THE CITY A'LARA

BY LAND

CHAPTER II

“...when slain embarks for Mother’s womb

displaced the vanquished quail...”

Nilwn Gyndoh Dynde XX

2:2:4:7/5, III:IX

Once strangled in slithering vines, the vibrant glade rested, and Larin caressed the quiet bracken, finding solace in its repose. The plants spared no lament for their animate centuries, and she steeped in the mystic peace blooming off their leaves.

The chirps of evening arose and Larin quavered, A’lara hours behind her. Dreading an altercation, she’d drifted from the city in Jorn’s absence, a note slipped beneath his door at the inn:

I’ve gone to learn from the nymphs, my true people.

I forgive you and wish you well.

What else could she say? His dire burdens left no room for her bloody nightmares, and she’d approach Kingard about her nosebleeds after a few days with the nymphs. Each step through the jungle lightened her heart, freedom lilting in the shade outside the city wall.

Larin sang as she wandered, a dirge from her slave days pining through the glade. The flora offered vague guidance toward a village, but she’d read that nymphs sang to find each other in the forest. “We’re the only ring around here now,” a voice announced, her dialect of A’lari choppy and strange. “You’ve been lost a long time. From the stillness?”

A pale woman emerged from the brush, edgy but intrigued and blonde with bright eyes. Red tattoos covered her right side, each swirl and point like living calligraphy etched from face to foot. Laden with silver and gold set with gems, she wore more trinkets than clothes, a single oversized leaf curled between her legs.

Though all nymphs remained youthful within the glade, Larin sensed maturity in the taller woman’s approach. A flood of questions fazed Larin, and silence stretched between them. “What’re you wearing?” blurted the woman, her curiosity quicker than Larin’s.

Tongue loosened by a sharp tug on her shirt, Larin exclaimed, “Hey! Er... hello there,” she amended, the polished language she’d received from her mer mentors starkly formal against the woman’s clipped speech. “I am called Larin–”

“What?” With measured surprise, the woman deemed, “A strange name. Who’s your ring? Ralla?”

Larin stifled a cringe, enduring the insistent hand grasping her shirt. “My ring? I... do not have such a thing. I came from–”

“No ring?” yelped the woman, springing back in horror. “What happened?”

“No! Nothing happened; I am not from the glade. I never knew my, ah...” Floundering for the word parents, Larin cobbled, “My mother and... sire.” She found no word for father either.

“No ring,” the nymph managed, “no mother, and no sisters or aunts?” When Larin shook her head, the woman tutted in doleful chagrin. “Alone out there, no one to adorn you! And it’s normal to know your sire, where you come from?”

Dismay doused her hopes of tracing kin. “You do not know your sires here?”

“Why would we? They hide in their villages and shun the greater glade. Where’re you from?” Circling Larin like a prospector eyeing chattel, she pressed, “They’ve got no leaves there? And why’d you come here?”

“I grew up on a... plantation, in Kanata,” attempted Larin, using Allanic words where she lacked the nymph equivalents. “I was a slave there.”

“A what?” She completed her circle with a frown and folded her arms.

“Someone owned by another, who works for that person forever. Unless the owner grants... freedom,” Larin sighed, disheartened at the explanation. “Then the slave can leave.”

After a moment’s contemplation, the nymph surmised, “So, like a daughter?”

“What? No! Nothing like – no,” insisted Larin, battling dejection. “Owners are not like mothers at all. They are rich men with great power.”

Sympathy filled the nymph’s frown, and she pulled Larin into a long hug. “You’re owned by a man? Sweet Mother, you poor thing!” Petrified in the embrace, Larin set her jaw, determined not to reject the woman’s compassion. “Explains your name,” she murmured into Larin’s ear, smoothing her hair with gentle caresses.

“My name?”

The nymph straightened, cupping Larin’s cheeks and planting a kiss on her brow. “Yes. You know it means ours, like our thing. Such a harsh name.”

She’d known what the word meant, but it had seemed fond to Larin, a loving name from loving parents. For a painful moment, she wondered who’d given her the moniker. “Anyway, I am free now, and–”

“And you’ve returned home, of course!” she exclaimed, cradling Larin’s head against her shoulder, cheek upon her hair. “A wayward sister takes root at last. You’ll be of our ring, Larin. You’ll know love and family and never want again.”

“Needs another name, w’ean’onwe,” a new voice crooned, and Larin snapped her head up as a nymph wandered out of hiding. A bit shorter and fuller in the face, she bore red tattoos on her right arm, and she wore a silver circlet with a large moonstone. “I’d call no sister larin. No daughter would.”

Other women trickled from the glade, some more tattooed and bejeweled than others, and each dressed in unique leaves. Identical where present, their tattoos arose at the shoulder and covered the hand, then stretched down to the foot before creeping up the face. Larin gaped at the first woman, by far the most decorated of the clan. “W’ean’onwe?” she echoed, the title of great grandmother odd for the beauty before her. “You lead this ring?”

“I’m Leniira,” she affirmed with a laugh. “Since my last aunt rejoined the earth, I’ve connected the branches of my daughters to our roots below ground.”

Unbidden, the five others chorused, “Mother guide our sprouts to stretch to heaven.”

“Our roots to cradle the earth below,” Leniira closed the prayer.

With an awkward wave, Larin offered, “I am... Larin.”

“Not anymore!” effused the one with the least tattoos. “You’ll be of our ring and bear a name from your mother. I’m Yanuloo. That’s my sister Lanni,” she indicated the nymph with the circlet.

Lanni gestured at a woman with many bangles and tattoos well past her hip. “My mother Wiiyelo, my aunt Rew’u–”

“My mother!” sang Yanuloo, wrapping her arms around a woman whose tattoos reached her shin.

“And I’m her aunt Nain.” The final woman grinned, her neck tattoos obscured by a wealth of golden mail across her shoulders. “Leniira’s my aunt.” With a weak nod, Larin feigned a grasp of their relations.

“I’ll be your mother, and give you a name of our ring,” Leniira intoned, tilting her head and humming in thought.

Panic trilled through Larin and she recoiled, hands raised to halt her sudden adoption. “Really, that is very kind and all, but...”

“But?” prompted Leniira, the others silent for the discourse. “What’s in your life, lo a’la, as grand as a ring around you, forever and always?”

Larin sputtered, the endearment so intimate it stole her breath away. “I – there... is danger!” she hit upon, quelling her empty yearning with a shake of her head. “We are all in danger! The Dark Master tried to take A’lara, and Kingard is training the new Light Master. A war is coming, and–”

“Mother’s arms embrace our kind,” Leniira soothed, working her fingers into Larin’s tight shoulders before drawing her into another hug. “She protects us from the outside world. Out there, lo a’la, death and cruelty, but there’s peace here. We’re safe, and you’re too.”

“You do not understand!” Squirming in the nymph’s arms, Larin appealed, “It is not safe anymore. A’lara is unbound now. That is why I came – to ask you for help.” She shrank from Leniira, her purpose regained. “Now, I am the nymph who unbound the city. I am learning about the magic of our people, and–”

Their shocked scrutiny choked her next words, and a strange humiliation crept over Larin. “By Mother’s boughs,” breathed Leniira. “You’re...”

Lanni darted up to brush a hand down Larin’s forehead and nose, fingers flickering like falling leaves over her lips and off her chin. “You’re Mother’s daughter,” she marveled.

“Are not all nymphs daughters of Mother?” refuted Larin, defensive arms wrapped across her stomach.

“Mother founded the forbidden city,” Leniira imparted, her reverent touch easing through Larin’s hair. “She sprouted the towers and made the glade dance. In still times, only Mother’s ring’n unlock the gate and restore the dancing.” She took Larin’s hand and pressed it to her face. “Your name means ours but you’re not owned at all. W’elarin,” fawned the nymph, kissing her knuckles and entwining their fingers, “you of Mother’s ring own the world.”

Dumbfounded, Larin groped for a fitting response. A’lara had sprung from mortals, but correcting their false legends seemed pointless. “Uh... yeah,” she allowed, tugging her hand back and wringing it to ward off tears. “Maybe.” Heralded as a savior, she’d find no companionship amongst her kind.

“You’re all right, W’elarin?”

“Fine,” she urged with a broken laugh. “Could... you point me to the nearest village?” Perhaps the men there believed a different legend.

Polite disapproval clouded Leniira’s eyes. “Now’s the time to make village, W’elarin? Glade’s been still too long as yet.” Nervous accord murmured from a few of the other nymphs.

“I think now is the perfect time,” she defied, eager to set off alone and collect herself in solitude.

Sighing her dissent, Leniira pointed. “Just... go that way ‘til the twisted nurilano tree. Branches’ll guide you from there.”

“Not in range tonight, W’elarin,” chimed Lanni. “Dark soon, but I’m going there tomorrow. Could we guide her, w’ean’onwe?” she pleaded with tangible excitement.

Leniira deigned a wave, the gesture halfway between a farewell and salute. Permission granted, Lanni grabbed Larin’s hand and scuttled into the woods with her in tow. “You’re quite young to’ve earned no wisdom, W’elarin,” chattered the nymph, oblivious to her reluctance. “You’ve made village before?” Behind them, Yanuloo hurried to stay within earshot, while the older nymphs lingered in soft discussion.

“No, you are the first nymphs I have met,” Larin answered, more at ease with a girl her age. “But I have earned wisdom, I think.”

“You think? Wouldn’t you know?” Pausing in her stride, Lanni pushed up Larin’s right sleeve. “Where?” She checked her other sleeve for good measure.

“Oh! Is that what your marks are, wisdom earned?”

With pride, Lanni displayed the red patterns curling halfway down her forearm. “As we learn each magic, a stripe’s laid so we remember always. Preserves the wisdom of the ancients.”

“So Leniira knows the most magic?” No other nymph bore tattoos on her face.

“With time comes wisdom,” affirmed Lanni, guiding her to a small clearing. The smooth ground formed a shallow bowl, leafy fronds shingled over soft moss. “Our nest! We’ll sleep here tonight, except Yanuloo,” she chuckled, jerking her thumb at leaves woven in the crook of a tree. “Likes to sleep above.”

Settling beside her on the cushioned earth, Larin surveyed Lanni’s stripes with interest. “Are these all different magics?”

“Yes! I’ve more wisdom than Yanuloo, though she’s older by nine seasons. I sense the ores in the soil, earned my first stripes in extraction.” She traced the five swirls on the ball of her shoulder. “And these,” she indicated, sliding down her bicep, “smeltcraft. This’s my favorite, platinum. Like silver but harder to draw.”

“You do metal magic here?” Larin challenged. “Do you not need a forge?”

“Forge’s easy to build,” laughed the girl. “Rew’u earned her stripes in stonecraft, at the quarry. She’n raise a forge in seconds. Her presscraft made this,” she grinned, tapping the moonstone in her circlet. “She imbued it for me, to raise my own forge from the rocks below. And now I’m earning smithcraft stripes!” Poking at the edge of her tattoos, Lanni contorted to show the underside of her elbow. “And that’s threadcraft. I’m learning to work fibers, to spin silver like Nain.”

Beaming, Larin disclosed, “I know some threadcraft, mostly patching things – look.” She tore the hem of her shirt and stirred her magic into the threads until they twined back together.

Lanni clapped her hands and confessed, “My plant magic’s weak for our ring, so threadcraft comes hard. But I’ve more touch magic than any daughter! This stripe’s,” she tapped her forearm, “for touch healing. Watch.” Grabbing Larin’s arm, she sank her fingertips into the crook of her elbow, massaging down to Larin’s wrist. “Doesn’t even itch like earth healing – does...”

A disconcerted frown stole across her face, and Lanni worked Larin’s hand in silence. Plunged into fresh worry over the morning’s bloody nails, Larin yanked free and Lanni raised her eyes in confusion. “You’re done showing off?” teased a nymph as the clan elders arrived. “Rest well before a village night.”

“Yes, mother,” pouted Lanni, flopping onto her side and folding her hands. “She’s never made village before!”

“Ah,” Wiiyelo acknowledged, exchanging a knowing glance with her sister Rew’u. “So you’ve come for First Village, W’elarin?”

Unsure of the custom, Larin shrugged. “I suppose.” Wiiyelo stretched out behind Lanni, snuggling against her daughter’s back, and Larin settled beside the two, daunted by impending sleep. Would she bleed again and wake to new scrutiny?

“We’ll move in range of Anyale tomorrow,” caroused Lanni, draping an arm across Larin’s hips. “We’ll prepare you for First Village, and I’ll guide you. We’n even go in together! Yanuloo came in for my First Village, so I wasn’t nervous. Don’t you worry at all.”

“Hush, child,” reproached Rew’u from her spread. “There’ll be time enough for talking in the dawn.”

“...I’m excited,” Lanni whispered into Larin’s neck, brushing her skin with tender kisses. “I’ll be there for you, W’elarin. We’ll share First Village like true sisters.” Riddled with gooseflesh and perturbed beyond fatigue, Larin willed her eyes open and scanned the sleepless night.