Stormchild: Emeline and the Forest Mage

33 Rishtai

Shegeb, Sheia Desert, Erdil, 30 Years Ago

    It was a good autumn day in Shegeb. Winds whispered through the streets. Tents and marquees replied to Sheia with creaks, whips, and flaps. Age old stone buildings towered in the sky, never bowing or yielding to Sheia's fancies.

    Roda'aham called them taints on the Mother's purity, obstinate and unmoving as a sinful man's heart. But Casamir did not see them so. In his eyes, they did not take away from Sheia's glory but add to it. Their bland, solid faces reflected her flexible warmth—highlighted her power and majesty—in the same way that a cold glass mirror reflects harsh and wondrous beauty. They stood frozen and Sheia danced about them, all the more beautiful.

    A gust of holy wind swept Casamir's burnous up. He felt like one of the notorious brotherhood on a silent quest for the Mother, pulling his hood closer to his cheeks while the burnous billowing like a shade behind him. Murmurs and suggestions of conversations floated in the air, but the early risers of the day were wise enough to stay inside their tents. Autumn's chill discouraged the young, and a premonition abated the mature.

    It was Eahom Rishtai, the day of the ghost. Casamir recalled the rhyme children sang as he strode into the murky depths of a dust cloud.

    'Rishtai, Rishtai, bloodthirsty one

    White your skin, your heart, your tongue

    Rishtai, Rishtai, swift as Sheia

    Hide your eyes, your heart, your treasure

    Rishtai, Rishtai, come with the storm

    Hide inside from dusk till dawn'

    Fondly, he remembered how his sisters would squeal, trying to hide before he'd finished the rhyme; but he'd always been good at saying it the quickest.

    His feet hush-hushed in the sand. The subtle but distinct smell of dried persimmon and dates floated in the air nearby one of the larger tents he passed. Casamir could've sworn he heard his sisters' giggles echoing from somewhere deeper into the early dawn haze. 'It is my fear taunting me.'

    'Warrior,' he whispered, his full lips moving in a ritualistic chant, 'be like the dunes of the great Sheia, silent in movement.' Images, sacred and sanctified, flitted through his mind. The painted symbols of sand dunes, the warrior, and the Sheia intertwined. They were the first of the warrior's holy creed.

    Frila'agath's shadow swallowed Casamir as he passed by it, the first of the timeless buildings adorning their capital city. Grey and solid, it towered high above his head.

    'Warrior,' he said, 'be like the desert winds, flexible and unstoppable.' Instead of the creedal symbols, he saw Shenisis, his sister in his mind. The whispering wind, that's what her name meant. Not any wind, but the holy wind of the Sheia. Not the storming wind; that was Shashista, the other twin. Shenesis was the whispering wind which flowed day in and day out, never demanding, yet bringing change, shaping all in her path with the passing of time and her gentle, flexible touch. Yes, Shenesis was the quiet persuasion of our family. Father could never say no to her.

    A beam of sunlight cut through the dusty air before him, dawn's first sunlight piercing the air and his eyes. He squinted, held a hand over his eyes before pulling the hood of his burnous lower over his face.

    'Warrior,' he whispered, 'be like the serpent of the great Sheia, quick and lethal.' This one thing he knew more than the rest, with a familiarity a scarce few would understand. 'Quick and lethal, swift as Sheia.'