognize her.” Her warm amber eyes turned to Sylzenya’s, “Or, if she’ll recognize me.”

They walked in silence, the branches brushing softly in the breeze.

“She will,” Sylzenya replied.

Walking barefoot on the damp soil, she breathed deeply as she felt for her goddess’ power in the earth. It sang back to her, sparks of light singeing into her palms and up her forearms. The scar along her back stung, but Sylzenya didn’t fear the pain.

She embraced it.

The familiar tall atrium stood before them. Green vines looped in and around the white stone structure. The willow trees bent in reverence towards the white marble throne, their presence encasing the ancient grove.

The High One, their kingdom’s leader, sat on the throne, elevated above the small crowd. He was surrounded by four priestesses in golden robes. A willow grew behind the throne–the one she’d created ten years ago, when she was only fourteen years old. Her heartbeat quickened. The willow was fuller now, leaves bright and branches drooping like a waterfall spilling over a cliff side.

The High One’s yellow gaze found hers.

“Welcome, acolytes of Aretta’s temple,” he announced as he stood. Long white hair fell to his waist, his straight nose carved like the marble statues lining the grove. “Please find those who dedicated you to our goddess’ temple. We will begin the Kreena Rite shortly.”

Sylzenya’s mouth went dry.

Standing at the bottom of the dais were people in white and brown linens. But, it was the man with her same dark blue eyes and the woman with her same ash-colored hair that caught her gaze. The lines around their eyes had deepened, her father’s forehead more creased than the last she’d seen and her mother’s mouth thinner than before.

She should smile like the other acolytes, greeting her parents warmly. And then, she should thank them for leaving her at this grove after she created her willow all those years ago, her connection to her goddess the only reason she cared to wake up anymore.

She should tell them she loved them.

But then she’d be lying.

Muscles tensed and chin tilted up, Sylzenya approached her parents. They stared at her, eyes welling with tears. Heat rushed through her body as they embraced her. She wanted to yell, to force them off of her, but then she’d cause a disruption.

And there was nothing she hated more than displeasing the High One.

“Oh, my flower bud,” Sylzenya’s mother choked out as her thin fingers curled around Sylzenya’s neck. “We’ve missed you so much.”

Her father said nothing as his breaths trembled, his strong hand gripping her shoulder tightly to him. Hands shaking, she forced her arms down at her sides. She hated how she yearned for their familiar scent—like a spring’s first rain; a cold piece of linen on her forehead during hot summer nights; warm blankets in front of a dancing flame.

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