The Age of Light (The Ava'Lonan Herstories Book 1) by Ako Emanuel Page A

with the light meal and the
other servants retired as he silently suggested a more pleasant alternative to
spending the eve in contemplation.
     
    the
light waned, turned its back to darkness...
     
    In the center of the Palace another also washed her
shimmering wealth of midnight hair, but in the liquid moonslight, rather than
in water. The glistening mass of floor length, silken ropes of jet-black guinne were piled high and tight on her head as she strode to the Estern roof-court,
twin dom’ma riding her hips. There, laid out in cream and lavender marble, was a practice
circle. Audola stood quietly, shaking her hands to warm them up as the last
moon, Lor’ima slipped shyly into the eve sky. She listened as the silence she had commanded
spread throughout the city’lon of
Ava’Lon, Ritious City of the Supreme One and the central
seat of power of Ava’Lona .
    She had changed from court formal dress of light
wrap, bustiere, pec’ta and mantle to a sheer lavender
body-suit of gossamer, with light ornamental veils fluttering from waist to
knee. The dom’ma had hanging tassels of deep purple and sheaths of black. On her feet were soft,
calf-skin slippers.
    In a tangible wave the silence spread, rippling
outward, blanketing everything until only the sounds of tasks silently being
carried out and the calls of nature could be heard. Somewhere a child laughed
and was gently rebuked though no word was spoken and no thought was shared.
    Audola drew the swords, and the ring of steel seemed
to hang in the air before her, drowning, for a moment, the ring of silence. As
the engulfing soundlessness descended again, the weight of all that had passed
crushed heavily on her. She stood facing the Palace center, the dom’ma hanging limp, heavy, useless in her hands.
    Useless.
With all my skill, I cannot keep my daughter safe.
    Her eyes, unfocused, watched the turning of light as
it flowed in aqua swirls toward eve. She became still. As still as a frightened
breath. Her servants knew this sign all too well when they saw it. The High
Queen was deeply distressed, and showed it only through utter lack of distress,
and utter lack of any other kind of expression.
    The swords flashed up, glowing like slices of the
moons themselves, and they began the first sequence of sword-dance, the War’don’mi ,
and Audola was more an extension of them than they were of her. The blades
pointed two points off of zenith in ready
position. Her movements were fluid, flawless as she took her first stance, one
sword pointing to Av’setting, the other parallel to the horizon. She then
whirled and launched a furious attack on her unseen opponent. Her right leg
swept a graceful arc through the softly darkening air, followed by the right dom’ma as the left swung low and flat to the ground. She landed on the ball of this
leading foot, the left shooting out to the back and the twin swords slicing the
space before her, a study of balance and grace, her body describing a gentle
curve that extended through the swords.
    She was
sick with worry.
    Though she did not show any sign of that or any
other emotion as the air slid off her blades and pooled in invisible blood
before her, within her heart she cried with frantic hysterical fright over her
daughter the Heir. The Heir, who had not been heard from in over a ten’turn,
disappeared without a trace, without a sound. The Heir, whose innocent little
sojourn into the Western Border’lons had met
with some unknown end, causing her to miss the Bolorn’toyo .
The Heir, who, though she was powerful enough to create an av’tun that could span the entire Realm if she wanted, could not seem to find her way
home.
    Her eyes remained dry. Her body remained relaxed,
flowing as the stream of wind flows. Her breathing remained even. She was
frantic with worry.
    Where
are you, child? Where are you that you cannot even av’tun a message to me? What
has become of you?
    Her mind whirled as fast as her dom’ma ,
but she could not cut