“Prince Coss.” Gryshen extended her gray-white hand.
“Oh, that. Please, just Coss.” His handshake was warm and strong, unlike his father’s icy finger-slither.
Gryshen could feel herself sinking a bit. “I’d better be going. You will have escorts arriving to bring you to the feast shortly.” And she flicked her tail and hoped the whirl of bubbles that followed would cover the rising blush of purple in her cheeks.
When she went to check in with her father, Bravis had posted himself outside his chamber. He drew a finger to his lips, and let her know that her dad was getting as much rest as possible before the feast.
Gryshen went back to her room to prepare. She had been offered a personal servant years ago, one of the younger hubkeepers, and had refused it. The whole idea of someone’s life having to revolve around dressing her and braiding her hair and laughing at her jokes sickened her. Besides, she preferred to be alone.
She braided her own hair. She adorned tiny shells around the sea kelp that wrapped her chest. She inspected her tail for any loose scales. She noticed the circles under her eyes as she plaited a few starfish into her black locks. It had been a long day. Gryshen didn’t look like the sparkling, fair-haired, curvy leens that surrounded Jode with her silvery eyes, hair as black as octopus ink, a long, narrow nose, a pointed chin (too pointy, she thought) and fingers that stretched long before the webbing at the base between them.
More bones than curves, that’s for certain, she thought as she looked rather forlornly at her flat chest.
Soon enough, it was time for the feast. Bravis signaled just outside her chamber, her father smiling behind him. He did look a bit better. Gryshen took her father’s hand and kissed his cheek.
“You look good, Daddy.” And she meant it this time.
They swam through the water, down another long passage that opened into a great ballroom. It was almost as bright as the surface of the ocean, even though it lay in a cavern in the depths of the sea. Jellyfish torches hung suspended like electric chandeliers, tied in loops from stalactite to stalactite by thick beads of seaweed. At the far end of the room lay a great stone table carved out of the cave walls. On the cave side was a kind of bench coming out from the rock; on the side facing the entrance to the room, stone stools seemed to grow out of the floor like barnacles.
An especially fat squid lay in the center of the table, its tentacles sprawled out over the table, swirling around heavy silver plates that had been fished out of a wrecked ship long ago. Clams, much lighter fare, were tucked inside conch shell carvings within the stone—a part of the table’s creation to keep less heavy food from floating away. The table lay at the north side of the room, and the rest was open space for gatherings.
Gryshen had grown up watching many dances following love binding ceremonies and other celebrations. As a babe, she would hide behind a wall in the cave to witness these displays, since they usually went late into the dark, long after she was supposed to be asleep. She could conjure up the images now, lucid recollections of ceasids swaying to the music—sometimes a musical iloray, sometimes a pair of smaller whales to call out songs in the deep. The whales had a low, haunting melody that suited the movements of ceasids, bodies that twisted and sprang, like two different spirits in one: a flickering tail, long arms stretching in arcs. Sometimes singers or storytellers of the tribe would offer up entertainment.
Gryshen didn’t have a bedtime anymore. She knew there would be a ceremony for her when she became crowned leader, but she couldn’t look forward to that. Any such celebration just marked the losses that were to come. She gazed to the east end of the room, where a great pit rested.
Here was where crownings occurred. Namings and love bindings took place here, too. Namings were a sacred rite for newborn ceasids. They were not given their true name until this time. So she was named Gryshen at her birth, and a month later, all the Rone tribe, from eldest to youngest, came to this spot to witness her naming. Her mother and father swam out from the circle of ceasids surrounding the pit. One by one, each ceasid holding a torch swam above them, created a fiery blue spotlight above the young family. Gryshen’s mother pulled her baby girl close, the water swirling around them, pulling her hair like a blanket for just the two of them. She put her hand to the side of her mouth, and softly whispered Gryshen’s truest name into her daughter’s ear. It was the name mother ceasids saw written in the eyes of their babes, the wordless stories their infants told them in the hours following their birth. It was never to be said aloud to Gryshen again, for it was hers to discover, as all ilorays did, when she went through her Forms. Her father had tried to tell her what he could about Forms, but what was permissible to disclose was little more than general knowledge until an iloray reached their seventeenth thaw, which she had just touched.
Forms were a series of experiences, ancient paces to prepare you for the next season of life, adulthood. Once you passed through them, you could begin serious training in your vocation. You could bind with another. You could start a family.
The Forms told you what you were made of. She knew that there were parts almost lethal—she had heard about the dangers, not to mention the fact that an iloray she knew had actually died some time back while undergoing his. It was incredibly rare—the whole pod was stunned—but it did happen. The process of Forms involved attempts to control the wild, and the wild was, in its very nature, uncontrollable.
The ceasids believed you were one of six sorts: a hunter/warrior, a leader, a caretaker, a beastkeeper, a healer, or a creator/maker. There was technically a seventh sort, but it was almost never discussed, and an iloray didn’t go through their Forms to find it. When the rare iloray displayed highly volatile and dangerous behavior, then they would be marked with a large X, a warning to others. There was no one like this left in Rone.
Gryshen knew which one her brother was before he took his Forms. He could be a creator, with his humor and gift for storytelling. But he was a hunter through and through. She knew her dad was a leader—all chieftains were. He bore the mark over his right shoulder blade, like a banner. And Bravis bore his, received after his paces—healer—which always puzzled Gryshen since he was so clearly in a leadership role.
As for what her mark would be, Gryshen knew that destiny had it mapped out a long time ago. She would go through her paces, and she would learn her inevitable function: leader.
Frall guided her gently to the place beside him. He sat at the head of the table, while offering the seat at the other end to Chief Morfal. His son, Coss, and the small band of Rakors in their company kept close. In tradition, her father cut the first tentacle and passed it down to Morfal by way of ilorays, hand to hand.
Morfal took a large bite, piercing the olive flesh with a viciousness that sent a freeze up the neck of warm-blooded Gryshen. Coss looked at his father in disgust. He gingerly reached for his own tentacle, handed it to a stout Rakor to his left, murmuring something Gryshen could not hear. On it went, passed back down the table, until Bravis handed it to her.
“It stops with you,” he clarified, an odd tenseness to his signal, as she was reaching out to hand it to her father.
“What?” she asked, puzzled.
A clear, smooth voice glided across the table. “It is my offering to you, young Chieftainess.”
“Gryshen,” she quickly corrected, her voice like a hammer trying to push down this future.
“Gryshen,” conceded Coss. “From a chieftain’s son to a chieftain’s daughter; may our first meeting be blessed.” And his smile melted away the cold on her neck.