She had never felt anything so soft as the the simple sleeveless black dress the wichen had wrapped around her after her purification. She took it between her thumb and fingers, felt both comforted and confused. It wasn't silk. Too thick. It had weight, its gravity pulling in the dancing candlelight around her and letting none of it out. She took a few steps, and the fabric flowed around her like a stream around rocks, effortless. It brushed against the tiny hairs on her back, danced cautiously over the freshly tended wounds, sending a rich shiver through her. She felt warm and conspicuous. She was sure no one else in the capital, perhaps even in all the clans, had anything like it. With every tiny movement, she could feel the dress telling her who she is. She felt power brewing in her blood, sending goosebumps down her arms.

Another wichen walked in carrying a small package. "Please sit, Heda. It's time for your paint."

Lexa tightened her lips, decided not to tell him that she wasn't Heda yet. It didn't matter. She would be soon. She sat and closed her eyes as the wichen went to work.

The paint was not the same stuff her amin had slathered over her eyes before battle, ash and oil and blood and dirt rough on her skin. This was a cream, soft like the goats butter she churned on farm detail. The wichen used a small, delicate brush to darken her eyes, draw the black lines of Trikru across her face. Lexa had her own markings for battle, but she was sure these would be different. Everything seemed different.

The wichen breathed steadily but heavily as he concentrated on the painting. His movements were sure, confident, practiced. He had been training for this day, just as she had. Everyone had. The wichen tending to the sacred details, the ouspika praying everyday and presiding over the rituals. Even the warriors practiced the Ascension formations weekly. They all had their parts to play this night. Lexa still had her own duties, but no amount of practice or recitation could have prepared her for them. Now she must trust The Flame.

She shuddered, and the wichen pulled his brush away. No one told her anything about The Flame. No one could, not even Mazo who ascended before her. The wisdom was the Commander's alone. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. The wichen continued painting.

The brush's strokes calmed her. As she settled into the rhythm of the wichen's quiet breath, she felt the weariness of the conclave settling into her bones, a deep tired that filled her body like stones. Yet she felt empty. She took three deep breaths (one for the deimeika, two for her ears, shhhhh...not now), and she brought her focus to her chest. But there was nothing but black blood pumping through a black heart, again and again and again and again. The rhythm flooded her ears, but still she felt nothing but the smooth fabric on her skin and the wichen's brush on her temple. She had never felt so silent inside.

It was probably for the best.

"Heda, I'm done," she heard the wichen say distantly. She sat up slowly, bringing herself back, opening her eyes. The wichen held a small mirror up to her face. When she looked, she was reminded of her first battle, just two years ago. Anya, her mentor, her amin, told her to look into a still pool on the creek they had camped by. When Lexa looked, she saw chaotic streams of black running down her face, running off a river of black across her eyes. You're a warrior now, Anya had told her. But Lexa just felt like a little girl playing dress-up. She was trained, yes, and she was deadly. But she was 10. Other kids her age were also playing dress-up, dreaming of glory and killing Azgeda soldiers. But Lexa was about to cross Azgeda battle lines, a sword in each hand, playing dress-up. She was sure she was going to die.

But there was no chaos in what the wichen painted for this, her Ascension Day, just precise lines across her eyes and temples, like a blindfold, except her green eyes shone out like stars, amplified by a sharp, thin line of silver in a streak just below. She looked like a beautiful, building storm. She looked away. I just want to sleep.

"Lexa?" Titus' voice called from the other side of the tent flap. A question. A request. This was also new. Titus never asked, he ordered. I'm not Heda yet, she said again silently. But she was too tired to argue with Titus. It wouldn't matter anyhow. "Everyone's here," he said, still outside. "They're ready. They wait for you."

I'm a child! she thought, knowing well that a child wouldn't have that thought. Was she ever a child? She took the mirror from the wichen and looked again. Round cheeks and big eyes-bigger with the paint. She saw the child there under the rich garment and sharp lines across her face. She was small, even for a 12 year-old. Her head barely reached Titus' chest. But the Commander chose her. A child.

"Come in, Titus," Lexa said, feigning strength in her voice, as he had taught her. He appeared through the flap and nodded at the wichen who left quietly.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

She looked down at the dress, at her new wounds. I'm a child playing dress-up. She looked up at her teacher, the Fleimkepa, and again she felt empty. She nodded. "I'm ready."

The trip to the top of the tower was slow. Lexa had always wondered how this tower had withstood praimfaya when all the other tall buildings had collapsed or been incinerated. She wondered how the people before the bombs had lived. Offices, she had heard one of the lorists say, where people each had their own table where they sat to work on machines that held more information than all the books in the world combined. These people tended the information at their tables. It didn't make sense to her. Her people had books, yes, and lorists to tend to them, but they didn't need a tower full of them. And sitting all day? How did these people survive? And why did they build such tall buildings? It took so long to walk up the 50 flights of stairs, and almost as long for the cart with its ropes and pulleys powered by strong men on the bottom floor. Lexa almost always took the stairs when she was summoned by the Commander, but she knew that wasn't an option on this night. She had been bathed by someone else, dressed by someone else, painted by someone else, and she would ride to the top floor on someone else's strength. The people would serve their Commander.

She stood with Titus as the cart edged them up the building, floor by floor. "You fought well today, Lexa," Titus broke the silence of their slow ride. Her turned to face her. "I'm proud of you."

"Thank you, teacher." Her voice was flat. She looked straight ahead, fighting the weariness in her limbs. She wanted water, sweet bread, anything to pull her through this weariness, but the purification called for fasting. There was nothing left in her but exhaustion.

Titus decided not to say anything else. There was nothing more he could do for her tonight. He knew that Lexa knew the words and motions of the ritual, and he trusted The Flame. The Commanders would guide her.

After a long silence, a sharp click indicated that they had reached the top floor. Two guards pulled the doors open. Lexa and Titus stepped out and moved quickly across a narrow hallway into the Commander's chamber. It was filled with night, save one torch at the entry, a small circle of light that they stepped into. Whoever was in the room could see them, but they couldn't see anyone. In that dark space, the weariness suddenly melted from Lexa's bones, and she could feel many eyes on her. She took a deep breath, then another, and brought all her awareness to her chest. She could almost see the shapes of people around her, each glowing with their own force. She felt hope and pride coming from them, fear, and from one corner of the room deep anger. She gathered their energy into her and threw back her shoulders. The fabric of her dress danced and settled around her. Then she slowly turned her head to look into the dark figures around the room. As her eyes focused, she could see their eyes.


Miah had been chief of Louwoda Kliron Kru long enough to see three Commanders come and go, but none of them had been so small. They had all seemed like children in her eyes, but at least they had seemed of an age to fight, to drink their sawajus without giggling or stumbling. But the girl who stepped into the light reminded the chief of her own daughter, Shenan, who had only just taken up the sword a month ago, and just a wooden one. Shenan was probably in bed right now, wondering when her nomi would come home. She had probably asked for an extra honey sweet after dinner. She always did. Miah looked in the light and for an instant she saw Shenan with her wooden sword and sticky hands. The chief felt her heart clench. Stop this! she wanted to shout. But then she felt the child's eyes on her, prying into her. The chief could feel the girl's gravity slowing everything around her. Maybe the natblida really are different, special, Miah thought. The girl's gaze passed, and the chief sighed silently.


Titus grabbed the single torch. "Hail, warriors of the twelve clans," he said in a strong voice.

"Hail, fleimkepa," many voices rang out from the darkness.

Titus took a breath and paused as the room became thick with the moment. "The horn has sounded, and the Commander has chosen. Leksa kom Trikru will ascend." The deep, sharp sound of drums rang out as Lexa and Titus walked, a circle of light moving through the darkness. Lexa saw the outlines of faces at the edge of the light. Ahead of her she saw a round stone table take shape. The drumming stopped when they reached its edge and a woman's voice, smooth and beautiful in song, took their place.

Yumi na teik
Won sonraun au?
Medo ste thonken
Medo drein au

Titus' eyes pointed Lexa to a small step at the side of the table, and he took her hand, guiding her up the step and onto the table. Ringing the table were the symbols of the twelve clans. A pyramid shape was carved in the center. She kneeled on the pyramid, felt the solid, cold stone through the fabric. She closed her eyes and steadied her breath. Waves that all that flowed through that room rushed through her. The great energy of those invisible people. The firm but unforgiving stone beneath her. And that woman's voice pouring out like moonlight, making Lexa shiver with all she saw in that sound.

Pas skaikrasha
Klin tristraka
En houd don gon
Hosh trashsaka

Four hooded figures moved into the ring of light. One carried Lexa's sword that she had fought with during the conclave. Another carried dried meat and hard bread. Another carried a healer's smallblade and roots. The last carried a handful of dirt. They set these at even intervals around the edge of the table.

Ai nou fir raun
Ai mana jomp in
Ai mana wan op
Ai don sin y'in

The hooded figures receded behind the table. The strong scent of burning sage filled the room, musky and strong. Titus drew out from his robe a flat metal container, no bigger than his hand, painted red with an ominous skull. Lexa had known Titus for as long as a child can know someone, and she had never seen the container before. She hadn't felt afraid until she saw it. She closed her eyes. She had already gone through so much. There was nothing to do but let it all unfold.

Yumi na teik
Won sonraun au?
Jus drein jus daun
Ai medo drein au

The last notes of the song hung in the air like honey hanging from a spoon. The darkness was full of sage and anticipation.

"Leksa kom Trikru." Titus' voice echoed off the walls. "You were made natblida, chosen among your people. According to the sacred rite of the conclave, the Commander has given you strength and wisdom above all others, and has chosen you to receive The Flame. Do you accept the wisdom of the Commanders, and do you willingly take The Flame?"

Lexa had practiced this with the other novitiates many times. But they were gone. She took a breath and with trained strength and steadiness projected her voice deep into the darkness. "I accept the wisdom of the Commanders, and I willingly take The Flame."

Titus nodded almost imperceptibly at her, and she tilted her head forward and moved her hair off her neck as she had practiced with the other natblida. No one had ever told her why. She watched as Titus reached for the healer's smallblade and wiped it with a cloth and set it down. Then he took the skull container and slowly slid it open, the muted, smooth rub of a metal hinge on a metal rail filling the silence. Titus picked up the small object inside, held it up between two fingers, and showed it to her. "The Flame," was all he said. He turned it over in his fingers so she could see all of it. It was rectangular with a rounded point at each end, and across its surface was a figure eight, the symbol of the Commander. Up close it looked faded, almost dull. Titus pulled it away and lifted it for the other eyes in the room. He set it back in the box and picked up the smallblade. He looked at Lexa gravely and gave her an almost imperceptible nod. She took another deep breath, slowly lowered her head, and closed her eyes. A wave of heat and pain sliced into the back of her neck. She breathed through it. One is for the deimeika… She heard Titus' voice speak words in a language she didn't understand. "Ascende superius."

Suddenly, there was a bright, gouging pain blasting into the cut, like needles reaching into her spine. Lexa could no longer maintain the practiced composure and collapsed forward onto her hands. She suppressed the scream building in her throat and the nausea rolling through her as something seemed to dig deeper and deeper into her, until all went black and silent.


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As always, Trigedasleng is in italics. Go to trigedasleng dot info for translations.