prologue
the yuklah and elimah saga #0
In front of a big, golden-framed mirror, there’s a woman sitting. She’s contemplating her own reflection: staring into her own eyes, fingers brushing through her own hair. She’s silent. She’s thinking. She doesn’t like what she sees.
She puts one hand down onto the vanity table, her pale skin a strong contrast against its rich, bright color. She grabs first the jewel-embedded brush, presses her fingertips against the diamonds and the green calcite, then she moves onto a small, round container. Her fingers follow the imagery engraved on its lid: a hummingbird and an almond tree branch, its fresh, young buds on display. Just by looking at it she can almost smell them, the warm season getting closer and closer somewhere outside the walls of the palace.
She taps against the lid a few times, as if lost deep in thought, while still staring at her own reflection. The big, panther-like eyes, the wide, slightly flat nose, the thin lips… She frowns, testing the wrinkles forming on her forehead; she relaxes her face; she frowns again, this time elongating the corners of her mouth, too, in a fake smile that, she thinks, makes her look absolutely ridiculous. Her eyes follow every movement of the skin, every twitch of the muscles, every crease and shadow placed where there should be none. Her fingers still beat against the lid.
It’s not supposed to be happening so fast. The body was supposed to be perfect, to last her twice, maybe three times as long as it currently is: she’s not supposed to be seeing imperfections just yet. But the mirror doesn’t lie - her eyes aren’t as bright as they were just a few months ago, and her hair, despite having always been a grayish shade of silver, is now visibly more brittle. Who will find her believable, if the body betrays her? Who will respect her, if she doesn’t look as young as she did twenty, thirty years ago?
And, more importantly, if the body keeps on disintegrating so quickly, who’s to say she can be sure to wake up tomorrow?
The worsening of her health has been evident lately: nails weak, hands trembling, legs getting tired after a walk in the garden that used to be a simple moment of pleasure and relaxation, breath getting shorter after a few minutes of speaking to the maids about exactly why they shouldn’t be putting her favorite laslax flower in front of the eastern window. The heart is getting weaker and weaker by the day, she can tell, and sometimes, as she goes to bed, she’s afraid of closing her eyes.
This body was supposed to be a guarantee: just like all the others before this one, it was supposed to last her for decades. Why are things being different, this time around? There wasn’t anything unusual about it - it was supposed to be just as resilient as all the previous ones. The girl was young, bright, healthy and willing…
She still remembers the way her eyes sparkled up the first time they met. She always does: she remembers them all. She can’t recall the names, but the look they get on their face as soon as they meet their fate, as they see just exactly what they’re giving themselves to, the great future that awaits them, is simply unforgettable. She often sees it again at night, in her dreams. There, she meets those girls, and they thank her. She simply smiles and places her hand on their heads, one by one, and they thank her even more furiously.
Yet this time, things have changed. Deep down, she knew this day would come, sooner or later. Deep down, she knew this was inevitable. She wouldn’t be able to escape facing her own truth forever. She just wasn’t anticipating it all coming so quick, so early. She thought she had more time. More time to figure something out, find a solution, consult sages, erudites, scholars from the lands far away, someone who would keep her secret in exchange for a little payment…
But now, she’s here. Sitting in front of her wrinkled image. Wondering who will be the next person to look at her with suspicious eyes, yet unable to say anything out loud, too scared to potentially provoke her anger with a word pronounced wrong. Wondering how long will it take for the body to start decaying so badly that she will start counting the days left on the calendar next to her bed - again. And she hasn’t prepared, not this time. It is so dreadful, to have to look for a new, fresh one every few decades, and this one, it’s been only fifteen years… She’s not ready. It wasn’t supposed to happen just yet.
Suddenly, the clock on the wall strikes the first morning hour. A wooden toad comes out of its house under the clock hands and croaks loudly. The woman grabs the round container and throws it at the green figurine with all her might, causing it to quiet down and fall to the floor. The recipient breaks open. The cream she’d usually apply to her face every morning and every night spills.
“Senales!” she shouts out, and her voice resembles that of a kid throwing a fit. She doesn’t care: she’s breathing heavy, now, her head turned away from the reflection in the mirror, her eyes looking for something outside of the window, something to cling to, something to get lost into, something to give away her worries to. She finds nothing. Only the big city constantly observing her. The big city waiting for her.
Quicker than thunder, after some loud clattering somewhere down the corridor, the door opens just slightly and a young face shyly looks inside. The woman gives it just one quick glance before looking away again with a heavy sigh. It’s the youngest one, the one with shoulder-length, topaz hair: the one whose hands still tremble to the point of almost spilling the small milk jar whenever she brings her breakfast in the morning. She would have preferred the one with corvine hair, tan skin and those bright, wolfish eyes - the one that gives her the best scalp massages while bathing and scrubbing her - or, at least, the blonde one with the particularly high-pitched voice, so hard to listen to, but so efficient.
The girl looks at the broken clock, at the container on the floor, at the almond-scented cream all over. The woman doesn’t see her expression, but she doesn’t need to in order to smell the terrifying look adorning her face, now melting into the air surrounding her. She grunts as the girl takes a tentative step inside. Both of them can feel their hands trembling: the girl, out of fear; the woman - due to the rage that has taken over her.
“Where are your elders?” she asks, and she can tell the sole sound and timbre of her voice is making it hard for the girls to speak up. “Is it only you in the sleeping quarters right now?”
The girl nods, then quickly realizes the woman can’t see her, as she’s still facing the window, so she swallows hard and tries her best to push out a complete sentence through her throat.
“Yes, M’lady,” she replies, trembling. “Two of them are in the kitchen, busy with your breakfast, one is in the garden watching over the early morning gardeners, and as to your animals…”
“Call them all. Immediately,” the woman interrupts her and the girl holds her breath. It is obvious she is not to speak again, so she waits, heart beating loud in her chest, hoping no one else but her can hear it. The woman deliberately lets a few seconds pass, as if to torture her, before speaking again. “I have orders to give out. It’s time to go Searching again.”