While the talk went on, I surveyed the familiar faces and found one missing. Idlysi was not here, though both Pasha, my baby sister, and my mother were present. Curious, I slipped away from the delegation and returned to our home, where I found her in our shared bedroom, cocooned in blankets, staring wistfully out the window.
“Lys?” I approached her.
She must have been lost in thought, for she tensed when I spoke. “Leave me alone.”
“But the torch—”
“I know about the torch!” she shrieked, then cowered into her blankets, apology written in her eyes. “How could I not know? I can feel it, even here!” She shook her head. “Pasha is young yet, and you are spoken for. I’m a prime candidate, aren’t I?”
Her fear struck me like a dull knife running the length of my breastbone. “Idlysi, they will only take a volunteer—”
“And what if no one volunteers?” she whispered, pulling her blanket-covered fist to her mouth, pressing it against her teeth.
I gingerly sat on the edge of the bed and touched her foot. She shrunk from me. “Why would no one volunteer? It’s a glorious path to have.”
But my sister bowed her head. “Is it so glorious, to die?”
“The spirit never dies.” It was a verbatim quote from scripture.
She shook her head like we spoke different languages and shifted her gaze back to the window. In an attempt to comfort her, I said, “I think it will be Gretcha.”
Idlysi drew in a shuddering breath. “I hope so.”
Pressing my lips together—I was unsure what else to say—I let her be. I did not return to the meeting, but to the beading on my wedding dress, which hung from a dress form in my parents’ bedchamber.
My heart twisted inside me as I worked on the gown. Was I na?ve, to believe scripture? To believe the promises passed down from the generations before us? Or was it merely easy to believe because I knew someone else would volunteer and it was not a decision I would be forced to make?
I wondered what would happen if no one volunteered. Would the Sun punish us? Would He turn away?
Or was Idlysi right? Would one of our women be forced to go?
Eager for distraction, I focused on the task at hand. My wedding dress was simple but lovely, cut from linen I’d woven with the aid of the village midwife and edged with lace I’d braided myself. I thought to try it on, but found I could not pull it from the dress form.
Instead, I went to visit Caen.
It was just past noon. The village was eerily quiet, the women’s meeting having adjourned, families sheltering in their homes instead of completing their daily labors. Even the birds withheld their song, and the hounds their play. My footsteps felt unnaturally loud, and I slowed to quiet them.
I spotted Caen’s profile on his back step, his head in his hands, the shadow of the forest across his lap. I paused, breath catching against a great rising ache within me. He looked so sorrowful, so stooped, so small. I approached with care.
“Caen?” I asked.
I startled him. His head shot up, eyes like a child’s, wild until they found me and softened. “Ceris.” His voice was rough.
“Are you all right?”
He nodded, but the way he sat said otherwise. I lowered myself beside him on the step and ran my palm down the length of his back. Felt his spine move as he breathed.
“I am afraid,” he admitted.
“We all are. One never believes lore and legend will come alive before their eyes.”
He leaned into me, and I relished his weight. I brushed my fingers through the ends of his hair, cut across the nape of his neck. Caen was such a strong man, and although he was always quick to laugh, I had never seen him cry. Now, he seemed on the verge of tears.
“Caen, what’s wrong?”
He swallowed, hesitant, but my silent persuasion eased out the words. “Gretcha or Anya. No decisions came of the women’s meeting, and now the council will debate between the two.”
His words drove an iron spike through the center of my chest. My fingers stopped. His sorrow flooded me, choked me, weighed me down as an anvil hanging from either shoulder.
Anya. I had not even considered her.
If Anya was chosen, she and her family would be honored for all time. But Caen’s heart would break, for despite my best efforts, I knew he still didn’t love me. Not the way I loved him. Not the way he loved Anya.
And if I knew Anya, she would accept the call. She could not have the man she loved on Earth, so why not end her torment in the most glorious manner possible?