The Cerulean Read online

  “Oh, Sera!” Atana hurried over and kissed her on the cheek. Sera had always suspected Atana found her annoying, but it seemed no one remembered how they used to feel about her, just how they decided to feel about her now. “You must be so honored. What did it feel like, when your name was called?”

  “Hot,” Sera answered truthfully.

  Atana could not seem to decide whether she thought Sera was joking. “Oh. Yes. Well, you look lovely. Did your green mother make this dress?” Sera nodded. “I will have to see if she can give me some tips. Did you girls hear there is to be a wedding season soon?”

  Sera couldn’t believe how quickly things had turned from her impending sacrifice to dresses and weddings. Her head hurt and she wanted to hide someplace quiet where no one could see her.

  Koreen was smiling at Sera with a look she had never been on the receiving end of before. “We could go for a walk by the Aviary later if you’d like,” she said, twirling a lock of hair around her finger.

  Sera was stunned. Was Koreen flirting with her? She couldn’t remember anyone flirting with her, ever. She had tried flirting herself once or twice, with dismal results. The girls were never interested. And neither was Sera.

  She looked at Koreen’s smooth silver skin and big azure eyes, her breasts curving under her dress, her silky blue hair swept over one shoulder. And she tried. She tried so hard to find something arousing about her.

  But inside she was empty.

  Sera didn’t realize she hadn’t given a response until Leela cleared her throat.

  “Oh,” she said with a start. “I . . . I can’t. I’m sorry.”

  Then she turned and wove her way through the crowd, trying not to make eye contact lest someone ask her again how she felt about being chosen.

  Leela had a hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter. “You just said no to Koreen. Koreen!” She shook her head. “I bet that was a new experience for her. See, I told you she would be after you now that you are—”

  “The chosen one,” a green mother said, coming up and kissing Sera’s hand. “May I ask—”

  “The chosen one is thirsty,” Leela interrupted, in a most un-Leela-like fashion. “Please get her a refreshment.”

  The green mother ducked her head, the jade ribbon around her neck creasing. “Yes, at once.”

  Leela pulled Sera behind a large rhododendron bursting with magenta blossoms. “This is better,” she said. “A little quiet. Just for a second or two.”

  Sera wrapped her arms around Leela. They did not need to blood bond in this moment to read each other’s hearts.

  “It’s awful,” Leela said. “Everyone pulling and tugging and wanting a piece of you. And only yesterday they—” She stopped talking abruptly.

  Sera sighed. “I know. Yesterday they all thought me a nuisance. And today . . . well, I will be out of their hair soon enough.” Her attempt at bravado sounded weak in her own ears. Leela wasn’t fooled.

  “You are everything a Cerulean should be,” she said.

  But Leela didn’t know. Not really.

  It was then that the minstrel flowers began to sing, joyful yet ethereal, heralding the beginning of the celebration.

  “Come,” she said, taking Leela’s hand. “Time to stop hiding.”

  There had been little time for planning, and so gossamer blankets were laid out, each piled with platters of food and pitchers of clear water and sweetnectar. There was a table set up under a dainty elm for the High Priestess and Sera and her mothers. Sera sat on a stool beside the High Priestess and wished she were home eating dinner in her kitchen. Leela and her family sat close by, and Leela kept making silly faces at Sera whenever their eyes met, until Leela’s green mother noticed and whispered in her ear to make Leela stop.

  The acolytes served those seated at the table, and Sera could tell her mothers were just as uncomfortable in this situation as she was. Her orange mother kept half rising from her seat every time one passed, until her green mother put a hand on her thigh and murmured, “Otess, stop.”

  “I don’t like being served by an acolyte,” she whispered back. “It isn’t right. I should be serving them.”

  “We all serve in the City Above the Sky,” the High Priestess said, and Sera’s mothers started. “Do not let it upset you. My acolytes are honored to attend to the family of the chosen one.”

  Acolyte Endaria nodded as she refilled her orange mother’s glass. “Indeed, we are. You have given us a great gift.”

  “And what is that?” her purple mother asked. Sera was surprised by her terseness. She had never heard her purple mother speak in such a tone.

  Acolyte Endaria smiled. “Why, you have given us the chosen one.” She set down the pitcher and took both of Sera’s purple mother’s hands in her own. “The City thanks you.”

  “I did not birth Sera for the City to take her away, thank you very much,” her purple mother said, pulling her hands back.

  “Kandra,” her orange mother said, shocked.

  Acolyte Endaria looked to the High Priestess, who waved her away. “It’s all right, Endaria. Gather the novices. The time of adoration is nearly at hand.”

  Sera didn’t like the sound of that.

  “I cannot pretend to understand the pain you all must be feeling,” the High Priestess said to Sera’s mothers. “And I cannot prevent the suffering you will feel at Sera’s loss. But know that you are helping to keep all these families together.” She swept out a hand at the Cerulean sitting on blankets, laughing and eating and teasing one another, casting furtive glances at the table. “There is great worth in that.”

  Her purple mother muttered something Sera could not hear, and her green mother was sitting ramrod straight on her stool.

  “Of course there is,” her orange mother said, but she was looking down at her plate.

  Sera felt miserable. It was one thing to be frightened herself, but to watch her mothers being told they should be honored and thanked was unbearable. She picked morosely at her salad of melon and pomegranate seeds and wondered when the feast would end and she could go home. She wanted her orange mother to make lavender tea like she always did after dinner, and her purple mother would take out her harp and play for them while Sera and her green mother washed and dried the dishes.

  The High Priestess stood and silence fell. “My children,” she said in a ringing tone. “It is nearly time for the adoration of our chosen one. Think about what you will say, how you will honor her. For she is the light that Mother Sun has chosen for us.” She turned to Sera and held out a hand. “Come,” she said.

  Sera stood but didn’t take the proffered hand. She did not need the High Priestess to lead her like a little child. If she was old enough to die for her City, she was old enough to walk on her own.

  The High Priestess hesitated only a second. Without another word, she turned and walked off down a path between two hydrangeas. Fireflies lit their way as they wound deeper into the Day Gardens. Sera had to duck to avoid a low-hanging bough of ivy, and then they came upon a clearing at the edge of the City, where the Great Estuary spilled over. The planet below was dark, as if it too was having a moment of adoration for Sera.

  “The Day Gardens represent life and new beginnings,” the High Priestess said. “As the Night Gardens represent death and endings. Your journey begins here, in the farthest spot from death. Tomorrow the celebration will be in the temple, halfway between life and death. And then the next day . . .”

  “The Night Gardens,” Sera said.

  “I know this is hard for you,” the High Priestess said. “But it will only be hard for a short while. By allowing the City to thank you, to spend time with you, to know you and appreciate you . . . it will be better for everyone. I hope you can see that.”

  Sera thought it might have meant more if anyone in the City besides Leela had tried to know her before she was chosen. She could hear voices, the acolytes leading the way, the whispers of excitement from the Cerulean following them down the path. How many fa
milies would leave this celebration feeling uplifted? How many would stay up late into the night, whispering excitedly about the new chapter their City was about to embark on?

  How many would feel even a shred of pity for her, or her mothers?

  Sera had to decide who she was going to be, in this moment, at the end of her days. Would she be selfish and tell them all how she really felt? Or would she smile and thank them and give them hope?

  What did Wyllin do? she wanted to ask. She imagined the Cerulean woman standing here, in this very spot, beside this very High Priestess, waiting to be adored. Did she stand tall and proud, or did she lash out in fear? Sera felt an overwhelming sense of connection to the stranger who died so many years ago. The tether Wyllin created, Sera would break.

  We are the Cerulean, she thought determinedly. Our blood is magic.

  Acolyte Klymthe’s face peered around the edge of a rosebush. The High Priestess looked down at Sera, as if waiting for her permission.

  “Let them come,” Sera said.

  6

  THE SECOND EVENING OF CELEBRATION WAS MUCH LIKE the first, only in the temple this time. And before she knew it, it was the morning of the ceremony, and Sera awoke with a knot in her stomach and shards of fear lodged in her heart.

  She could hear the novices singing, welcoming the start of a new day. In dwellings across the City, Cerulean were waking up and preparing for a great change. Sera could imagine the excitement, the nervousness, the giddy anticipation. And she found she couldn’t begrudge her people their joy. If she hadn’t been chosen herself, how much sympathy would she have spared for the one selected to bear this mantle?

  At least there would be no more celebrations in her honor—she’d had quite enough of those. The one in the temple had been as exhausting as the one in the Day Gardens. She’d done her best to be strong, to be kind, to listen to her people as they thanked her or praised her. Some had been so effusive, an acolyte would have to step in and lead them away. Others had cried, confessing their fears of leaving this planet behind and heading into the unknown of space. Sera had found that she didn’t need to say anything, that a simple nod or a touch on the shoulder was sufficient. Which was good, because she did not know what to say.

  Sera got out of bed, her skin tight on her bones. There was a dry spot on her tongue that wouldn’t go away. When she brushed out her hair, her scalp prickled.

  She slipped into her dressing gown and padded down the hall to the kitchen, following the smell of garlic and tomato.

  The sound of voices made her stop just before the arched doorway.

  “. . . another child,” her green mother was saying.

  “That isn’t the point and you know it, Seetha,” her purple mother said.

  “I know.” Her green mother sounded contrite. There was a pause, and when she spoke again her voice was quiet and laced with pain. “I don’t know what else to say. I don’t have any answers. This is an agony I have never felt before.”

  There was a silence—Sera assumed they were blood bonding—then her purple mother muttered something angrily. Sera caught the word curious before silence fell again, followed by the unmistakable sound of kissing.

  “I know, Kandra,” her green mother said again, softly. “I know.”

  Sera didn’t wish to hear anymore.

  “Good morning, Mothers,” she said before walking into the kitchen, giving her mothers enough time to jump apart and pretend they were merely preparing breakfast. There were tiny goldfinch eggs boiling in a pot on the stove, next to a pan of tomatoes and hyacinth leaves simmering in garlic.

  “Good morning, Sera,” her green mother said, pushing the thick discs of tomato around in the pan.

  “Good morning, darling,” her purple mother said, coming over to kiss the top of her head.

  “Is Orange Mother at prayers?” she asked, taking a seat at the table by the window. There was a little window box with a small herb garden, and Sera tried to memorize the scents of basil and thyme, as if she could take them with her. Her purple mother poured Sera a cup of thistle tea, then poured one for herself and sat at the table with her.

  “Your orange mother has been up since dawn sewing a robe for you,” she said. “For the ceremony.”

  On any other day, there would have been a joke about thimbles or a reminiscence of the last time Sera’s orange mother had tried to sew her a prayer robe and it was six inches too short. But today was not just any day. The memory of that too-short robe stuck in Sera’s throat like a pebble. She took a sip of tea, but its warmth did nothing to soothe her or ease the tightness in her chest. When her green mother set a plate of eggs and tomato in front of her, all Sera could do was pick at it with her fingers.

  “Sera, you really should ea—” her green mother began, but was silenced by one look from her purple mother.

  They sat around the table pretending to eat but mostly sipping tea and watching the clock on the wall. It was past the hour of the serpent. The ceremony would take place at the next hour, the hour of the light.

  “I am sorry, Green Mother,” Sera said, staring at her plate. The guilt hit her with sudden force, that perhaps if she had been a better daughter, this would not have happened. “You were such a good teacher to me and I . . . I was not . . . I didn’t . . .”

  “My sweet girl.” Her green mother was on her knees, cupping Sera’s face in her hands. “You were a joy to educate. All the other green mothers wondered how I was able to handle your questions—and you had so many! And do you know what I told them?”

  Sera shook her head, her throat too swollen to speak.

  “I said, ‘Each question she asks is a gift to me.’ Some green mothers think only of the wisdom they are meant to impart to their daughter, of our ways and our history. But you showed me that true wisdom is in learning from each other. You taught me so much, my child.”

  “You are not disappointed in me?” Sera asked, and she knew this was the question she was burning to have answered. She needed to know, before the end, that she had not let her mothers down.

  “Oh, Sera,” her green mother said, and then her arms were around Sera, and her purple mother’s too. “No,” she whispered.

  “You are our greatest love,” her purple mother said, and her voice broke. “You have changed us with your infectious joy and your expansive heart and your beautiful mind.” She clasped Sera’s hands in her own. “Remember what I said to you.”

  “As long as the stars burn in the sky, you will love me,” Sera whispered. She breathed her mothers in, honeysuckle and peppermint, and tried to lock their scents away with the basil. Please, Mother Sun, she prayed, let me take a piece of them with me, no matter how small.

  “Sera,” her orange mother called. “Can you come in here, please?”

  Sera’s body felt unnaturally heavy as she made her way to her mothers’ bedroom. The bed was a giant circle with lots of fluffy pillows and gossamer blankets. A long, oval looking glass stood off to one side. Her orange mother seemed tired—there was a redness in her eyes and her face had a pinched look.

  She held out the silky material with both hands. “I hope you are not disappointed.”

  Sera turned away to put the robe on, keeping Leela’s necklace hidden beneath it so the moonstone could rest against her heart. She wasn’t sure why she hadn’t told her mothers about the necklace, except that it felt like the right thing to keep it private, to keep it just between her and her best friend.

  The robe was cloudspun, not made of seresheep wool like her other prayer robes, and it left her arms completely bare, the hood embroidered clumsily with golden thread. It was belted with finely woven moonsilver, and the hem was adorned with green and orange and purple thread that zigged and zagged in an erratic fashion.

  “The High Priestess said it was tradition for her to make the robe for the chosen one,” her orange mother said, eyes downcast. “She would have done a better job. But I . . . I asked if I might . . .” She swallowed and pressed her lips together.
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br />   Sera had never loved a prayer robe more. “It’s perfect,” she said, wrapping her arms around her orange mother’s waist. “I wouldn’t want to wear anything else.”

  “You have been our sun, Sera Lighthaven,” her orange mother said, her eyes glittering with tears. Sera had never seen her orange mother cry. “You have been the light in our world.” Her voice cracked and she began to say something else, then stopped herself. “Are you ready to go to the Night Gardens?”

  Sera had never felt less ready for anything.

  “Yes, Mother,” she whispered.

  The Night Gardens were on the eastern point of the City Above the Sky.

  As the Cerulean began to gather for the ceremony, the streets filled with women in white robes. Today, no one had spoken to Sera. No one spoke at all. She caught a glimpse of Leela in the crowd. Her friend gave her a tight smile that Sera found herself unable to return, as if the smallest movement would be too much for her muscles to bear.

  Sera’s heart was beating so fast she wondered if it had been stolen during the night and replaced with a hummingbird’s wings.

  The Night Gardens were resplendent as the hour of the light drew near. The colors were darker here than the bright hues of the Day Gardens, scarlet dahlias and somber purple lilacs, scattered nebula trees with their black leaves and silver bark, pure white lilies and gray roses, all intermixed with tiny, floating will-o-wisps. The Cerulean followed the shore of the Great Estuary, which narrowed as it neared the edge of the City, before falling off its end in a waterfall. At this edge was a raised glass dais that jutted out beyond the waterfall into the void of space. Sera’s stomach swooped. Many of the Cerulean were already kneeling. Sera and her mothers picked their way through the crowd to where the High Priestess stood.

  “The chosen one,” the High Priestess said as they approached, spreading her arms wide. Sera wished she would just call her by her name; her own name, the name her mothers had given her. The High Priestess looked into her eyes again, in the same way she had that day by the hedge. Sera felt exposed, like a raw nerve.