Chapter 6: The Ceremony
The morning of the Ceremony dawns in pinks and grays, sunlight filtering through the trees and shining onto Alyris, a good omen. Selmas wakes in his bed on the floor of the room just off of the forge, his teacher snoring lightly on the other side of the room. He’s too anxious to sleep anymore, so instead he gets up, dresses, and slips out the door before Zehan can wake.
The village is silent and still, most of its occupants still asleep. Ceremony Day is a holiday, and normal activities are on hold so that everyone can attend. The Ceremony is for welcoming new Warriors, but it means a feast in the afternoon and celebration all day, so everyone looks forward to it, though this year, Selmas might be the most excited out of everyone.
He goes to the Warriors’ sleeping quarters, which are full of movement as the Warriors prepare for the Ceremony. They won’t be participating, having already been accepted by the Bloodstone, but the barracks need to be ready to accept new occupants by nightfall, so there is a lot of rearranging going on inside.
Selmas waits next to the back wall, shuffling around impatiently, until Byrin comes out. He looks tired, yawning hugely, and his braided hair is lying loose on his head. Selmas shakes his head, pulling out a strip of leather to tie it back for him.
“You couldn’t even bother to do your hair up?” he asks.
Byrin yawns again. “Too tired.” He pouts. “Did you bring breakfast?”
“No,” Selmas says. “Didn’t you say once that Warriors should work for their meals?” He’s in a good mood today; even if he can’t quite convince himself that things will work out, there’s still something like hope pulsing underneath his skin.
Byrin frowns. “‘M already a Warrior,” he says. “I don’t want to work for breakfast.”
Selmas rolls his eyes and drags his cousin over into the forest as he scrubs the sleep from his eyes. “Don’t be a baby. Come on, it’s easy.”
The forest surrounding Alyris is dark and cool, even in the summer. The trees are considered to be sacred, which makes sense, given how heavily the Alyrisin rely on them. They provide cover for their archers, make a defensible border, and provide fruit from their branches, wood for the fires. Selmas and Byrin have been taught respect for the trees since they were little, so Byrin manages to wake himself up enough to bow when they enter the forest.
Selmas spots a cluster of deep purple fruit hanging far up one of the trees; it’s too high to be easily reachable, so the harvesters must have left it alone, but it will be perfect for their breakfast.
“Are you going up, or should I?”
Byrin leans against a tree trunk, tracing sleepy circles on the bark with his finger. “You go.”
Selmas shrugs and wraps his arms around the fruit tree, pulling himself up just enough to be able to reach one of the lower branches. He swings upward, hand over hand, legs giving him a boost when he needs it, and soon he’s able to sit, straddling a thick branch and plucking the fruit from it.
He examines the fruit, its skin colorful, flesh juicy and plump. He wipes any dirt and bugs off with his shirt and takes a bite. It’s crisp, sweet, a little tart. He gathers three others, making a pouch for them in his shirt, and slides back down the tree to where Byrin is waiting for him.
Byrin seems to be half-asleep again, but he’s quickly roused at the promise of food. They sit on a fallen log, enjoying the taste of their breakfast and licking the juice that drips down their fingers.
“Will you miss this?” Byrin asks, giving Selmas an earnest sort of glance. “Not being able to just… come to the forest whenever you want?”
“I already can’t come to the forest whenever I want,” Selmas points out. “I have a job too, you know.”
“Will you miss your job?”
“I don’t know,” Selmas says. “Do you miss it? What it was like before you were a Warrior?”
Byrin considers this. “I don’t think so,” he says. “We always knew we were going to be Warriors. I knew not to get attached to anything, so I didn’t have to miss it.” He thinks for a second. “Except you. I’ve missed you, Selm-an.”
“Oh, shut up,” Selmas says. “You won’t be able to call me that soon. I’ll be the same rank as you.”
“You’ll always be younger, though,” Byrin teases. “So I can call you Selm-an as long as I want!”
“That’s not how it works,” Selmas laughs. “And I’m only younger by a month. Rin-an.”
“That’s no way to treat your elders,” Byrin scolds mockingly.
Selmas rolls his eyes, shoving the last of his breakfast into his mouth. “Let’s go.”
Byrin groans. “It’s still early.”
“Not too early,” Selmas says, dragging Byrin to his feet. “The sun’s rising! We don’t want to be late.”
Byrin moans in protest, but allows himself to be pulled down the path and back into the village.
It seems as though everyone has had the same idea, and the streets are bustling with activity now. Families are wandering toward the Warrior training grounds, where the Ceremony will be held, the children running ahead in excitement. People greet friends and neighbors, glad to be joining each other for the festivities. Selmas sees a few of their customers, people who come to him to get a cracked pot or a broken kitchen knife mended, and nods to them in greeting, wondering if they can see just how nervous he is. Now that the Ceremony is getting closer, he’s starting to feel apprehension creeping up on him like a leopard through the underbrush.
The training grounds have been transformed for the Ceremony, all of the practice weapons and obstacles cleared away so that it’s just a large, open circle of dirt. A wooden platform has been constructed in the middle, which is where the Chieftain and prospective Warriors will stand while they wait for their turn to offer their sacrifice to the Stone.
It’s not much, just the quick draw of a dagger across a palm. The Bloodstone was named for a reason; each hopeful Warrior drops their blood onto the flat surface of the Stone, an offering that represents life, dedication, struggle. If it sinks in, liquid parting through sleek rock, then that person will be a Warrior, their blood gifted with all of the strength that they could ever need. If their blood slides off the Stone like water, like Selmas’ did a year prior, then they are just an Alyrisin, nothing more, nothing less. Not everyone can be special.
Selmas is lucky, or foolhardy, enough to have gotten a second chance to prove that his blood is worthy. Not many people do; most think that it’s foolish to try again once rejected a first time. You can’t change your blood, after all. But Selmas is different this year; he can feel it. This time, he will be accepted. He will be a Warrior.
Byrin stops them just outside of the training grounds, pulling Selmas off the path and to the side. He looks almost as nervous as Selmas feels, though Selmas can’t imagine why that would be.
“No matter what happens,” he says, “You’re still family, alright? That won’t change.”
Selmas smiles at him, though he feels a little shaky. “We’ll be more than that, soon. We’ll be Warriors together.”
Byrin nods, reaching to his belt. He pulls something out, extends it toward Selmas, outstretched on his palm. “Here. For luck.”
Selmas feels oddly choked. Byrin is holding out his dagger, the one that his parents gave to him before they went into battle and never came back. It’s not unusual for children in Alyris to be orphans, but that doesn’t make it any less painful, and the dagger is Byrin’s most treasured possession. He doesn’t even fight with it.
Selmas takes it gently, fingers wrapping around the painted bone handle. “Thanks, Byrin.”
Byrin shrugs, giving Selmas a happy smile. “So you aren’t alone up there.” He claps a hand on Selmas’ shoulder. “I’ll be waiting for you.”
“See you soon,” Selmas says, and Byrin disappears into the crowd. Selmas takes a deep breath, slides the dagger into his belt, and goes around to the back of the platform.
He climbs up amidst the other prospects, feeling a little out of place. They’re all a year younger than he is, just eighteen, a little greener, more excited. Their palms are still unscarred. Selmas glances down at his own, at the white line bisecting it. He might have more scars than the others, but it will be worth it.
It seems like almost no time passes before the Chieftain arrives, stepping up onto the platform. She’s followed by Gwynfor, who comes to stand next to them, holding the wooden box where the Bloodstone is kept.
“Alyris!” the Chieftain announces. The people cheer. “It has come time, once again, for us to welcome new Warriors to our ranks. It has been a hard year, but we have come through it as we always have, with strength and dignity.”
Selmas looks out onto the crowd. He can’t pick Byrin out in the sea of orange and red clothing, but he does spot a small group of Wisterin, their silver hair and green tunics standing out in stark contrast. He sees Hundyr, who for some inexplicable reason, is smiling at Gwynfor.
Selmas frowns, glancing over at Gwynfor, who has somehow ended up beside him. She has her jaw clenched, staring straight ahead, fingers gripping the Bloodstone box with white knuckles. There’s a stark sheen of sweat standing out on her forehead, and she’s paler than usual.
“Are you okay?” Selmas asks.
“Shut up,” Gwynfor hisses at him.
“And so, it is my great honor to be the first to welcome the new Warriors into our clan,” the Chieftain says, finishing her speech. She beckons to her daughter, who steps forward, offering the box up. “As the sun reaches its peak, we will see the future of our people realize—”
Her voice cuts off abruptly, and a ripple of sound goes through the crowd. The young men and women on the stage glance at each other, nervously. Selmas cranes his neck, perching on his tiptoes to try and find out what has stopped the Ceremony, and his heart drops when he sees.
The box is empty.
The Bloodstone is gone.