Summer the 70th, 519 AV
Oresnya should have known not to believe in good things. The summer was winding down, and while the people’s hatred for the unseen thing in the wilderness, the Beast that lurked, only grew like the fires burning through the mountain forests, Oresnya was content to live her quiet life, undisturbed and not disturbing those around her. At least, not any more than she already had.
It was Market Day, and that meant a day of rest, of relaxation, and a time to enjoy the little things in life, the frivolous trinkets that meant nothing but distracted the mind from the weight of the day to day or of the loss of yesterdays. Or at least, that was what it had always meant since Oresnya had arrived at the mountain amidst the winter storms, a soaked mess. But with the advent of the Beast, the beautiful thing that Market Day had been slowly became twisted and perverted, changing from a celebration to an armament. Glittering glassworks and brightly-colored cloth and ribbons faded into the sharp, monochromatic glint of blades and the lifeless brown of sturdy leather armor. It was no longer a time of forgetting. Now it was a time to remember everything they had lost and prepare to never lose such things again. It was heavy with an air of war and of vengeance.
For this reason, those craftsmen and women whose arts did not involve the art of war found themselves sorely unwanted and unvisited during recent Market Days. One such craftswoman, a glassworker, was trying to peddle the vibrant glass creations she had made but was largely being ignored by everyone as they flocked to stalls loaded with weaponry and the promise to make their mark by doing their part against the Beast. Her face fell more and more as each Inarta blew past her. She was so dejected by the time Oresnya reached her that she almost failed to address her potential customer.
She didn’t quite forget completely, but the greeting was not one that welcomed business. “Widow. What do you want?”
Rather than let the other woman’s surliness be off putting, Oresnya let her eyes scan the pieces, the wonder in them betraying how impressed she was. “Did you make all these glass?”
Realizing she had a customer, the Inarta perked up a little, her tone becoming a bit more friendly, speaking slowly, so her customer would understand. “Not all. These are from many glassworkers. We sell them all together.”
Oresnya nodded. She only understood about half the words but enough of the important ones to make sense. “What are yours?”
“Which ones did I make?” the Inarta asked in clarification and went on when Oresnya nodded. Gesturing to a small collection in one corner of the table proudly, the Inarta smiled. “These are mine.”
Oresnya’s eyes left all the other trinkets on the table and began to wander over this particular Inarta’s work, studying the details that had been put in to each piece. Most of them were the beautiful glass feathers that Oresnya had seen in many Avora and Endal’s hair. It wasn’t until now that the Symenestra really looked at the care put into the crafting of the tiny trinkets. Each feather’s details were unique and carefully placed. While each feather was made with a single color, there were multiple shades of the color, streaked from the shaft outward, giving the illusion of individual barbs spread throughout. Tracing her hand over one, she was met with the surprising lack of texture that came with smooth glass.
“How many?” Oresnya asked.
“Just what you see here, though I can do custom work if you like.”
Oresnya shook her head, realizing she had used the wrong word. Unable to conjure the correct one in her mind, she reworded the question. “How many pinions?’
The Inarta laughed at Oresnya’s mistake and sad Nari, and the noise echoed throughout the Market. People stopped what they were doing and looked, the sound a foreign one considering the attacks of the last two seasons, but it wasn’t unwelcome. A few smiles appeared on faces, and the grim tone began to lighten. “How much?” came the correction before the woman answered. “Five pinions each, though certain colors are more. The materials to make certain colors are rarer. What strikes your fancy?”
The whole last question came as words that Oresnya did not yet understand, and her blank stare said so.
The glassworker laughed again, her laughter as joyous as the tinkle of the glass windchime hanging nearby. “What do you like?”
Beaming a smile when she understood the question, Oresnya’s eyes jumped to two different colors. One was an amethyst that nearly matched her top; the other, a red that to her was reminiscent of the mark of Viratas that she had seen on His priests and priestesses in Kalinor. She pointed to them both. “Two of red, one of purple.”
“Red is a little more pricey, little Widow. Is that alright?”
Oresnya bobbed a quick nod with a giddy smile. She was excited to buy something nice for herself.
“I could give you all three for, say…” The Inarta paused and stared up at the sky as if it held the answer, though Oresnya knew she was doing a quick bit of math in her head. “Twenty pinions.”
Unsure if the price was reasonable, Oresnya paid it happily. As the Inarta wrapped the feathers together in a single strip of felt, carefult o keep each one separate from the others with at least one layer of the cloth, Oresnya piped in with another question. “Did you say you do request?”
The Inarta kept her eyes on the cloth and feathers while she finished. “Custom work? Yes, I do. Do you have something in mind?”
Oresnya did. The red of the feathers had indeed reminded her of the dozen-linked chain that created the mark of Viratas. That symbol had been a prominent one around Kalinor. It was a reminder of the link one shared to their family, to those who shared their blood and to those who didn’t but held an equally close place in one’s heart through the bonds of friendship. There was a comfort in the Chain. There was a comfort in the dedication to one’s bonds, to the family they had created. There was comfort, but there was also pain. The yearning for those left behind. The ache of those who had been lost.
Isolation is lost in the offering and acceptance of blood’s sacred chain.
That was perhaps the most well-known and often quoted excerpt from the Viratassa, and it was what a priest of Viratas had said to comfort Deshvelon and Oresnya at their loss of Yora. He had said that Yora had done so, that she had accepted the chain, created her own connection to it, and chosen to become one of its many links. She had chosen to die for something.
Murder was not often a thought that crossed Oresnya’s mind, but in that moment, as those words had left the other Symenestra’s mouth, she had wanted to end him. Reason kept her calm, and in the moments following that, she realized the man was right. Yora had come to Kalinor, knowing exactly how it would end, but she had done so willingly, wanting to become a part of Deshvelon’s family and to leave behind the legacy of the child they would share.
Honor the chains you have begun.
That’s exactly what Yora had done, and that was what Oresnya was doing here in Wind Reach. Not all links, not all bonds, were those that were determined by birth. Not all connections were to one’s family, one’s city, one’s race. There were those bonds that one created beyond those- friendships, sisterhoods, and brotherhoods- that were perhaps more potent than the connections one didn’t choose. Oresnya had traveled the world to arrive here, to honor the chain she had begun with Yora.
“What would you like?” the Inarta asked as she handed Oresnya her feathers.
The words to describe what she was envisioning were difficult for the Symenestra to find, but she did her best. “I want a-” She formed her hands into a ring, thumb touching thumb and fingertips to fingertips and held it on top of her head.
“A crown?” A raised eyebrow from the Inarta said she thought Oresnya’s request was odd already.
Not recognizing the word, Oresnya nodded emphatically, sure the Inarta had not steered her wrong.
An amused smile broke across the other woman’s lips. “Are you planning on becoming queen of Wind Reach?”
Oresnya shook her head, realizing her mistake. “No, not crown. A…”
“A circlet?”
She nodded again, less emphatically this time lest she should make a fool of herself again.
“How should it look?”
Creating two links with her thumbs and index fingers, she pulled them against each other to indicate a chain. “Links?”
“A chain? I can do that, though it can be a little more complex.”
“Twelve links.”
“Just twelve? No more, no less?”
“Only twelve.” It was the number of links in the mark of Viratas. “And red. Please.”
“Do you want anything else on it?”
Oresnya shook her head. To embellish it would be to insult Viratas. The Chain existed and needed no lavish accoutrements. Each individual link was unique and brought beauty of its own.
“I’ll let you know the final price when it is all said and done, but we could be looking at a hundred pinions.”
Oresnya only caught ‘one hundred pinions’ but found that to be reasonable. It was a hefty expense, but this was something she wanted, something to remind her of home, something to remind her of Yora, something to remind her of her second family aboard The Bonnie Dot.
Good things were happening. The day seemed brighter for the Inarta’s laughter and for things that did not involve thoughts of killing. Oresnya smiled, believing in the good. She should have known better.
Their business concluded, Oresnya was about to walk away when somebody stumbled heavily into her. Turning and catching the new person to keep them both from tumbling over, Oresnya’s eyes met a fresh, freckled face. The Inarta before her was one she recognized, though Oresnya didn’t know her name, but in a city as small as Wind Reach, it was hard to not recognize everyone.
Oresnya was about to ask the woman what she needed when she saw panic was written on the Inarta’s face.
“Where’s the Valintar?”
Having passed him not long ago, Oresnya lifted her hand, pointing in the direction she had last seen him, not realizing until her hand was fully extended that it was now smeared with blood. As quickly as she had arrived, the bloodied Inarta was off again, stumbling as quickly as her broken body would allow.
Oresnya stared at her hands in horror, then back after the retreating figure.
Spilt blood cries out to me… but not all cries are holy.
She should have known better than to believe in good things.
