The hidden glade came into view—the moon loosing her silvery beams upon it like gossamer threads through the rosewood trees. Finis was quite awestruck at the sight. Jadis smirked a little, stealing a glance at her sister from the corner of her eye.
“My secret sanctuary,” Jadis announced.
Lank ran ahead and leapt ridiculously over the expansive flanged roots of the banyans, crawling over the parapets of the stuccoed laterite and sandstone walls near the top of the hurst. The structures looked as if they’d been scorched and melted by a preternaturally powerful blaze, though it seemed rather doubtful they had been (at least to Jadis; Finis, on the other hand, wondered if they hadn’t been a pagan shrine smitten in some bygone age with divine fire).
“Jadis… what is this place?” asked Finis—a tremor of uncertainty in her voice.
“My own secret refuge. Something ancient. Though I’m not sure what. I have my notions. But it is very ancient—of that I’m absolutely sure.”
Lank startled Finis terribly as he leapt out from a tree beside her; she nearly dropped the lamp, though she saved it in time. In any case, Jadis seized the lamp; it was better off in her steadier hands. Giving her sister a tour of the glade might have been simpler in daylight: but there was a certain mystique—a peculiar atmosphere—offered by the dark and lamplight that even Jadis had not yet experienced. She felt almost as if she was discovering it all over again: introducing it anew to herself, every bit as much as she was introducing it to Finis.
Pesul Qur—before Lord Tujur’s forebears had claimed it—was residence to an aboriginal Charni tribe; nobody recalled its name, though if anyone ventured to try, it might have been something like ‘Ghurovs’ or ‘Ghruze’, or perhaps ‘Ghurhwas’. It had been at least a century or two since the last native had been seen in Pesul Qur—though rumors (some of them plausible) insinuated that some of the slave populace of the area might have been the tribe’s legacy. It certainly wasn’t one of the primary tribes or clans that had founded Charn; but perhaps it was a distant relation of one of them. Jadis’ many days spent in the hidden hurst had naturally conjured the idea that maybe the ancient ruin was the work of that forgotten tribe; though whatever was said of them, none had ever dreamt they were capable of construction such as this. This architecture seemed both familiar and foreign at once—quite fascinating.
Lank seemed to disappear into the ruins, or up a tree—one couldn’t be sure which—and the sound of Finis’ breathing became more and more uneasy with each passing minute. Jadis could discern her sister’s discomfort; presumably because Finis felt she must be on unholy ground, or something like that. Jadis thought she could almost hear Finis’ half-muttered apotropaic invocations, but she assumed she’d been imagining it when she saw her sister’s lips were pursed tight; Finis’ usually youthful, supple face took on a strangely wan semblance in this expression, and in this light. She almost looked like their mother, though undeniably fuller. Finis’ guarded, bleak look here though did capture some degree of their mother’s drawn countenance.
“We shouldn’t be here,” Finis suddenly breathed, “Gods be clement that we have been here at all.”
Jadis did not answer immediately—though when she did, she chuckled a bit: much to Finis’ frustration.
“The gods won’t mistake you for an apostate simply for looking, Nis,” replied Jadis, holding still for a moment so as to guard the lamplight from a gust of wind.
“No, but you they might…” Finis whispered through sealed lips.
Jadis chuckled again—though mostly to herself. She might’ve gotten pleasure to some extent out of nitpicking Finis’ religion, but she wasn’t cruel; a girl of strong faith would not turn apostate in one night. Though Jadis didn’t allude she wouldn’t prefer her sister were less devout, she knew that situation all too well—she’d herself been similarly fervent, not so very long ago—and wouldn’t do more than raise doubt or ask questions; or maybe educate. Finis didn’t much care for being lectured about religion by one she considered biased on the matter; but Jadis cared too deeply for her sister not to occasionally try to help her consider more carefully the faith she’d once professed. At very least, Jadis hoped Finis wouldn’t end up like their mother.
“Alright, I’m sure we’ve been here long enough,” said Finis, several moments later, “If you’ll not come with me, I will go by myself.”
“Oh, but Nis!” Jadis protested.
“I’ll not stay another minute in this place!”
Jadis pondered for a moment.
“We have only one lamp,” she said.
“Bram will light my path—just so long as I quit this heathen place.”
“I cannot let you go alone.”
“I shall have Lank at my side, and Bram at my front.”
Jadis pondered again. She handed the lamp to Finis and called down Lank.
“You’ve enough oil still to almost reach the stables,” Jadis stated flatly.
Finis gave a rather fraught expression, then turned on her heel and left. Jadis was left in the dark, with only what shone through of the moon behind a cloudbank for light. She made her way to the middle of the grove—the blind door—and sat in a mat of peepul leaves on the mossy ground. She realized, of course, that it was rather silly to be here still, in the night. She wondered if maybe it wasn’t almost spiteful—if so, against whom? Finis? Bram? Herself?
Jadis leapt up—the moon clearing some, eyes adjusting to the dimness—with a peculiar focus. She didn’t know where the urge came from, but she was alone here: she was in an assumed ancient pagan holy place. So she danced. She danced like the heathen girls of Gels and Byrin; like the courtesans of the great Mahrajan of Arsosi; like the dark women of The Mbute. It felt almost as if she were levitating—as if the wild, blasphemous motions of her body were stirring the winds to break gravity’s shackles and whisk her into the ether. Jadis danced with joyous abandon in the courtyard, her sari loosening so that her bosom was freed again—followed then by the rest of her.
The warm midsummer breeze felt like soft, soothing bathwater: her exposed form, supple and womanly, was embraced by it completely—like a lover. It was as if the quiet glade were kissing her every inch: with the gentle caress of some nameless ancient deity. Jadis had never experienced genuine rapture—she supposed this must qualify. She concluded her dance with arms outspread, as if welcoming the embrace of any numen that appreciated the display. Jadis had never flirted with gods before.
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