Kitaryn

I don't know why in the open skies I agreed to dance with that… that boy. “Offer a dance to me?” he’d asked. But it wasn’t his words; it was the wide, easy smile he’d worn when he’d delivered them that had disarmed me. He moves and speaks broadly, as though the world is a warm and open place, and it makes me relax. I can't relax. I'm a Willowbirth for beauty's sake! The next Ceann of Tradition, if I can manage to live up to my father’s wishes. Which I will do. And so I will not dance with the man, even if I have to retract my words.

Instead, I will make myself scarce at the festival; dance with Trom, a coworker my athyr favors, and then disappear into the background. Or so I hope. It's difficult to disappear when I'm the only child of one of the nation’s top five officials, have recently come of partnering age, and have shockingly white hair. I stare at the warm afternoon sun and silently plead for the evening to be cool enough for a hooded cloak.

My feet carry me out from between two buildings, which are carved from natural outcrops and overgrown with vines, and into the Center of Culture. It's yet another stone outcropping on the city’s top tier, this one with a slanted slab of crystal for a roof on one side. That side features a dusty museum, but the rest of it contains the offices and libraries of the House of Tradition. 

I push through the carved doors and pause in the main atrium to gaze on our family tree. In moments of distraction, I come here to find my focus. The petrified willow stands in the center of the room, cleaned and polished to a stark white. Strings of crystal hang from its branches in place of the weeping leaves that have not grown there for a thousand years. The sunlight slanting through the roof catches in the gems, scattering small rainbows around the room. As a child, I imagined that this was what magic looked like. But true magic is wild and dangerous. It grants unnatural powers to those who attempt to use it. If there is anything that can undermine our nation, it's that. That's why we control information here: the ancient magics cannot be rekindled.

I grasp a string of crystals, rubbing it between my thumb and finger. “I will be another diamond in the chain,” I assure my family. Strong. Unbreakable. Perfect.

The lad just surprised me, that’s all. And it felt nice to have a handsome young man’s admiration. Handsome? Broad cheekbones, strong shoulders, and a ready smile; yes, I suppose I can admit to myself that he’s handsome without much harm.

Finished, I breeze up some cramped spiral steps into the offices. The narrow stairwell opens onto a sizable landing crowded with low tables. These form a maze across the floor, complicated by cushions, books, scrolls, and other implements of paperwork. Today, the cushions are mostly empty, typical of a festival week. 

The two outliers of the festivities, other than me, are Tromchewsic Dewglint and Plaensys Mistlight. The former sits in the back corner of the room, a vantage from which he claims he can better observe the business of the room. He is a chrome-haired fellow with similarly gray eyes and promising intelligence. Trom makes every effort to ingratiate himself to the Ceann, my athyr, and has even taken the job meant for my older brother after Fenn disapp—I shiver. I hate remembering my Ardeten.

Recomposed, I approach a desk near the stairs where my friend, a dark-haired young lady with indigo eyes, sits. “Beautiful day, Plaensys. Could you please file the approved form for the festival’s caterer? I need to review a claim to an old recipe.”

Plaensys skims over the pages, double-checking the work as usual. She's a secretary, the same position I started in some fifty years ago. I don't miss the filing, the scheduling of appointments, or the writing of only routine correspondence. Tradition Audits are interesting by comparison. 

“Perfect as a Sunrise in Spring, as usual.” Plaensys signs her witness to the paperwork without a hint of boredom. “The audit must be about the fertilizer you noted. Which Library were you thinking you’d check?”

I nod. “I’m hoping the Library of Ancestors has something.” If the recipe wasn’t with family records, then we either don’t have it, or it’s tucked away in the Library of the Admonished. The Barleyblossoms had better hope to beauty that it isn’t in there. Not even I have open authorization to those archives. They became further restricted after—I shutter. My brother has come to mind again. Perhaps it's the festival. Most families gather at these times. 

“I’ll make a note.”

“Lovely of you.” As I depart, I spare a glance for where Trom is bent over his desk, his nose deep in a book. I recognize it immediately to be one of the Tomes of Tradition. No doubt he's working on memorizing it again. He needs to learn to take a break. But then I’m also working on a holiday.

I need not have wasted the effort. The search in the Ancestory archives uncovers no records of any fertilizers in the Greenblaze or Barleyblossom families except for one they’d registered fifty years ago–hardly “old.” Nor do any suspicious records turn up. One or two minor infractions for attempting to plant their crops in too unnatural a pattern, but that's from a generation before the current family, and on the Barleyblossom side. It's a sacrilege to nature, to be sure, but not a related crime.

That does mean that I need a copy of their fertilizer recipe to file in the archives. I'll submit an inquiry with Trom for the Admonished to check for a potion recipe, but a loose recipe probably wouldn't be registered with us. And it probably isn't a potion.

 I sigh as I shove the scrolls back into their places. Perhaps I can tease the recipe out of Aodan if I dance with him. 

I stride out of the libraries, my skirt billowing behind me. I like the way it flows in the air, as if dancing along streams. My stride may be businesslike, but at least the fabric gets to play. 

I pass Athyr's door. It's open, a rare occurrence.

“Kitaryn?” His deep voice echoes out of the room behind me. 

I stop, not two steps past the door, the sound of my footsteps fading around me on the cold, stone walls. I turn and enter his doorway, placing each foot delicately so as to not disturb him. A grand stone desk of three sides stands imposingly at the rear of the room, a barrier between my athyr and those who would interrupt his work. Though his desk allows him to sit with his feet on the floor, he often chooses the more traditional pose: his feet beneath him on his blocky pedestal. 

I've scarcely appeared when his eyes of pale silver glitter coolly over me, appraising me in seconds. 

“You should prepare for the festival. This is your one-hundred fiftieth year. Many will look to see how you act and dress, and whether you are ready to matron.” There is neither reprimand nor warmth in the tone.

“Yes, Athyr, I am on my way home to change now. I had something to investigate.” He may not have expressed it, but I know I've dallied too long on a minor concern. He expects me to be evaluating elfmen as future fathers. The two of us will decide together, in the following decade or so, who I should bear children with: who it is that is worthy of co-raising the next generation of Willowbirths with me. It's a purely practical matter, not one of love. My athyr wants to be involved in how his grandchildren are raised, and thus the younger I enter a matronage, the longer he'll be alive to influence them.

I'd prefer to wait. A couple more decades would reveal much about the character and skill of the elves my athyr favors. I dare not ask for love. Perhaps one day, when I retire from my father’s position, I might find it and join in marriage, but not for this crucial decision. Even so, I do want something more than breeding: just a glimmer of humor, or perhaps common kindness to warm their childhoods. Not like mine—

“Investigate?” My Athyr interrupts my thoughts, his prominent brow raised over one eye. “Anything of importance?”

I refrain from shrinking. “No, or it seems not so yet.”

“Then you should not delay. I would have my daughter seen arriving early and in the upmost beauty.”

I duck under the reprimand. Early is a lot to ask. When left to my own devices, I will grow distracted. Perhaps if I aim for early, I might arrive on time. 

I bow and give the only acceptable response. “Yes, Athyr.”

His cold gaze chases me out the door and into the hall. 

I flee into the landing. Plaensys is no longer present, but Trom scribbles at his desk. He doesn't look up as I enter. I shake my head and sigh. This is the elfman Athyr favors for me the most. For someone who chose a corner seat in the office to “observe,” he is not observant. 

I take a few steps toward the elfman. “Trom?”

He startles, nearly dropping his quill. “Kitaryn, when did you return?”

“I came through hours ago. I’ve been in the libraries.”

“Of course,” he smiles at me, his tired eyes only then coming into focus. “I had only forgotten in the moment.”

I suppress yet another sigh. “You do recall that today is the Harvest Moon, don’t you? The end of the Harvest Festival? I can think of a few people who would be disappointed if you failed to arrive.” Namely my father.

He almost smiles. “Yes, yes, I am aware. I was working on something important. Do you know what time it is?”

“Late in the afternoon. We should both be getting ready.” I glance down at his page, wondering what has claimed his attention. 

Dear one, it reads, I believe it is time we considered…

I tear my eyes from the page as his hand flies down to cover it. He isn’t working. He's writing a confession. I grin. It's relieving to know he shares strong enough feelings with someone to call them “dear one.” I needn’t worry about my athyr pushing that relationship on me much longer, then. Trom is a hard worker, but he lacks a certain shimmer. A sparkle of wit. This anxiously-toiled-over confession is the most interesting thing I’ve ever learned about him.

“I’ll be going. May the wind make us both fly swiftly to our destinations!” It's not the most appropriate use of the messenger’s parting, but it feels clever since we're both late. 

I leave feeling less burdened, with strategies for how I might survive the evening still circling in my mind. I must dress exquisitely, at Athyr’s request, and go without notice, at my own will. It’s certainly a challenge to rise to.