The Hush of the World (ONC 2024)

Chapter 3

I, Ayina Acharya, was no fighter. Even so, I made sure to sneak a chakku in the hidden belt beneath the heavy, threadbare cloak. I gently
gripped the handle, it felt cool beneath my hand. It was gifted by her uncle, a spoil from the year-long border skirmish, and it was small. I almost cried in irritation when I first saw it, wanting to yell at him for handing me a gilded blade, practically ornamental, something he didn't suspect I would use for any other purpose than gathering dust on the display shelf of my room. There wouldn't ever be a time or place a woman of Benar would be in need of it, he said as if all men kept their women safe like uncle and abba did for me and my sister.

"Well, I need it now, you khobis," I cursed beneath my breath.

I drew my cloak more snugly around me. My kameez dress glittering beneath. The thought of anyone knowing that I was unwelcome was enough to have me dragged to the Azenar gate and offered as gate food for the Harashin - the descendants of the Jinn, as many criminals were. They were feared here, so very different to the Western kingdoms that sought them out as dainty, powerful fearies of nobility. Here, in the southern kingdoms, the common people were wise enough to keep away from them and the misfortune they brought, like that of the marked blessings that plagued the southern kingdoms for centuries all thanks to the Wraith of Harashin- their mad king.

Naisha, tall and strong, steered the horses close towards the entryway. "You know they will kill us if they find out we stole not only the invites to the most prestigious event in history but also the seal of the king?" Amala shouted. The endless hooves hitting the ground made it almost impossible to hear anything else.

"They won't know it was us," I shouted back, gripping the bottom edges of the wooden seat as the carriage shook violently to a halt.

"Duro, damn fish!" Angur growled. Almost as soon as he said that, the pungent smell of the vases of raw fish sitting right next to him, waded up to my nostrils. For the tenth time during this journey, I regretted my decision to leave home, and head to the capital of the Sultanate, Sandaran, to the seedy streets of thieves and beggars and corrupt officials. But then just as the thought came, it was forced away with the quickening of my heartbeat. Bile rose in my throat at the guilt of abandoning my parents and I embedded my nails firmly and painfully into my palms. The reason was good enough a reason to leave, to bid farewell to the comforts and joy of the humble place I called home. At least for a night.

The festival pulsed around me like a diseased heart, the laughter of children and the cacophony of music warped into a grotesque mockery. The smell of roasting meat, once a welcome aroma, now mingled with the acrid tang of burnt oil from a tipped over stall, sending a wave of nausea through me. Even the fire dancers, their flaming batons usually enchanting, cast grotesquely long shadows that danced menacingly on the faces of the throngs pushing through the muddied streets.

In my pocket, the Dusk Moon Seal felt heavy, a stolen promise clutched in sweaty desperation. It was a gamble, a mother's love twisted into a desperate hope held tight against the relentless tide of inevitability that threatened to pull amma under. Every jostle of the crowd, every drunken slur hurled my way, chipped away at the fragile barrier of control I desperately clung to.

Finally, I broke free of the throng, gasping for air, and found myself facing the procession. Roared figures, their faces obscured by shadowy hoods, emerged from a grand pavilion. My eyes scanned frantically, searching for the Western healer, the sliver of hope I desperately clung to. Then, a figure clad in deep indigo turned, the fabric stark against the murky gloom. Relief washed over me, momentarily eclipsing the gnawing fear that clawed at my insides.

"Excuse me," I croaked, my voice barely a whisper above the din. "Are you...the healer from Farin?"

He turned fully, revealing a face etched with the stories of a thousand journeys, each wrinkle a testament to a life lived on the edge of the known world. Yet, it was his eyes that sent a shiver down my spine. Their depths held not the warmth of a healer, but a glint of something far more unsettling - an intelligence that chilled me to the bone.