Page 3 of Of Blood & Stone

She thought she’d buried such feelings years ago, but here they were—fresh and potent—as if her body had forgotten the sting of abandonment.

“Welcome,” Sylzenya managed as they finally released her.

A tear fell down her father’s cheek, his brown hair now a gentle shade of gray.

“It felt like this day would never come,” he whispered, his calloused hand caressing her face.

Sylzenya flinched. His eyes widened, smile fading as he dropped his hand. She turned to the High One, his yellow eyes sharp, a comfort in this otherwise dreaded moment. She quickly stepped away from her mother and father, wiping nonexistent dirt off her cloak.

“Yes, well, it’s wonderful to see you both,” she said, not looking at either of them.

Her parents opened their mouths to say something, but the High One’s deep voice boomed through the grove.

“Today is a celebration,” he announced, hands outstretched. “Our goddess continues to protect us from the famine ravaging the continent, a curse her brother, Distrathrus, had meant to impose to destroy us all. Aretta blessed our kingdom in her final moments centuries ago, granting our women with the power to connect with her mysterious power stored within the earth. May we never know hunger or thirst because of it. Praise be to Aretta.”

Everyone echoed the prayer.

“Each acolyte will approach the sacred soil with the leader of their household. The leader will then grant their blessing by opening the wound by which our acolytes and Kreenas connect to our goddess. You must then create what is requested of you. If you succeed, then you will be declared a Kreena.” He paused, smoothing out his robe. “If you don’t, then you will remain an acolyte, for our richest earth is meant for Kreenas capable of sustaining our people.”

The High One found Sylzenya’s stare, his outstretched hand forming a fist.

“Let us begin the ceremony,” he said.

Women approached the sacred soil one at a time. Out of the fifteen preceding Sylzenya, nine of them failed. Thankfully, Nyla wasn’t one of them. Her ability to create a bush of blueberries had been enough for her to gain her Kreena title. Grief filled the grove as a tenth woman failed. With each passing year, fewer acolytes were able to become Kreenas. Yet with each passing day, the famine grew closer. A silent tension hung in the air, a quiet question seeping through the leaves:

Would their people survive?

“Sylzenya Phatris,” the High One finally announced, “Your power has grown beyond any acolyte this kingdom has witnessed in centuries, and so, I would like you to create our goddess’ most sacred of creations—a willow.”

Everyone in the grove murmured. It was an advanced power, creating a willow, and it was never performed at a Kreena Rite. Sylzenya smiled. This would be the opportunity to show how vast her power had become over the years—to provide hope for her kingdom, just like the High One had requested of her.

She would save her kingdom from the encroaching famine.

Her father joined her in approaching the patch of earth lined by white marble. She unlatched the golden pin that held her green cloak at her sternum, allowing the heavy material to pool around her. Her white Kreena robe wrapped around her body, its design leaving open skin at her hips and chest; two long slits down the sides exposed her sun-kissed legs. A large gap revealed the cut on her back, already scabbing over from the morning’s practice.

She looked like a woman.

AKreena.

Sylzenya turned to her father, hating how the rite called her to kneel before him, towards a man who gave her away as a child.

Breaths shaking, her father revealed the branch he had chosen to carve the wound into her back. It was a whitebirch, a strange choice of wood for this rite as willows were the more traditional choice, but Sylzenya didn’t question it. All she desired was to connect with her goddess’ power—to finally become a Kreena.

“You may begin,” the High One commanded.

A single calloused finger brushed her shoulder, her father’s breaths short while he whispered a quick prayer. He carved the pointed tip of the branch along her scabbed scar. Sharp and shallow, Sylzenya clenched her teeth, closing her eyes as the warmth of her blood dripped down her shoulders and her back, soaking into her white robe.

“Praise be to Aretta.” Her father’s voice wavered as he spoke.

Slowly opening her eyes, Sylzenya echoed the prayer.

Turning to the patch of soil bordered by marble, she unclasped the clear orodyte from her necklace. She dug a shallow hole and buried the stone, careful to cover it in its entirety. She took a deep breath as she placed her palms upon the earth.

The soil grew warm. Her fingers ached as she breathed in the earth. The energy from the dirt beckoned to her, begging to become one with her.

Thump.

Thump.

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