Lunar Strings

3 - The Feast (part 1)

"And I'd rather you sit with your peers."

I gave her no further acknowledgment as I took my place in the chair beside Ren Etzik, my only true peer in this encampment. We may not have harbored much liking toward one another, but our respect was mutual, often surmounting to an enjoyable meal filled with clever jests and sharp intellect.

When I pulled my chair toward the table, Jayla claimed the vacant seat beside me. "I am sitting with my peers."

"The only thing worse than a fool, is a fool with loose lips," I muttered, just before turning to address the man to my right. "Your kraithe this morn was stunning, Ren. Well done."

Ren faced me, startled. "Pria. You were dismissed from training. How did you—?"

"I observed from the hilltop. Even from a distance, I could distinguish its brilliance."

He scoffed. "The mavren insists on instructing me under the Moon," he said, poking the prarck on his plate. "I am a warrior of the Sun. Why can he not let it be?"

As a spirit-man—born a man in a female body—Ren was particularly outraged by the Moon, especially since he still bled with every lunar cycle.

"Ren," I began carefully, "you cannot truly become a master of the Sun until you master the Moon as well. The Moon teaches you to refine your craft, to transition gracefully and with poise."

"I do not need grace. I am not a woman," he sneered. His thumb traced the edge of his goblet, eyes centering on the action.

"Let it be known as a blessing from Rithika then!" another man shouted, approaching our table with a bowl of smuggled berries in hand. It was Baruke Adeirta, the islander. "Ren, my handsome comrade, you would make for a very ugly woman!"

Baruke hailed from the southeastern isles of Prioskas. The origin was evident in the dark midnight hue of his skin, the large matted coils that would forever tangle his black hair, and the gravity of his bottomless brown eyes and prominent brow. He was the only recruit in Gaeris exclusively excluded from participation in traditional militant plaiting. We did not, nor would we ever, possess the proper tools to make such a thing possible. He had been knotting his mane into the traditional twisted helixes of Prioskas ever since he was a child; such an undoing would take time, requiring a proper combing and cleansing with lathering rinses that Gaeris could not afford. Thus, we honored his twisted helixes, just as he honored our cause.

Draped over his tall figure, Baruke's green robes were snug where ours were loose, and he claimed his place in the seat opposite mine. His long, heavily muscled legs occupied space where my feet should have rested. I considered kicking him for more room, but he was far too sweet to harm.

Popping a burgundy berry into his mouth, Baruke said, "I see you're still limited to the faerwik evasion, Pria darling."

Alas, I kicked the islander after all. "And I see you've still a fat head, Baruke."

"Better than a fat arse."

"Precisely why it is so unfortunate that you should possess both." My toe still stung from the impact of hitting his shin, but I jammed him with it once more.

To himself, Ren seemed to whisper. "He does not respect me . . ."

We all faced him.

"Ren," Baruke began softly, reaching his hand across the table. "Brother, what is this disrespect you speak of?"

"The Martial Mavren."

I scoffed. "Nonsense."

" 'Tis not nonsense." Ren slammed his fist on the table. "Mavren Frayne has never asked Baruke to train under the Moon, yet he berates me about it every morn. This is purposeful."