PREFACE:
This story was originally part of the Uruk Press collection
"Sex and Sorcery 3."
I think that collection is far enough in the rearview now that I can share it freely on Literotica. If I'm wrong about that, Pippa Martinez will inform me and I'll take it down. In the meantime, though, I feel like it's one of my proudest achievements in terms of delivering a fully realized fantasy world, fun sexual content and an emotionally powerful story all in one. I look forward to hearing whether the Literotica readership agrees. -- CJ
"The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom."
- Maya Angelou
Under the Stars.
Every creed has its own way of dealing with those born Fae. In the realms of the Faithful they are called the Four Peoples of the Iteni, a word that clarifies intent for it means "outcast," and outside the Emperor's throne city of Meidan, the place where they are cast is named Serenity. It sits next to the sea, on the east margin of the great estuary of the San-Yin, Meidan's mother river.
In the north, beyond her teeming brick tenements, more than half of Serenity is brackish swamp that looks at first like wilderness—though at night you might spy ghostly lamps of the small and clever Nelemeni fishermen out in their coracles, hunting for crays and broadfish in the little creeks and runnels, their eyes shining.
Look closer and vast shapes are visible here and there in the verdant growth, as if chance and nature had shaped strange faerie castles in the mists and mud. Cobbled or grown together from the materials of the swamp itself, these are the shelters of the resident People, the giant and reclusive Winegit who can grow nearly fourteen spans tall. The "wild" swamp has in truth been shaped by generations of their hands. Thick tangles of banyan limbs form the walls and floors of hutches or the bridges between. Here and there, great artificial mounds of mud and turf anchored atop mangrove root networks form open platforms: the sacred glades used for village rites.
It's these glades and the kith and kin who gather in them, more than the scattered hutches amidst the banyan limbs, that have names. The oldest is called Ozidan. Tonight almost two hundred of the Winegit have massed here for ceremony amid the fire and smoke of torches.
Nearly all of them are naked. With few exceptions, Iteni are forbidden all but the simplest kilts and loincloths, jute or homespun cotton, and perhaps the occasional hempen rain-cape; but the bodies of giants are difficult to clothe even thus. It's a mark of standing to have a loincloth of deer-hide or gator skin, worn garments that have been passed down from before the days when Winegit numbers grew and they hunted out the swamp's large beasts. Most make do with ceremonial mud and splashes of pigment.
It's a good thing they're a handsome People,
thinks the old man as he steps forth at the glade's northern end, looking out at them. He's as worn as any old garment, his dark skin seamed and leathery. He feels the weight of responsibility in the vast cape of bird feathers draped round his shoulders—a thing of appalling wealth, mangy though its condition is. His People, though, are strong. Living idols of corded muscle. Their features are expressive and statuesque as they look back at him with hope.
Strong,
he thinks sourly,
as befits beasts of burden.
His name is Mistegish. He is Sabelana of this village, the keeper of its stories and anointer of its leaders. This gathering is his creation, and his pointed ears twitch with anticipation. Even he does not know where this night will go.
Drums made of great hollowed tree-trunks send up a throbbing rhythm from within the worshipers' ranks. A deep, wordless humming chant of readiness comes from among them. Mistegish holds up his gnarled hands for quiet.
"Tonight," he says in a voice rough and pitted with years: "The Four Peoples make ready to seek their destiny. Do you stand prepared?"
A cheer of affirmation greets him. The voices are not just Wineg: for in a great rarity, smaller shapes can be seen among them. Each of the Four Peoples are represented. There are even delegates from the other seven swamp villages, renouncing old feuds and grudges. The moon is new and the stars vaulting overhead are bright and numberless. Magick hums in the air and Mistegish feels the touch of old gods on him.
He pauses and lets the cry subside. Then he says: "So be it. Bring forward the Princess of the Morning."
A pair of Wineg women gently lead her forward from the southern edge of the glade. She is small and delicate, clad in a kilt and a shawl and is of that most numerous of the Peoples, the Baratim. Her name is Cailin, and even by the standards of a People known for uncommon grace, she is a beauty. Her olive-toned skin is smooth and unblemished, her hair a lustrous rain of dark tresses around features of fine-sculpted symmetry, her ears large and well-shaped. Her emerald eyes are the most striking of all; they are watchful, penetrating, and though he can see the fear in her, he can also see how she controls it.
To look at her,
thinks Mistegish with reluctant admiration,
is to see what Oga saw. In her the gods have made their will clear.
Power thrums within her tiny, bird-like frame. Power greater even than his own.
The gathering is in deep silence now as he calls out: "And come forward, Prince of the Evening." And he feels the sigh run through his People—and sees Cailin give out a little gasp despite herself—as the second party to the rite steps forth from behind him.
At the Temple.
"An rana fuan harenin-ha!"
The croaked exclamation shook Cailin from a deep sleep. She woke in her pallet to see the first glimmers of morning at the window of her dormitory room.
Too soon,
she thought.
It feels like I just closed my eyes.
Her companion was perched upon the windowsill. The white-feathered crow preened, fixed her with a gleaming red eye and croaked again, the same phrase:
"O soon must come, must come the day!"
"I get it, Bana," she told him. "I'm up, I'm up." She fished a sandal from beside the bed and tossed it at him. He promptly vanished in a whirl of light and white feathers with an aggrieved squawk.
She stirred, her thin blanket sloughing away from her nakedness as she reached for the clay pitcher beside the bed. As she poured a swallow of water down her throat, took a rag and began to sponge herself, part of her wondered how much of last night had been a dream. But she winced as she touched the cloth between her firm thighs and could not keep herself from smiling.
Oh no, Cailin. It was real enough.
The smile faded as she thought about what that meant, until a certain face flashed across her mind's eye and her resolve grew firm again. Briskly, she finished her ablutions and stepped out into the main chamber of her small apartment, breaking her fast with a heel of mealie bread and a cup of ginger tea. She donned her shawl and sandals, tied on her kilt.
She closed her door just as her friend Yeke was stepping into the hallway across from her. They shared a smile. Somehow, ever since they had rooms of their own, they were always synchronous.
Pale and pretty Yeke's dark eyes sparkled with questions, a playful smile touching her full lips. Cailin smiled back, wishing she could tell her friend the story.
They said nothing. Long training as hierodules of the Merciful Lady wouldn't allow them to laugh and gossip the way they yearned to.
The Adani are watched by all the Gods of Heaven,
they would remember Amma Niure saying when they were girls.
To Iteni they grant the eyes of a single Merciful Lady. You must never do anything to anger her!
All the girls along the hallway thus were silent. But even after the morning rite was done and they could talk once more, Cailin knew she could tell Yeke nothing. It was a lonely feeling. She contented herself with holding her friend's hand and squeezing it.
Just along the corridor then, they saw Aine, and the grip tightened.
For as long as anyone could remember, there had been no more singular beauty in Serenity's Temple than Aine. The Adani mother who'd discarded her "changeling" daughter on the steps of a Lady's House in Meidan—for thus had all these orphans come here—had to hail from some far-off nation gifted with an eldritch handsomeness.
Aine's hair was the colour of moonlight, her skin white as milk. Her eyes seemed impossibly large and changed colour with her mood; her cheekbones were high and prominent, her mouth a little rosebud that hinted at passion and desire. Even the freckles dusting her flesh were captivating.
The others had always envied and feared her. Aine had been the queen bee in the hive, suffering no rivals, and it had seemed she could do no wrong. After all, Pereste Duro, who ruled the tiny world of the Temple, had favoured her.
Cailin could remember envying that favour most of all, before she learned what it meant. Since then her feelings about Aine had softened. She had understood the beauty's high-handedness in a fresh light.
Now it was a different thing again: for Aine was clearly ill, and had been for weeks. Her luminous features were drawn and gaunt. Her skin was sheened with sweat and her eyes dark with constant pain. She moved as if she were far older than her years, as if her chest were filled with sharp-edged potsherds. All her former pride was gone.
