Page 120 of The Seeker
Without another word, Rhys nodded and combed his fingers through his hair. He dressed hastily in the ceremonial linen tunic and trousers, walking barefoot out of the cottage and onto the grass. He followed the line of torches, not to the formal alley that led to the river, but back to the vast sugarcane fields at the back of the property. He could hear drums beating in the distance and the sound of foxes howling.
Ata’s retinue?
Rhys found Meera in the predawn light and took her hand as the sound of drums grew closer. They knelt on the grass with Patiala and Maarut on one side, Rhys’s parents standing quietly on the other.
Angharad and Edmund had arrived late in the night, only a few hours before, and he’d barely greeted them before they’d begged for sleep, but seeing his mother and father that morning, dressed in the linen robes he remembered from his childhood, he was utterly grateful they were there. They were meeting a legend of Irina history, a warrior come back from the dead.
Scribes and singers filled the lawn, many holding torches to light up the pathways. Others held heavy ropes of flowers to greet their guests. Roch and Sabine were standing to the side, hand in hand, and Rhys was pleased to see Sabine’s expression was serene.
Meera squeezed his hand. “Are you ready?”
“Are you?”
“Yes.” She smiled at him, and he saw a bright blue stone sparkling at the crease of her nose.
“That’s new.”
“Not new, I just don’t wear it often. Do you like it?”
Rhys smiled. “I love it.”
“I do too.”
They turned back to the cane fields where the sound of drums was growing louder. Rhys’s heart pounded with them, with the power he felt permeating the ground.
Such strong magic.
The wolves emerged first, their silver-grey coats glowing in the moonlight. Five of them leapt out of the fields, circling before the gathered scribes and singers before the largest wolf lifted its head and howled. They sat in a semicircle at the edge of the fields, wild sentries waiting for their commander.
The foxes came next, their bright red fur vivid against the green of the fields and the grass. Their green eyes shone in the darkness as they ran back and forth, sniffing the ground and the people gathered.
A few moments later, two drummers emerged from the fields, one male and one female, holding wide drums they beat with bone clappers. Their tattoos were different than Ata’s and reached from their toes to their forehead. The sides of their heads were shaved and tattooed, and the rest of their hair fell down their back in a fountain of long black braids.
Their clothing was made of linen, as all Irin ceremonial clothing was, but instead of white, it was a vivid purple styled into long-sleeved tunics secured by elaborate, inlaid belts.
“Dene Ghal,” Meera whispered. “Native Irin from the north and the west.”
Two singers crossed to the drummers and scattered red flower petals at their feet.
“She invited guests.” Rhys was thrilled and a little intimidated by the power he felt from the man and the woman. “Where did they come from?”
Meera shook her head. “I know a large community of Dene Ghal still lives in the Pacific Northwest and Canada, but it’s a very spread-out group.”
The drums kept on, unceasing, and Rhys heard more footsteps coming through the fields. The Irin who emerged next would have stopped the fiercest Grigori in their tracks. Four spear bearers, three male and one female, stepped forward. The scribes were tattooed with familiar-lookingtalesm,but the woman bore no tattoos. Her rich brown skin glowed in the torchlight.
Both the men and the woman wore crimson linen, their robes pinned at the shoulders with elaborate gold brooches. More gold was threaded through their hair, which was twisted in intricate coils and ropes around their heads. The spears were also gold and the handles were carved and painted brightly.
“Koconah Citlal,” Meera whispered. “Irin from the south. Related to the Uwachi Toma. You could think of them as distant cousins.”
Four scribes stepped forward and held out necklaces of red flowers. The Koconah Citlal warriors inclined their heads and allowed the flowers to be placed around their necks.
Finally, flanked by the four spear bearers and the two drummers, Ata emerged, but she barely resembled the simple woman they’d met in the bayou.
She was still bare from the waist up, but paint had been added to her tattoos to create a stunning pattern of color. The linen she wore around her waist was bright yellow and secured with a gold belt. And on her head was a tall crown of gold feathers radiating in a half circle reminiscent of the rising sun.
Atawakabiche, last of the Uwachi Toma and Painted Wolf of the Western Lands, was in every inch of her bearing a queen and a warrior.
She walked with a gold spear in her hand, and elaborate ceremonial armor wrapped around her lower legs. Her foxes circled her, yipping excitedly, and the drummers and spear bearers beside her bowed their heads as she passed.
