The Waning: Age of Realignment I

Prologue

Every person in Ile-Oja knows the story.

In the beginning, there was nothing, and so it was until Rah shone his light upon the world. The Sun God created all things, but his most worthy creations were the titans, sixteen immortal beings that resembled their creator in every way. Rah and his creations lived in perfect harmony. They knew no suffering, they knew no hunger, and they knew no thirst. They needed and wanted for nothing, feeding only on the light of their god.

All things were as they should be until Adara, Goddess of Death and Chaos, descended from the heavens and destroyed the balance. Her touch infected the Earth, turning magma into stone and stone into soil. With her came a great flood, which saw barren land become sea. The infection spread to the very titans Rah cherished, transforming them into the first human beings. These ancestors were the first to drink her waters, they were the first to know suffering, and they were the first to understand death.

The Sun God wept when he saw this. He turned his back on the very beings he created, returning to the heavens and vowing never to walk the surface of the Earth again. Though Rah turned his back on his people, the people did not turn their back on Rah. They worshipped him, sacrificed in his name, and prayed for his return. Their prayers were in vain until that fateful day five hundred years ago.

The Goddess, Adara, wrought a new plague on the planet, possessing the weak of mind and spurring rebellion against the monarchs who had been so to Rah. Rah descended from the heavens and, his touch saved the people. It cast Adara’s poison out of their hearts and minds and siphoned it from the land. He bound her essence in the first of five women forevermore known as the Galed.

But the battle between the two gods scarred the planet. When Rah left the Earth once again, the land had already begun its transformation from rich, fertile forest to desert wasteland. The rain fell no more and the waters coalesced into a singular body. The peoples of the world had no choice but to migrate to be near it, unwittingly forming the last surviving kingdom in the world.

That is the beginning of Ile-Oja. At least, that is the history the scholars and monarchy want us to believe.

Chapter 1

We walked over ten thousand paces from the palace to the Midzone, watching as the densely vegetated lands and opulent villas gave way to sparse cacti and more humble dwellings. Occasions such as these require the Galed to honor the departed by keeping our feet on the ground regardless of the distance to our destination. It’s a symbolic gesture to show our respect to those who’ve served the king tirelessly.

The sun sits low on the horizon. Its rays cast a faint orange glow on the sand-brick houses dotting the path to the commissioner’s house. In the Midzone, the buildings tower perpetually higher and higher, and the buildings seem to draw closer to each other. The design is meant to maximize space and give the people below some reprieve from the desert heat.

The Midzoners of Ile-Oja meander about on either side of us. We hear the sounds of chattering women bartering in the marketplace, the cry of playing children, and the bolstering of pompous men who rant about this or that. As we get closer to the people, the commotion fades. The children stop in their tracks, the men grow quiet, and the women avert their gaze.

At the time of Rah’s second ascension, they used to say of the Galed: winds, and laughter follow them—a euphemism describing those the people thought insane. In reality, we leave nothing but a trail of weary quiet behind us.

Our sandals clack in unison as we walk towards our destination, as if we’ve taken special care to rehearse the timing of our footsteps. The hamel leather wicks the moisture off our feet, and the flap at the heel of our shoes claps to scare off the scorpions hiding in the desert sand.

Annabeth walks in the middle of our pack, slightly in front of everyone else. Her cowrie shell headdress sits atop her crimson veil. It’s intricately woven, forming triangles near her crown before swooping down in front of her face. The headdress and veil cover Annnabeth’s face completely. Both flow to the floor, leaving a trail as they sweep the sand behind her. Iyanu and Torrin follow behind, one to her left and the other to her right. Sade and I trail behind them.

The palace guards surround us on either side, sitting atop their hamels. They are clothed in dark leather from head to toe, donning black masks that hide their faces except for the small slits at their eyes.

The moon is just starting to show itself by the time we reach the commissioner’s house. The piers at the top of the capitol jot out from some distance behind the humble dwelling.

There was a time when the capital was not sunken. It once sat right on the shores of Lake Sarran. It’s hard to imagine that the lake ever spread so far, but the capitol building and the records it holds are proof that it did. The capitol collapsed about a hundred years after Rah’s second ascension. As the water in the lake evaporated, the vegetation that made up its foundation withered to sand, leaving the building to crumble. Sarran has only sped up its retreat since then. Nothing can be done about the lake and the water it provides. It will vanish, and we will vanish with it.

The commissioner's house is not much bigger than four servant quarters at the palace, but unlike the rest of the tall, lanky buildings in the Midzone, which house families one atop the other, the commissioner’s house stands on its own, a feat only the wealthiest Midzone families can boast of. The house is decorated with spiral arches and flowers carved into the lowest layers of its sand-brick exterior. Glass holders adorned with glass flowers are affixed on either side of the palm wood door. The palm wood must be courtesy of King Ryland.

The palace guards take their positions, lining up on either side of the door. Annabeth slides her left hand across her right forearm, bunching her sleeve into the fold of her elbow. She reaches one slender hand towards the door and knocks gently. Her blue veins are purple in this lighting. They branch out and press against the pale skin of her forearm like the roots of the ever palms pressing down through the earth. She knocks once again, more faintly than the first time. The door glides open before the sound tapers out.

The woman standing at the doorway looks like a ghost of one past. Her short, amber hair hangs limp by her cheek. Her lips are chalky and peeling, more likely a sign of grief than a lack of water. While the Endzoners of Ile-Oja often die of thirst, Midzoners rarely suffer the same fate, and indeed, the commissioner and his family could never want for water.

It smells delicious in here, Sade says pleasantly. The savory scent of cactus pecker fowl emanates from the sun oven in the kitchen. Sade turns towards our host expectantly.

Jordan, the woman says, pleasure to make your acquaintances, Your… Holinesses. Her words come out clinched and forced, but her smooth, melodic voice mellows out any of the hostility that might have been contained within them.

Sade snickers. Holinesses… She brings the tip of her index finger to her cheek. That’s a new one, she says. I like the sound of it.

Jordan leads us towards the back of the house and into the commissioner's bedroom. Annabeth removes her headpiece and veil, revealing the red gown she wears beneath them. She drapes them over the edge of the bed frame neatly. Our veils and headpieces follow on top of hers. All of them are identical to Annabeth’s except our veils and gowns are bright white.

Annabeth takes her seat at the edge of the bed, beside the commissioner. His cheek is pressed against the bed, his mouth agape, and his body still. His skin is riddled with deep wrinkles but taut against his cheekbones. His unblinking eyes bulge as if they were in the process of falling out of his eye sockets. Part of the bed is damp with saliva where his mouth hovers. Annabeth lifts his head gently and places it on her lap. Jordan, who has kept her gaze fixed on the floor until now, glances at the commissioner and gasps when she makes eye contact with Annabeth. The blue of Annabeth’s veins doesn’t end beneath her skin. They snake out and envelop her eyeballs, stopping right before they meet her iris.

Annabeth laughs a ringing cackle that would give most children nightmares. What, girl? You’ve never seen eyes like mine, she asks.

This is not the first time someone has remarked on the strangeness of Annabeth’s eyes, and by now, she’s learned to get some pleasure from the reactions her looks garner.

Jordan fixes her gaze downward again. Her hands tremble by her sides. Witch... she mutters under her breath.

Sade smirks. That’s more like it.

In truth, Annabeth is nothing to be afraid of. That honor belongs squarely to Sade.

Torrin, Iyanu, Sade, and I sit on the mat at the foot of the bed.

We’re deeply sorry for your loss, says Torrin, aiming to elevate the mood. But we’re here now to make your father’s transition as peaceful as possible.

Her voice feels like silk against my eardrums. Torrin has always been like that. Every word she speaks, every action she takes seems like it was designed to put you at ease.

Annabeth presses her thumbs against the commissioner's forehead and rests her palms against his cheeks. Jordan's right arm jerks suddenly. Her discomfort permeates the air. The others feel only pity, but I know something isn’t right. It can’t be easy for her to watch her father’s death, and while we’ve been sent here as an honor to her father, our presence certainly doesn’t make it easier.

You seem really nervous, I start, but before I can continue, Annabeth begins the ritual.

Guide this soul with your calming winds

Our bodies go slack. Heat rises from the earth into the soles of our feet before settling in our chests. The death ritual feels like a mother’s embrace. We are all trapped in it. Tears blur my eyesight, but I can make out Jordan’s figure moving in the shadows. My brain refuses to hold on to any thoughts. My fears and anger fade until I am nothing but warmth.

So he may be as effortless as the breeze

Blessed are those who sing your na—

Annabeth shrieks while our necks erupt in agony. The walls of our throats feel like they're closing in. We try to exhale, but something thick and ferrous travels up our windpipe. We manage to let out one word.

Choke. We hear something drop to the floor.

The world feels too cold, and our skin feels too clammy. We are afraid, and we are confused. Annabeth releases her hold on us. My posture straightens as a shock runs up my spine. Suddenly, every inch of our skin is hypersensitive, and we are painfully aware of how our gowns rub against us. The insides of our foreheads feel like they’re on fire. The feeling can only be described as a mixing of our spirits and our feelings. Only Annabeth can make this happen. It’s a consequence of her pulling the part of Adara within us out, so she can use it for her own means.

When I come to, I can tell Torrin is screaming; she's squeezing her head between her hands, her eyes squinted, and her mouth opened wider than I’ve ever seen. All I can hear is a high-pitched ringing in my ears.

Annabeth lies dead atop the bed. Her body is slumped over the commissioner, and a bone knife sticks out of her neck. Her blood drips across the commissioner's torso, dyeing the white bedsheets red. Stained like that, the bedsheets seem like an extension of her crimson veil, one blending into the other. Jordan lies motionlessly with her cheek pressed against the floor by Annabeth’s feet. She’s not outwardly wounded, but a trail of blood drips out from her mouth onto the floor, and her eyes stay open in some twisted mimicry of her father’s. Suddenly, Torrin’s screams become loud and painfully clear, piercing my eardrum.

Annabeth, I say. I can barely raise my voice above a whisper.

My throat burns with the threat of tears. Torrin rushes over to Annabeth’s side. She grabs her forearms and shakes her violently, but Annabeth’s body remains limp. Torrin pushes Annabeth back towards the bed in horror when she doesn’t respond. Annabeth’s skin starts to turn blue where Torrin’s grabbed her. Torrin manages to look even more horrified, sending a sharp pang to my chest.

She stares down at the bruise her touch has left and hiccups. I didn't mean to, she says, looking at the corpse on the ground.

Torrin, she’s dead! Sade screams. Then, sighing, she adds, She can’t hear you.

Iyanu hasn’t moved an inch from where she’s standing. Her face is expressionless, her form motionless, until the guards come rushing in. The sudden action jolts Iyanu out of her state of shock and sends her rushing towards Torrin.

The captain, Braun, makes a scene of kicking the door in, even though it’s unlocked. A middle-aged man with speckles of gray in his trimmed beard, a shining head, and stomach folds above his waist, Braun was promoted to captain shortly after the last Waning.

What in Rah’s name is going on here? he says. He surveys the room before bleating, Fucking hell!

Iyanu clenches her hands into fists before releasing them. She does it again. And then once more. Torrin doesn’t even look up to acknowledge the guards pouring into the room. Her gaze remains fixed on Annabeth’s corpse.

I was just trying to help her. I didn’t mean to hurt her more. Torrin covers her eyes with her hands.

Annabeth is dead. How is the most powerful woman I’ve ever known dead at the hands of a girl holding nothing but a bird bone in her hand? Fuck. Something catches in my throat, but I refuse to let the tears building in my eyelids spill down my face. Keep it together, Meera. Annabeth would expect more. My people would expect more.

Braun grows nervous at the silence, his eyelids twitching as he meets my gaze. I want to explain what happened, but I struggle to understand it. Still, I speak in hopes that Braun doesn’t take Torrin’s last statement as an admission of guilt.

The commissioner’s daughter... I turn to glance at Jordan, but staring into her stale, stagnant eyes turns my stomach. This is the first time I’ve killed. It’s the first time we’ve killed. Jordan’s death stirs up the exact opposite of the emotions that Annabeth’s brings. I tamp down the euphoria threatening to reveal itself in my voice. Two years. It’s been two years since the last Waning that saw Iyanu, Sade, Torrin, and I become Galed. In all that time, this is only the second time I’ve truly felt deadly.

She stabbed Annabeth in the middle of the blessing. Then she died, I tell Braun. I don’t mention that we asked her to choke, nor do I mention that in her last moments, Annabeth used us to kill the girl who killed her. How did she do it? What would it take to do the same to the man who sits on the throne?

A guard steps up beside Braun and puts his hand over his shoulder. King Ryland won’t let this go unpunished, he says matter-of-factly. If I were you, I’d be going home to spend my last moments with my family.

Don’t be daft. They’re just pets, Braun says plainly. He’ll get over it.

How could you say that? Torrin’s voice drops an octave.

Braun sneers at her, but he retreats instinctively.

How could you say that? Torrin asks again.

The entire room shakes. Annabeth slides off of the bed and onto the floor. Braun and his guards pull out their swords.

Torrin, please, says Iyanu. You need to calm down,

But the house refuses to stop shaking. Glass flowers affixed outside the doors and windows come tumbling down with a smash. Adara’s power is multiplied in each of us now that we are four. Annabeth isn’t here to funnel or channel it.

Iyanu walks towards Torrin with her hands in the air, signaling to the guards that she is no threat. She pulls Torrin up from the bed and spins her around so that Torrin’s back presses up against her chest. Iyanu hugs Torrin from behind and rests her chin on Torrin’s head before whispering something in her ear. I don’t miss the way her lips graze Torrin’s ear when she pulls away. I start to walk towards them, but I stop myself at the sight of Bruan’s quivering eyes. I silently will his heart to explode, thrusting myself into the state we fall into when Annabeth pulls from each of us. But, Braun remains standing, and while I can feel Torrin’s heartbreak and Iyanu’s tumult, I know the connection goes one way only.

You two, he says, pointing toward me and Sade. Go join your friends over there.

The other guards’ swords remain drawn as they circle the room's perimeter. They lead us out the door, beckoning us to mount the hamels. One of the guards appears with Annabeth’s corpse, which is wrapped in the bedsheets she died on. They throw her over Braun’s lap after he mounts his hamel. The commissioner’s daughter is left uncovered and made to ride on the hamel of another guard. The rest of the guards maneuver their hamels around us as we return to the palace grounds.

The moon is high in the sky now, and the golden rays of dusk have transformed into the silvery beams of night. Faces dart behind the windows of the houses near us. The neighbors attach their sun blockers to their windows all at once despite there being no sun in the sky. People have been crucified for lesser crimes than witnessing official palace business without invitation.

Annabeth’s body bounces without resistance as Braun’s hamel prods along. Torrin rides in front of me and a little to my left. I can tell she hasn’t stopped crying since we left the commissioner’s house because of the way her shoulders bounce periodically. Iyanu is as still as a statue. Sade, the only Galed whose face I see, stares into the distance. Her body is here, but her mind is thousands of paces away. Braun leads us, riding his hamel in front of Iyanu and Torrin. I know that Braun has not purposefully put his hamel in this position to honor Annabeth, so I wonder if Adara’s will bends him into doing so.

As we walk the path towards the palace, Endzoners crop up one by one in the distance. They’ve begun their ten-mile journey back to the Endzone. Their clothes hang tattered across their shoulders. Adults and children alike walk barefoot across the desert sand. Even those at the innermost levels of the Endzone can’t afford shoes. The thought brings my attention to my sandals, which slide against the smooth skin of my soles. All of the calluses I once had are long gone. I’ve been in the palace too long, and I have nothing to show for it. At least the sands have cooled enough by now to not scorch their feet. But the comforting chill of the early dessert night will give way to a biting cold in just a few short hours. Those Endzoners who are caught in the tundra will endure a different form of suffering.

Soon, my entire field of view is flooded with their forms.

Swimming through a sea of rats, Braun spits to his left. His saliva hits a man right in the middle of his cheek. The Endzone man fixes his gaze forward, not bothering to wipe the fluid from his face. One man leaves a trail of milky red with each step he takes. Even in the dark, I can see that his feet and ankles are swollen, leaking blood and water from the center of each swelling. The man collapses just five paces in front of the guards near the front.

Get up, one of them says without so much as an inflection in his voice. Have it your way, he continues when the man remains sprawled on the floor.

I brace myself to hear the piercing screams the man will make as the hooves of a thousand-pound hamel come crashing down on his body, but all I hear is the whisper of parting sand as the man’s body is dragged away. Between the hamels and the bodies of the guards, I make out a sharp Black face, pulling the man away. His skin is so dark that it appears like a void against the backdrop of the night sky. His buzzed hair shines a metallic bronze under the moonlight. He’s tall for someone from the Endzone, maybe even as tall as five-ten. That’s as tall as any Endzoner I’ve ever seen.

Endzone maggots, Braun hisses. What horrors they must have committed against Rah to be a part of that lot. Rah, the supreme god, delivers absolute justice. Everyone deserves their lot.

You’re going to be joining their rank soon enough with this latest fuck up. The guard who cautioned Braun before taunts him again.

Shut it, Nicholas, Braun counters.

Sade snickers audibly, earning a sharp stare from me.

You got something to say? Braun reigns his hamel to the side to stop the troop.

Sade stops laughing, but she keeps the smirk on her face, baring her teeth. Torrin, Iyanu, and I continue looking forward. Men like Braun are more likely to act out when they feel like there’s an audience for them to entertain.

I’d close those pretty lips if I were you. You wouldn’t want something going between them now, would you? Braun says, his voice slick as oil.

Don’t make this worse than it already is, Braun, says Nicholas. You know they’re all as good as dead anyways, he continues. Already the second Waning of Ryland's reign, he says with a shake of his head. He turns to look at Sade. I wonder which of the four will survive.

Chapter 2

The maids meander through the palace gardens, throwing buckets of water over fields of lush flowers that spread as far as the eye can see. I watch as they walk the garden paths one by one, each person working with purpose and efficiency, executing their tasks as one small part of a larger hive mind. The gardens are organized in plots of hexagons and six-sided stars as an homage to the sun god. The motif is seen throughout the palace grounds and in the homes of the nobility. Even well-to-do Midzoners decorate their homes with intricate displays of complex geometric patterning, blending and weaving together. Many of the plots are filled with laverers, plants so demanding of water that they are now found nowhere else in Ile-Oja besides the palace grounds. Yellow Solitites, green Marshas, and white Cardows glow in the light of the morning sun. There are probably over a hundred types here. Most have never been seen by those outside of the fertile halo the nobility live in.

On the other side of the palace, out of view, is a field of dense vegetation. Beyond them, a sand-brick wall rising higher than any Midzone dwelling separates the land belonging to the king and nobility from that which the Midzoners are allowed to inhabit.

Though my bedroom window is one of many on the palace grounds that oversees the gardens, I count myself lucky to have such a view. Just two years ago, all I had was a small pit dug into the ground by my father's hands. Sleeping pits, they’re called. Makeshift structures that could collapse at any time should the sands composing their walls shift with the wind. Too many Endzoners have been buried alive in those things, never to see the light of day again. I wept the first time I saw my room in the palace, with its small bed, desk, and chair. I wept, and I swore vengeance all in the same breath.

My father once told me that the palace was moved in his grandfather's time, only about a hundred years ago. Already, its walls sit relatively far from the retreating lake. Yet the gardens thrive, thanks to the servants who siphon water away from the lake in buckets and trek back to the gardens.

The king has summoned us to his throne room, but I find myself glued to my windowsill. Before the Oguni go on a mission, the warriors still themselves on the way to their destination, so I do the same for the battle I know is ahead. If I sit here for long enough, the stillness will take hold of me, and my body will become part of the stone or dissipate into the air surrounding it. The Oguni say that one who’s mastered stillness could fool even Rah, convincing him that they were something immaterial, an observer that neither acts nor is acted upon. But the hour I’ve spent sitting here does nothing to comfort me, and I doubt Rah is so easily fooled. The knowledge that Annabeth’s body lies on the altar at the center of the rotunda that joins my room with Iyanu’s, Torrin’s, and Sade’s keeps my body rigid and my mind present. I imagine her pale skin turning gray and then blue as it decays in the space next door.

I know that the king will want an audience, I know that I should get moving, but my body wants no part of the directives my brain gives it. I imagine dying by the king’s hand even though I know that he will do no such thing.

A swift beheading. It’ll be over before I even know what’s happening. The Waning, however, will be a slow, long death, but if I survive it, Sade, Torrin, and Iyanu surely will not. It will be my life or my sisters’, and I intend to stay alive. But, if I should die, I need to see Ryland killed before it’s all said and done.

Sade bursts through the door as I pull my gown over my body.

Meera, hurry up, she whines. You’re going to make us late.

It’s hard to imagine that she’s nineteen, not nine, when she talks like that. She walks up to me and throws her hands over my shoulders. At five-five, we stand eye to eye, but Sade has bigger bones, which gives her a sturdier frame. Her hair is cropped close to her head, but it twists in neat, tight curls around her ears and the upper part of her forehead. Her black, almond-shaped eyes brighten her dark olive skin. All of her features seem crafted for the sole purpose of complementing one another.

I’m almost done, I say.

My voice comes out like sandpaper rubbing against my vocal cords, even though I didn’t make much of a sound as I cried through the night. I know that swollen eyes remain where my tears have gone and that even with the deep mahogany of my skin, the pinkish tint of swollen red blood vessels shows through my eye sockets.

If someone had seen me cry, they would have thought I was mad. The silent sobs that overtook me were cut through by traces of laughter. The bitterness of Annabeth’s death made sickly sweet by the knowledge that I might complete my mission. When I return to the Oguni, they’ll look at me as the savior who rid them of Ryland, and the monarchy by extension. I imagine my father’s face. Stern, aged, betraying nothing in the ways of his thoughts. He won’t show it, but I know that for the first time in my life, he’ll be proud to call me his daughter.

You look like shit, by the way, Sade jokes.

I swallow the lump in my throat before continuing. I’ll take that over whatever it is you look like, I counter.

Sade’s eyes widen in mock offense before laughing the insult off. In truth, Sade looks great, like she didn’t even turn once in her sleep, let alone have a sleepless night.

Come on, let’s get going, she says with a wave of her hand.

She doesn’t bother to close the door as she leaves the room, and I wait a few moments before following her into the rotunda. Iyanu and Torrin emerge from their rooms on the northeast and northwest, respectively. I know that Torrin must have had a restless night, but she stands just as perfect and full of grace as ever. She holds two buckets of water, one for each hand. Her skin is the color of the moon, and the reddish tint on her cheeks is natural but could easily be mistaken for Redula powder. Torrin is twenty-three, one year older than Iyanu and me. She’s the oldest among us now.

Iyanu stands a full head taller than Torrin, who is barely five-one. At five-eight, Iyanu is average height for a woman of noble birth. Her jaw is sharp, but