rish gazed down at the eight young datta who knelt before her, pillows protecting their knees from the hard tile. A breeze whispered in between the columns that surrounded them, causing the woven branches of the roof overhead to scatter dancing flecks of light and shadow across the floor. Grish, her once golden curls now silver, had attended the last three ceremonies. Had been one of the instructors for the last two Cordates. Grish wore a pale robe to match her limbs. Beside her, Juspair wore deep navy blue, which blended with her dark ebony skin. Terelkinor, with skin the color of walnuts, wore a short gold tunic. Each had dressed with care.

         This ceremony, which took place every ten years, was the most sacred and festive occasion in the city of Ny-Da. Today, from all the eighteen-year-old younglings, one would be revealed as the chosen Cordate.

The hair on the bowed heads of the eight before them shaded from palest platinum gold to bright chestnut to jet black. The skin of their bare arms ranged from peach to bronze to mahogany. Grish looked out over their heads into the shifting greens and golds of spring. The scent of lilies drifted upward. Grish smiled.

         The last Cordate had been a stout dattum of ebony. The one before, a slight dattam with skin the color of golden sand. Always before, the choosing of the Cordate had been a cause for celebration. A moment of victory. But the last two pilgrimages had brought no victory. For the first time in all the centuries, the Nydians felt apprehension.

         Behind Grish, Terelkinor lifted his hands upward. “Da-Dat-Shee, Lord and giver of Life, reveal to us your chosen one.”

         The three turned outward, away from each other and from those who knelt. Now Shee would name the one intended. And like a gentle breeze inside their hearts, each Nydian felt and heard the same name whispered. Heard it at the same instant, so that the three turned back to meet the wide, astonished gaze of the dattam whose name had been spoken. Talasa. The seven others stood and embraced her, weeping freely the Nydian tears of joy.

         On his bed, red-headed Riftin felt, along with the name, a start of surprise and regret before he arose and gave thanks to Da-Dat-Shee for raising up another Cordate on the planet.

He moved with the surge of Nydians toward the courtyard where Talasa stood to receive their joyful greetings. Her eyes lifted to his face and he saw her as if for the first time, this dattam he had hoped to join in wedlock. Saw her skin, the color of polished maple wood, her waist-length hair, the tawny beige of a sparrow’s breast, and her eyes, the blue of a catbird’s eggs. This was Da-Dat-Shee’s chosen Cordate. Riftin’s eyes glowed with pride as he watched Talasa’s parents and sisters embrace her. Then he stepped forward.

         “Riftin,” Talasa said as she took his hand in hers.

        “Talasa, you are the perfect vessel to carry Da-Dat-Shee’s joyous message to the planet,” Riftin said. “And you will succeed.”

         “You, Talasa,” echoed other Nydian voices, “you will succeed.”

  

              

         Far from Ny-Da, behind the cool, secluded walls of Quala-Da, the Anchorites were beginning to stir. On his bed of sweet-smelling pine, Abysinium heard the same unavoidable inner voice. Talasa. He opened his eyes and met the gaze of Malinkthus, who was just awakening. The sun had risen to the point where its light and warmth could penetrate to the heart of Quala-Da. The day had begun. But this, this was far more than an ordinary day.

         “Hear, o datta,” came the voice of Lithondor, speaking for all the Anchorites, “when the third of three shall come, then will your salvation arrive. Then will joy encircle the planet and drive Grief into the farthest darkness. Forever and ever. Amen.”

         Abysinium rose and wrapped the bright orange toga around his frail body. His hands shook more and more these days. His age was unknown even to himself. A small cinnamon-colored cat jumped gracefully from his bed and followed the feeble dattum toward the grove where the altar stood. This one altar that the Anchorites had tended for twenty-seven years. Ever since the Death of Jovanna. This would be the last year.

         Abysinium approached the altar bearing a soft linen cloth. With slow hands he lifted the one object that lay on its surface.

         The cat at his feet mewed softly.

         “Peeta.” Abysinium spoke the animal’s name.

         Abysinium held in his hands the sharp-bladed poniard that had slain Jovanna outside the gates of Quala-Da. The poniard known as the Finisher. Though the Anchorites polished it daily, the blade still bore the dark stains of Jovanna’s blood. After His Death, Jovanna’s followers, the Dations, had scattered in terror. For three days Jovanna’s body lay untouched. After three days, when the Anchorites saw that no one else dared go to Him, they opened their gates. But the body was gone. Only the poniard remained, glinting like silver in the sunlight.

         The Anchorites carried the poniard inside. The Finisher, they knew, had not yet completed its work. The Anchorites waited, knowing the prophecies, knowing that only when all things were ready, would Da-Dat-Shee’s way be revealed.

         “Talasa.” Malinkthus spoke the name aloud behind him. The Anchorites knew the players in this final drama and the parts they themselves would play.

                

 

         The Nydians skipped joyously around Talasa—reaching to touch her, straining to meet her gaze. But her gaze was fixed on Riftin. Her wide smile was for him alone. His lips twitched as he returned that smile. And the crush of the datta went unheeded.

         Juspair glided to the edge of the pavilion. She raised her arms and the Nydians fell back. All eyes turned to this tall dark figure and smiles faded into gravity. As she lowered her hands, the datta sat, Talasa among them, to hear the tale once more. The age old tale. The tale that began with Da-Dat-Shee.

G

Talasa

   Chapter One