Life Is Stronger than Death
At the outskirts life intrudes
Upon the sanctum of the dead,
And brushes green fingers over
The grey stone at his head.
The monument, its occupant
May well be displeased,
But they are powerless in their stupor
Against the life of trees.
In the Yamani Isles, The Emperor's Palace at Xiala
Keladry sat with the group of other children, listening to the Yamani elder. The night was cool and the cicadas chirped loudly in the bushes and trees, but the grass was soft and the lanterns illuminated the small clearing enough so that she could pick out features and and some colors in the darkness. For the most part, however, her world consisted solely of the gentle breeze, the scent of flowers and rain, and the low, musical voice of the elder, Saangi. The rustlings of the other children were unimportant, the drifting chatter from the party ignored.
"Many of you have heard this story before. Many of you have it nearly memorized, I know. And for others of you-" she looked at Kel with a smile, "This will be your first time hearing it. It is the tale of how the Yamani Isles came to be as they are today. More importantly, however, it is a tale about finding your true self and being happy with your life, with who you have become." She stopped to catch her breath. The moon shone down at an angle, half-full and a little more. The wind in the branches creaked and groaned, like they, too, were in suspense.
"Now," said Saangi, "Let me begin...
The woman's high pitched wailing sounded throughout the corridor, echoing eerily even further off. In the entrance hall, some with better hearing paused a moment to wonder about the keening.
Inside the room, it was a different story. One of the maids had had a nervous breakdown and hid behind the tapestries. Two nurses had stuffed their ears with candlewax to mute the terrifying screams. The woman thrashed in the bed, sending bedclothes flying and maids running.
The blue-robed Wave-walker priestess, Kisha, sweaty and harried, tossed dried agrimony over the large bed and murmured a blessing. Her red Gift glimmered in the air for a moment, and the woman's screams softened to quiet moans and whimpers of pain.
"My child, where is my child? I must see him, my child, give him to me!" Her voice was hoarse, her eyes wild. The nursemaid cradled the newborn boy in her arms, handing him carefully to his mother. In a few moments the child was snatched back by the nurse as the mother went into convulsions again.
"It's twins! The Wave-walker has intervened," murmured Kisha. "A sign of a great change and prosperity."
The nurse started and held out the male child. "And look, Mistress! His hair!" The little boy's head was a beautiful shade of golden blond, and his eyes, as he blinked at her, were blue as dew-misted periwinkles. By contrast, the girl-infant had the typical black hair and black eyes of most Yaman.
Sudden shrieks from the mother. The priestess started, stood, and handed the new child to the nursemaid to be cleaned. She cast her scarlet Gift over the bed where it wavered hazily, then disappeared. Trying to hide the shameful tears in her eyes, the priestess turned away. "Internal bleeding. My lady has been taken by the gods."
"No!" cried the nurse. "No! Lady Kira. She can't be…gone. With two new children." She caught the look on the priestess's lined brow and remembered her place, lapsing into smooth-faced silence.
Kisha laid a hand on her shoulder. "Go tell the guards to inform the emperor that his wife is dead, and that both of the children are well. There are others that need my aid."
The next room over, the midwife and her daughter, a girl of eight were tending a newborn. The woman there was dead as well. The sheets were soaked in blood. There were no Gifted, no experienced nursemaids, and no robed priests ready to bless the newborn, nor guards at the door. A solitary fly buzzed about the ceiling, and a nasty stench hung in the air.
The room was entirely silent until Kisha burst in, perspiring and panting. "Is she well?"
"The mother is dead. The daughter isn't doing much better."
Suddenly Acacia, the midwife's daughter, let out a shriek. "Lady Priestess! Her hair! It's… It's…." In desperation, she held out the child. Her head, previously covered with a black fluff, had somehow faded… to silver. Her eyelashes, eyebrows looked as though laced with snow. Within seconds the girl held out a white haired child. The midwife grabbed the child.
"We must drown the curst thing. It will die anyway. Acacia, don't watch."
The priestess Kisha held out a hand. "No. We mustn't anger the gods. The girl must live and play out the course of destiny."
"But it will surely bring ruin upon us all, Mistress. We-"
"Mala. Please leave." Kisha's voice was strained. The foreign midwife gulped in a sort of nervous spasm and turned white, save two spots of red high on her cheekbones.
"Forgive me, Lady Priestess. Come, Acacia." The little girl laid the infant on the blood soaked sheets and ran out after her mother.
The priestess looked at the baby, then picked her up and laid a smooth cool hand on her forehead, brushing back the silvery hair. A few murmured syllables and the cold infant was enveloped in the wavering warmth of her Gift.
"You will live, little one. Death is easy; life is hard. I may be doing you no favor. But when life appears in the midst of death, it is not simple to sweep it away." She paused, and then gently tickled the girl under her chin. "Especially in one so stubborn as you. I'll name you Jiikira, the little snowflake. Good luck, child."
Taking the child in her arms, she left the hot, stinking room and the child's mother behind.
(A/N: The poem at the top was written by Dominic thedom.)