Not as Alone as Expected (Chaeli)

[Nissabella Rose]

Season of Fall, Day 9, 512 AV For most inhabitants of Kalinor, the day dawned an ordinary one, much like the one before it and most likely not too different from the one after it. The Ochya patroled the underground city and guarded its citizens; the weavers uncovered their looms and took up their shuttles; the teachers taught their lessons in reading, history, and Viratas' lore; and the doctors healed and harmed by turns. Deeper inside the city, surrogates wept or prayed for release, while the hunters congratulated each other on successful harvests. For Nissabella, though, this was a day of grief. A day of dark and tragic memories, memories that drove the usually sociable, lively young dancer to seek silence and solitude. A year ago from today, the corpse of a young Benshira woman who had been her friend was dropped into the deep cavern below Kalinor. She had given birth to a Symenestra child and died, alone, in terrible pain, poisoned by the very child to whom she'd given life. A year later, Nissabella still felt the ache of her friend's absence; she missed the sound of the girl's laughter, the melody of her exotically accented Common, and, most of all, their energetic sessions of dancing together and sharing the songs and rituals of their people. She trembled at the thought of the agony the girl must have suffered and burned with anger over the unfairness of her fate. And in her heart, Nissabella still felt sick with guilt for not being able to save her friend, for having let her die. As soon as she'd remembered what day it was today, she hadn't been able to go to the Cobweb for dance rehearsal. Visions of a small, silk-wrapped corpse dropping into the depths kept assailing her. Instead, she had wandered along the hanging, silken streets of Kalinor in half a daze. Even that, though, gave her little surcease. "Nissabella!" a passing friend would call to her, smiling and waving. "Why aren't you at dance lessons?" "Oooh! Oooh! I know you," a young Symenestra would cry out excitedly, pointing at her face. "You were the Moth Queen this year, weren't you? Look, it's the Moth Queen!" "You there," an Ochya peacekeeper would call out roughly, eyeing the dancer as she climbed along the cords as though in a dream. "Get along with your business, girl, and don't loiter about the streets during the day." At this last importunity, Nissabella finally flung up her hands. With determined motions, she climbed upon the thick cords away from the duty-struck peacekeeper, the minute hooks in her skin letting her moving agilely and easily upon the precarious silken surface. The cord brought her toward one of the empty houses on the outskirts of Kalinor and, without even thinking, she went inside and slammed the door closed behind her. "Finally," she whispered, sinking against the door. "I'm by myself." All at once, the black tide of grief rose up and threatened to swallow her. Tears sprang to her eyes and streamed down her face, and before long she was crumpled into a small ball on the ground, her arms wrapped around herself to contain the spasms that shook her body. She remembered how beautiful and graceful the Benshira girl was, how full of life she had been, and how sweet and gentle she had been once Nissabella had won her friendship at last. Each memory made her weep torrents of fresh tears. After about an hour, she ran out of tears, and the spasms and hiccoughs gradually subsided. Her grief, however, had not. Her storm of weeping had merely taken the edge off her sorrow for her dead friend. "There's only one way to honour your memory, Sarai," Nissabella whispered, slowly propelling herself upright and rising to her feet. "I see that now. Only one way I can remember you." A strange feeling of melancholy serenity gripped her. Under her breath, the Symenestra began humming a haunting, vibrant tune that hailed, not from the shadowy caves of Kalinor, but from the sun-scorched sands of the desert, where water was life and women worshiped their god through dance. Almost of its own accord, her right foot began tapping to the beat. Part of her was mildly surprised that she recalled the song so clearly, but most of her was becoming caught up in the music and the prospect of paying her friend the best tribute she knew how, all alone, in this dark and abandoned dwelling. Raising her arms above her head and twirling in a circle, Nissabella began dancing, not in the gravity-defying style of her own people, but in the style that her friend had taught her, the vigorous, convivial, yet intensely spiritual dances of the Benshira.