Hearts in Zenith (Four Husbands and a Lover)

5. Like Night and Day

Every spring the performance of Naktymyana conquered theaters, plazas and village greens. It marched unstoppable from the tiniest, newest state in the Patchwork Courts that just popped into existence and would be gone by next spring, to the eternal Char-Kermen, the Queen of All Cities. A few scenes strung together or a bedazzling spectacle with a flurry of dancing and singing—the reenactment of the Primordial War was as inevitable as death and taxes.

I knew the story by heart.

The humans of the Primordial Age live in the valley between the Two Rivers. The River Afraz—which means the Beginning in the First Tongue and the River Zaref—which means the End. Valiant Divines and devious Bhutas are locked in a struggle so terrible that it shakes the Knowable World, destroying houses, dams, even breaking away all the islands from the mainland.

This intro went as fine as ever. The pretend clash of swords in the swirls of skirts was a feast to my rapturous eyes. With everything going on the stage, I was likely the only one to keep track of Parneres, who came and went in the background. I didn't regret missing out on dancing numbers for him, he was so elegant. Whenever he appeared, I forgot my haste, wanting the show to go on forever.

After the intro, the firebird sisters emerged onto the stage emptied for their duet. Naktym and Narami, the Mothers of All, burn with the desire to save their own tribe. They each align with one side of the conflict and conceive daughters with the Divine and the Bhuta essences.

I always venerated the Foremothers, but this time watching them feud felt weird to me, because I had just met the actresses behind the masks. I couldn't for a moment marry in my mind the dates, the bickering and their petty treatment of poor Parneres with the glorious ancient verses they sang.

Yet, their voices were sweet, the poetry—grand, so everyone around me gasped and clapped.

I swept the audience with an incredulou glare. How come they didn't care that the plot itself made these two specific women unsuitable for their roles? The epic told that Naktym and Narami were the human mothers of the first half-divine daughters. But the firebirds were half-divine themselves! It was wrong!

Sure, they held masks on the long sticks in front of their bird-like faces, but how could a piece of painted wood hide Tashaya's divine essence! It shone as bright as the sun overhead in each note they took outside the mere mortal range. And they didn't just have super-human throats. Whether a patient musician drilled the songs into them, or the divine gifts made them instinctively aware of the emotions they must imbue, their singing reached right down into every soul.

Every soul that is, but mine.

I was sitting there, biting my lips, wondering if I had seen the last of Pareneres on the stage... or ever.

Naktym, aligned with the Divines, also conceived children from her mortal husbands. They were all daughters, and it gave her side an advantage in battle.

Things looked up—Pareneres showed up as one of Naktym's grateful husbands, carrying a couple bundles in his arms--infants. As an actor, he had no lines to sing or speak, but I wasn't the only woman in the audience who welcomed the outlandish fashion to give men parts in plays. His presence infused the familiar plot with a fresh, titillating flavor.

Eventually, the Bhutas were drowned in the River Vash. Its waters dissolve the souls after death ever since to rain them back on the Knowable World for rebirth.

The descendants of Naktym founded the First City, the Mother of all Cities, Char-Kermen, the capital of the Southern Empire.

Char-Kermen was really far to the South, but a woman sitting right in front of me had a money pouch sitting uncomfortably on her hip, tempting me to fix the problem with a flick of my knife. I had stolen food from the kitchens before or an item of clothing from a mate as a prank, but now, with one silver bit and six coppers in my belt, I coveted the stranger's purse to pay for my supper.