The Trials of Aurelia

Chapter 1

The shuffling of feet against cracked dirt is the only thing I can focus on as we cross the expanse to the town center. I look over at those to my right, some meet my gaze, two look focused on their destination, but most look like they are trying not to throw up; I can relate. We are barefoot and simply dressed in the Aurelian ceremonial crimson tunics, made from imported wares, intricate golden silk ropes loop around our waists and hang at our side, swaying as we walk. A girl to my left is nervously toying with hers, muttering under her breath.

“. . .the Goddess has blessed me. . . no us, say us, Clara,” she chides herself before restarting. I divert my gaze to the quickly approaching archway. I have seen the temple innumerable times, but each visit instills the same sense of awe and appreciation. The Levin Temple stands in the center of the Talderan Desert, and I crane my head to look up at it as we approach. The temple towers a hundred feet above us as we walk under the curve of the grand entryway where it connects to the rotund arches surrounding the open-air temple. There isn’t a true ceiling to the structure, a simple dome with varying sized holes in the ceiling, used to track the constellations as they shift across the night sky.

Now, however, it is the middle of the day and the opening at the center of the ivory dome is a space just large enough so that the sun is beginning to spill into it, as if the sun itself is a chandelier of divine light for the temple. Soon enough the sun will perch at its peak and fill the interior of the camber opening, with it announcing the start of what I have prepared ten years for. I stretch my fingers out, make a fist, and stretch them again. It is almost time.

As we reach the threshold the group slowly shuffles inward, assembling a tight knit formation despite the entrance being well wide enough to fit us in a horizontal line. As we mill together through the entry, I hear a deep beating, thud thud, thud thud. I put my hand to my chest, “Is that my heart?” I wonder. “No,” I realize, it was Clara’s. Her heartbeat is pounding so fervently in her chest now that it is audible, even above her hushed rehearsals. I go to reach out to her, but there is a sudden cacophony of voices, shrieks of glee as soon as our toes touch the landing.

Now it is my heart that lurches, jumping into my throat as the hoots of our community deafen our ears. It is crowded inside the temple, spectators practically spilling over the railing separating them from us - clamoring for the best view. The commonwealth of Aurelia has eagerly prepared for our arrival; glancing about I can see the children are in their best homemade red smocks, faces painted with eager smiles. Their parents stand at their side staring at us, hopeful for us, nervous for us. There are banners hoisted about of crimson cloth cut into squares, each one with a letter scrawled in gold paint - TWEE, it spells. I don’t have a clue what a Twee is but a small, sprightly hand in the front of the group shoots up to wave at the ones holding the banner. The banner people wave back, matched in excitement. I smile.

“Let us quiet down, so we may begin,” Lady Portia’s voice calls over everyone. The crowd settles in volume, but bodies continue to shift, and hands wave wildly trying to garner the attention of their loved ones in the center around me.

“Approach the circle,” Lady Portia directs, motioning to the carved platform that lies before us. I recognize the scrawling, ancient script that is hand-chiseled into the slab. Most likely by our Aurelian ancestors hundreds of years ago. I think back to the countless times I studied drawings of it while agonizing over every detail of the Summoning.

When I was a young girl of barely eight, I was already aware of the Summoning. I had not known the semantics of what it stood for or how it shaped our lives, but I adored the pomp and circumstance of it all then - I still do- but there is nothing quite like a first Summoning. Ten years ago, I didn’t have a homemade red tunic like some of the other children, whose parents either fashion them from old garments or spent a week’s worth of gold coin to import the real deal fabric from Darnrel, all the way across the Tempest Sea. My father believes that the fine fabrics should be reserved for those taking part in the ritual. My father is also not a modiste by any means, so when I was a child, we opted for cutting three holes in an old pillowcase, two holes just big enough for my noodle arms and one for my head. I had been elated at the effort, but my father had wanted it to be perfect, so he cut a long tassel from the drapes and wrapped it around my waist to resemble those that were worn by the Summoned.

“There you go, Teacup,” he had remarked, securing the cord in a simple knot. “You look perfect.” Father then guided me to a mirror and held me up to it so I could see myself. “You see that girl there?” he asked in a hushed tone, pointing to my reflection in the mirror. I nodded. “That’s going to be you someday, in real robes.” His eyes had grown bright at the thought of the last part; Father had always thought I was destined for greatness. I had stared at my eight-year-old reflection in awe listening to my father; that was the first time I realized I had wanted to prove him right.

            I smile now, like I smiled then. I look around at the animated crowd, trying to spot a mop of curly brown hair, peppered in gray with age. The whole town has shown up, as usual, and it is nearly impossible to spot him as we take our places around the circle. We have rehearsed it all week - and for me, my whole life - and now Lady Portia calls us forward, we move methodically to our positions around her, forming a full circle.

            “As I call upon our Goddess, I ask her to bless each of you if it is her will. I ask her to guide you, nurture you, and instill in you the potential for greatness. I ask of you, the Chosen, to open your heart and your minds to this request. Open your spirit to her, so that she may see the worthy, the righteous, and the brave that I see in you,” Lady Portia calls out, her voice carrying through the temple, to the crowd, and to us, as if she is whispering into our ears. 

Lady Portia tilts her head back, her pointed chin arching up until it is even with the crowd, who do the same as she does. I flick my eyes up to the dome once again, the smaller opening holds nothing but blue sky, the largest one in the center is completely obscured in sunlight, practically blinding to look at. I take a steady breath, splaying my fingers out and breathing in as I relax them. Lady Portia speaks the words I have waited the better part of a decade for, “The time is now, my loves. Please begin the ceremony, and as always, dea nos serva.”

“DEA NOS SERVA” the crowd, Chosen, and I respond. As we utter the words, each of us begin the ceremonial dance taught to us as children. A person on either side of me steps back, as I stay, stretching my arms to the sky. They move forward, I step back. We continue in this way and begin to walk in a weaving pattern, intertwining our path. As we do, the intricate carvings of runes in an ancient tongue begin to light on the platform under us; a dull, warm amber glow under our feet. 

            Instinctually I want to look down, to see what is happening as we dance. I have seen it before, I remind myself, but the allure is still there dancing at the edges of my vision. A person across the platform stumbles as I try and keep my mind focused on the movements. I start slowly raising my arms up high to touch palms with those on either side of me. I can see Clara in my periphery, now on my left. As our hands meet, her palms are damp, clammy, and trembling. I feel a pang in my chest from secondary anxiety as the dance draws to a close. I gather a slow, steadying breath as we pivot in unison, hands turning over hands before they fall at our sides, and we turn to face the crowd. My eyes dart over the faces of those in front of me; not recognizing most past neighborly acquaintances or school friends, except for one. His neck cranes just above the heads of those in front of him. His hair is a tousled mess as it always is -- my father. He catches my gaze and gives a reassuring nod to let me know he sees me, he’s here. I let out a rush of air as he does, unaware that I have been holding my breath. I return his recognition with the slightest of nods. His face and those in the temple begin to blur as my eyes pool with tears.

“Goddess,” Lady Portia begins. “The time is now, these young Summoned are here to ask for your blessing, for merely a drop of your divine power to carry out your will. If it is in your heart, please bless them now.”

I close my eyes, waiting. I hear the gasps of the crowd at the same time as one escapes my lips. There is a sudden tingling on my feet, as if a swarm of butterflies are flickering across my skin. The sensation begins to spread first up my legs and then over my body. I open my eyes to see the platform is no longer a dull glow, but a bright light shining up at us, our own little sun.

A panicked voice distracts me, “I don’t feel anything,” Clara confesses. Her wide doe eyes turn to me, “Do you feel anything?” I bite my lip as hers tremble. I pause, afraid to answer her. Clara’s eyes suddenly spark, and her brow relaxes as understanding passes between us soundlessly. “It’s okay. That’s okay,” she tells me with a weak smile. I look to the crowd at my dad, who is smiling. I beam at him to let him know - I did it. He begins to cry but raises his hand and then lowers it, telling me to remain calm. He is right, the time to celebrate would be later, not now in the face of those who weren’t Chosen. I tilt my head back, basking in the prickling sensation as it spreads - the fluttering now stronger, more akin to a thrumming energy as it creeps up my chest and neck.

Shouts of glee begin to fill the atrium, as onlookers realize their loved ones are Chosen. Others look forlorn, some pitying.

Lady Portia’s voice sounds again, “It is an honor to be Summoned, do not let the disappointment of not being a Chosen bring you despair. The Goddess knows your heart, and she is with you always.” The bodies around me begin to shift as those not Chosen wait their turn to exit. 

I take the respite to look at those around me for the first real time. There is a smallish boy across from me with dark brown hair spilling into his face. He is jumping up and down, his bangs sweeping into his eyes as he does so. He is shouting enthusiastically, tears streaming down his face. He swings his arms wildly in the air in my direction, is he looking at me? No, I realize, he is looking just past me to the same family I saw earlier with the banner. Ah, so that is a Twee. Twee has a slight frame but not skeletal, more fragile than anything. Glancing around he is notably smaller than the majority of us here on the platform, almost too young. It’s an absurd thought, the Summoning doesn’t have age restrictions if you are the eldest child without children yourself. Other than his smallish frame, Twee looks much like everyone else here in the Talderan Desert with his olive skin and shaggy chocolate hair- besides me and my mother’s auburn hair.

I smile at him and then at his family, he must be Chosen as well. His family in attendance consists of two small children and three adults. One child is on a stout man’s broad shoulders, her dark hair wild like Twee’s. The other child was even younger, about two years old, in only a red cloth diaper. One hand sucking his thumb, the other hand being waved by the woman holding him. Little spit bubbles form at the edges of his mouth as the toddler smiles, as though he understands the magnitude of this moment. Twee beams at them before his eyes cut to me, his face filled with light and joy. I instinctually giggle, this moment is happy indeed. We have made it.

A muffled noise on my left alerts me to the man beside me. He is older than the rest of us, not yet gray but his features settle in a way that only comes with time. My stomach twists, how careless we are to celebrate in front of him. He was fighting back tears, his nose a runny mess, his hands are white-knuckled fists at his side. Despite myself, I follow his gaze too.

A pregnant woman bites her lip as she stretches out a hand, motioning to him. He shakes his head at her, she lowers her hand before looking down. I want to comfort him, if he would accept it, but as my mouth parts to speak my throat tightens. What can I possibly say to make this better? As I stall, he shuffles off, leaving the platform to join the audience. I should be thankful; it is doubtful that he will have accept my words anyway. I am Chosen and he isn’t. Chosen - just the thought of it causes my heart to swell again. I made it.

There is a tap on my shoulder as Clara steps into view. “I am so happy for you, Gemma,” she says sincerely. My heart sinks slightly, which must show on my face because Clara interjects, “No, no none of that. It’s okay, honest!”

“Still,” I begin. “You wanted this just as much as me.”

Clara laughs in response, surprising me. “Oh, no,” she sighs, eyebrows arched. “I thought I did, but I didn’t.” She takes a cautious look around before stepping in closer, lowering her voice. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, Gemma, but I am actually relieved.” The way she says it, I can tell she is being truthful. I can practically see the weight being lifted off her as she confesses, a complete 180 from the Clara I walked here with.

“I figure you can’t relate,” she smiles again knowingly, waving her pointer finger to everything around us. “This has always meant so much to you.”

“And you,” I insist, still lost.

“I thought so too, but once I started dancing, I got so scared,” she admits. “And not of the steps, we could do this blindfolded in a sandstorm. I just had this epiphany.”

“An epiphany,” I repeat.

“Yes, Gemma. An epiphany - a great realization of all the responsibility . . .” she looks off to the side for a moment, pursing her lips before meeting my gaze again. “It isn’t for me,” she says matter of fact. “But I really am happy for you.” She squeezes my hand as a figure approaches.

“Mind if I interrupt?” my father asks Clara before turning to me, embracing me in a bear hug. “You did it!”

 He releases me as Clara exclaims, “Yes, yes celebrate!” Clara squeezes my hand again before walking off toward the audience. I stare after her, thinking of her words.

“She seems to be taking it well, don’t you think?” father asks.

“Yeah, she does,” I say simply, before turning back to look at him. His face practically glows with pride; his smile so wide his cheeks are kissing the points of his bushy eyebrows.

“I brought something for good luck,” he says. He holds up a small, crimson tunic - now tattered. “Not that you need it now. Now that you have -”

“Real robes,” I say playfully, pulling on my hem, stretching it out a little toward him.

“Real robes,” he says back, touching the golden embroidery on my sleeve. “I am so, so, proud of you.” He pulls me into another bear hug. “I never doubted you. Not even for a moment, Teacup.”

Tears swell in my eyes, blurring my vision as Lady Portia calls out, “The closing will start momentarily, families please approach your Chosen’s positions around the platform.” I blink black the tears, walking to the center of the platform where I stood before, now with my father at my side. I stand there for a moment, gathering my nerves before Lady Portia moves to stand in front of me. If our robes are crimson, then hers are fresh blood. Her velvet robes shimmer as she moves, the sun’s rays highlighting every fiber. Her floor length gown hugs her torso tight before flowing off her body in waves of hand dyed crimson chiffon, where the dress spills onto the platform it is a darker crimson, almost black.

“Gemma Dumas,” she croons through thin, painted lips; now standing toe to toe with me. She smells unlike anything I have ever experienced, an herbal, earthy scent that is both tantalizing and comforting. “Our Goddess Cressida has blessed you with a divine gift and the honorable title of being one of her Chosen. How do you respond?”

I catch Clara’s face in the crowd, she is smiling but the corners of her mouth don’t quite reach her cheeks. Does she pity me? I look at all the other faces around her. They all look eager to hear my words, all seemingly expectant of me. Father stirs at my side, antsy with my inopportune pause. I manage a smile as I meet Lady Portia’s gaze, her gray eyes transfixed on the green of my own.

“It is already an honor and a privilege to be one of the Summoned, and even more so to be Chosen. I humbly accept my role and thank the Goddess for how she has blessed us. I will serve her, Taldera, and the whole of Aurelia with dignity.” I can practically feel my father sigh beside me, a pang of guilt rises in my throat or perhaps it was bile. Lady Portia squeals with glee as she places the coronal wreath around my neck.

“DEA NOS SERVA,” she cries.

“DEA NOS SERVA,” my father yells.

Glancing about I see the hundreds of pairs of eyes trained on me, just a fraction of the thousands that lay beyond the temple’s walls. My palms begin to sweat and my vision blurs.

“Dea nos serva,” I whisper.