This is The Last Rite, a short story from the Incarnate Duty anthology that takes place between books IV and V of The Legacy Incarnate. The stories in this anthology are chronological in order, but I won't say where this story falls in that timeline.
To celebrate the sharing of this story, I have created some new merch based off our hero of the story, Tarcua! Please go check it out!
Without further ado, please enjoy!
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Tarcua wrapped a red talon over the final ridge and pulled himself up, panting through his beak. He pulled his wolfish legs under him and rose slowly, scanning the ridge. The top of the mountain was jagged gray and black rocks lined by turquoise moss on their north sides, bright in the afternoon sun. He blinked his grass-green eyes and picked his way forward, leaning at times on angled slabs of stone and going in and out of shadows. Pebbles crunched beneath his paws, echoing in the deeper clefts.
He emerged from another shadow and came to a relatively flat slab that overlooked the jungle below. Banks of fog moved through the canopy, and distant birds and other jungle life cawed and cooed. Tarcua stood and slowly swerved his head, ears perked up rigidly. It seemed safe enough here.
With a huff he shrugged off his heavy pack. As he crouched, a shiver suddenly traveled all across his feathers, and then up and down his body. A pressure built up in his breast, like a wind crying to break free.
Return to the others, it said. Fulfill the Moon Rite. Start your family.
The urge, the Longing, wrapped around him and met where his wings used to be, halting in some sort of question. For the Longing, wings were everything. The wings determined the success of the Rite. The wings determined his success in winning a mate and carrying on the Vidari legacy. Now that his wings were gone, there was only uncertainty for the Moon Rite.
He had felt the Longing many times. It came on him every few years, but he had merely endured it. It became emotionally painful right at the end, and then it flew from him, promising to return. However, Tarcua had only turned from the Longing in shame. What Hakaan female would want to bear pups to a sire that couldn’t teach those pups how to fly?
Tarcua shook his head and neck vigorously, feathers flaring, and reached into his pack. A few years ago the Longing had filled him, and he had angrily pushed it away. However, he couldn’t deny that his age was catching up with him, so since that time, he had been preparing for what could be the last visit of the Longing and his last chance at the Moon Rite. From his pack he pulled out a sturdy leather vest with a metal plate and hinges embedded into the back. From the sides of the pack he untied two leather bundles and gently unrolled them across the rock.
Within were gleaming steel feathers, marvelously engraved through his own manna to resemble real feathers. Both the bundles contained enough feathers for one wing, although the wings were much simpler than true lupogryph wings. They were half the span, and weren’t truly designed for flying. They were simply the foils for his manna, the manna of a metal mage, and he had used a winged design for aesthetic. The keals looked for the best wings in a keel.
This was his fourth set of wings he had created. He began to attach the steel shafts to the hinges on the vest, securing them with a touch of his magic. The last three prototypes he either had not settled with the look or his manna had outright destroyed them during flight. However, for this model, he had imbued each feather with a special temper that could withstand the sudden buffets of his manna combined with aerial maneuvers.
Tarcua ran his talons across the two layers of feathers, the shorter near the vest and the longer spreading from beneath the short layer. Then he gently folded them down and lifted the vest. It easily weighed fifty pounds. Tarcua wrestled himself into the contraption, buckling it tightly around his barrel chest. Just under the shoulders of the vest were two strips of metal that connected to the wings plate, touching his wing muscles for better control of folding and unfolding through a stream of manna.
He took a deep breath as he stood with the vest. He cleared his mind, imagining a black hole swallowing all his distractions and worries and excitements. Total control. Nothing short of perfection would do. With his mind and spirit clear, he willed his manna through the strips on his shoulders, imagining it flowing through the plate and through each feather.
The metal spread the feathers like real wings. Tarcua kept mental hold of the spell, strengthening it so it could lift him. His manna pulled each feather up, but not so much it would bend the metal. He kept his body tense as he rose from the platform and moved into open air.
His heart raced, blood pumping. Tarcua tilted himself forward, releasing just enough of the manna to let him glide down. It was a delicate balance between manna and outside forces, and when that balance was maintained, he regained flight –-- or at least a semblance of it. Tarcua’s beak hung open at the wonder of it. Trees blurred beneath him, and disturbed birds rose from the canopy.
Tarcua had drawn inspiration for his first design from a flying squirrel. He had used manna to attach the metal to his flesh and managed to glide a little, but he had not been able to lift himself like he should; removing the metal had been excruciating. The second design had been inspired by the Draconite warriors of old, who had been able to morph solid wings out of manna. It was a step in the right direction, and he had learned how to make his manna flow through the metal rather than just around it, but the wing design had looked very wrong on a lupogryph. His third had been a regular wing design, and now the fourth had improved upon it.
Tarcua swerved left and right, and then arced up and down, getting a feel for the flow of manna versus the pull of gravity. He laughed and rolled, completely letting go of his manna for a split second before righting himself and shoving the stream back through. The wings held, and his concentration remained firm. Excellent! One step closer to fulfilling the Rite and satisfying his Longing.
Tarcua turned to the mountaintop and spotted a white figure sitting on a rock near his things. His sharp eyesight focused in, and his breath caught in his throat. Sabra the Incarnate. The Longing warned him not to go back, to fly elsewhere, but his love and loyalty to her drew him back to the mountain.
Tarcua hovered momentarily over the rock before releasing his spell and landing in a crouch. The wings slid and folded downward from their own weight. The elven woman clapped, smiling brightly as the wind caught her silky dark brown hair and threw it to the side.
“Tarcua, it’s your best yet!” she said. She tried to tame her hair, grabbing it and holding it down from the wind. He stood and gave a bow of his head, his rapid heart beat failing to slow. “Gods it’s good to see you fly. I have often imagined what you may have looked like with your wings, and how you flew.”
Fly away. Complete the Moon Rite. Tarcua gazed at Sabra, suddenly lost for words. He had never explained to her the true reason for developing artificial wings. In truth, she was one of the reasons he had ignored the Longing for so long.
She tilted her head at his silence.
“Did they work well enough?” she asked, brows furrowing. Tarcua took a deep breath and ran his claws across his vest.
“They will work well in the Kuuti lands, at Sark-anat,” Tarcua said.
“Sark-anat?”
“The Roots of Kuuti, the great Mother Tree of our people,” he said. “I will venture there within the next few weeks.”
“What is there?”
The pressure in his chest swelled. Forget about Sabra. Fulfill your Rite. Start a family. Tarcua sighed and sat beside her, his wing feathers clicking against the rock.
“I have not been upfront about my wings,” he said. Sabra waited quietly while he tried to formulate the right words. “It’s not just a desire to fly again...I go to Sark-anat to fulfill the Moon Rites and to––to win a mate.”
Sabra hummed thoughtfully, rubbing her chin.
“Every five years or so the Hakaan of Zanoll would hold the Moon Rites on the plains,” Sabra said. “I was honored to view it only once, as they are very sensitive about non-lupogryphs being present. I wasn’t aware before then what flight really was. The things they could do with their wings….” She suddenly looked at him. “Surely with your wings and manna, you would be able to match any lupogryph in flight.”
“That’s the plan,” he said, trying to lighten his voice. He took in her content smile, the relaxed line of her brows, her sweetly shaped face. Just her presence helped to ease the tension in his body.
“You will do well, Tarcua,” she said, grasping his talon with her armored left hand. He squeezed it.
“I must,” he said. He lifted his head and ears to look over the jungle again. “This is my last chance. I’ve ignored it for too long. If I don’t fulfill the Rite, my age will win, and I cannot sire pups.”
Sabra’s expression fell, and she followed his gaze to Trio. They sat silently for a few minutes. The longer he stayed with her, though, the harder it was to leave. He didn’t want to leave, but the Longing was not patient.
“I had often wondered why you never sought out a mate,” Sabra said. “Your tenacity and magical prowess are surely powerful attractants. You’re kind, honest, and loyal...did any of the Hakaan in Crescent Ridge or the Lunar Temple chase after you?”
“That is not how it works,” he said with more sharpness than he intended. He took a deep breath. In the distance, a black dire eagle circled above the canopy, and he followed its flight path. “For Unia’a, you may choose love whenever you wish. You may even choose to marry outside of your tribe and nation. For Hakaan, it’s not as much of a choice. We do not normally have a drive for attraction until the Longing. The Longing is what carries us to the Moon Rites. It depends on where we live, and our family and tribal backgrounds, to determine who we perform the Rites with. For me, it is the Kuuti tribes.” He sighed, the air whistling softly from his beak. “Once we marry, that attraction remains to our mate. The ties of the pack and the tribe are powerful ones.”
Normally. For Tarcua, nothing had been normal since becoming a Hunter. And his affections had most certainly not been normal since he met Sabra. She called his loyalty, tenacity, and power attractive to other Hakaan. Did she not see how such qualities in herself made her attractive as well? He knew it was wrong to harbor anything more than feelings of friendship for the Incarnate of Luna, and he never planned on letting her know his true feelings about her. It would be a disservice to her, an elf who he knew for certain wanted to marry another elf someday. That combined with racial differences and an enormous age gap. . . he wouldn’t kid himself.
The Longing would never lead to Sabra.
“Oh,” Sabra said. She cleared her throat, folding her hands in her lap. She took on a stoic expression. “I am sorry I assumed. I suppose I don’t know as much about Hakaan as I thought.”
Tarcua blinked at her. Had he come across wrong? The Longing washed over him again, driving him to his feet. An instinctual energy traveled through his limbs and ached through his wingless shoulders. He funneled that ache into his manna, unfolding his new wings. He was ready. He could do this.
“See you at dinner?” Sabra asked, standing. “It’s sixth night. . . may we pray for your success?”
He turned to her.
“Shame kept me from fulfilling my Moon Rite,” he said, feathery crest wavering in the mountain wind. “Not this time. I would love to join you tonight, Sabra.”
She held up her arms, and he hugged her. Gods she was beautiful and smart and determined and thoughtful. A twinge of jealousy went through his head at the thought of a male Unia’a holding her and calling her his own, but Tarcua could enjoy his time with Sabra until then. He would be at her side through thick and thin. He had promised it to her father, and he loved to fulfill that promise.
§
Tarcua’s new wings buoyed him to northern Hakor, a peninsula that stretched between the Den’verden Ocean and Baladia, the White Seas. It was a land of rolling hills, sparse groves of trees, and the various Kuuti tribes that called it home. Along its coasts were a few ports, but it remained wild and free the deeper in a sentient went.
Crossing the Kuuti lands always placed a bittersweet taste in Tarcua’s mouth. He had been brought up to glide over these hills as a hunter and warrior. He had practiced his metal magery in an old mine to the west, where a cleft cut between two hills. He had leaped off the limestone cliffs north of the Vidari stronghold and flown with his real wings when he was only two. Then, when his first Longing rolled over him and lit his mind and body on fire, he flew at Sark-anat.
Tarcua narrowed his eyes as he worked his way up a river, a spike of anger threatening to destroy his concentration. His first disastrous failure in the Moon Rite had led him crawling on his knees to the malicious Hunters, and he had traded away his precious wings, the wings that could have enabled him to win a family, for a piece of silver and a dark, addicting power. If only he had given himself and his wings a second chance, he would already have pups and grandpups by now.
This is my second chance. I will not fail.
The sun began to angle to the west, darkening the river at this height. The warm wind fingered through his feathers and fur. He took a deep, satisfied breath. If nothing else, he could enjoy the way the earth and sky welcomed him home.
A song whispered through the air, accompanied by a low beat. Tarcua’s ears went rigid. The Longing tugged him to that song. He tilted northeast. There, some miles off still, were the lofty branches of Sark-anat. Specks circled the tree, and others stood in its shadow. He could barely see a circle of Hakaan played huge standing drums, chanting with the primal beat, calling to all who felt the Longing. Some danced around the drums, warming up their muscles and wings for the epic flight to come.
Placed in a large ring about the tree, almost a mile in diameter, were granite monoliths engraved with ancient runes and pictographs. Tarcua lowered himself to the ring. It was tradition to walk between the monoliths before flying again, entering a new world, a new rite. When he went through here, he would be leaving behind all his friends and cares to fulfill the most important duty of his mortal life. Tarcua took a trembling breath as he stood outside the ring, and then he quickly walked through.
The Longing became less of a tug and more of a tight grip around his heart. There was no going back now.
Tarcua crossed the grassy knolls on foot. Occasionally a lupogryph would pass over him before circling back to the Mother Tree. There were hundreds of lupogryphs here, many gathering around the base of the tree. Some had made camps; this was a multi-day affair, and no one left until they had a mate or there was no one else to choose from. Even hunting was put off save winninga mate.
The tree stood proudly upon a knoll wrinkled from ancient roots, several saplings among them struggling to reach up and emulate the Mother Tree. Twinkling in the dying rays of the sun were Sark-anat’s multitude of red cherries, swaying minutely in the wind amid the dark green leaves. Tarcua paused to gaze at the fruit, his gullet tight. He had survived so much, and come so far, and finally overcome his fear to fulfill the Moon Rite. Would he bear fruit this time?
Tarcua chose an open spot some distance from the tree for his little tent, really a shelter for his bag more than anything else. He erected the bivouac, shoved his pack inside, and pulled a long, metal object from it. It was nearly two feet long, a steel rod with a spiked end, engraved with his name, age, and other information in the Kuuti runes. Topping it was a little metal statue of a ridgeback lion, the symbol of the Vidari tribe.
He carried the rod, known as a Beacon, to the base of the sacred hill. Other Hakaan had jammed their various Beacons into the ground, made of woods, metals, stones, and even bone, all unique to the participant. There were a few of the Abbari, topped with images of their sacred stone trees. The Sakkari, using statuettes of spread talons. Dozens of tribes, all come to put enmities and biases aside to keep the Kuuti bloodlines strong and safe from inbreeding. Tarcua spotted several Vidari Beacons, and he placed his Beacon not far from them.
While they waited for the sky to darken, the Hakaan either flew or intermingled. Tarcua paced past several lupogryphs, hoping to recognize some faces. While the males tended to ignore any other males that weren’t direct kin, the females were another matter. They would walk past males, ruffling their wings, stroking their glossy throat feathers, even saying flirtatious things. There were certainly many beautiful keals here. Tarcua spotted a few he wouldn’t mind pursuing, but one of these females would determine that, not him.
He was so out of practice responding to their flirtations. A few females approached him, flaunting themselves. How was it again? When he had been young, at his first and he thought last Rite, he had puffed out his chest and flared his alabaster wings. The other males did so now, even saying things that would get Tarcua booted out of the Lunar Temple for speaking aloud. This left many females tittering, but he wouldn’t lower himself to that level. He made a purring trill, tried to lift his chest, and spread his metal wings.
This only succeeded in scaring them away, whispering curses about the Drinker, the Kuuti term for a Hunter. Tarcua let go of his manna with a huff, the wings falling in a muted clank, and turned his gaze from the flighty keals.
There were a few females that were quieter than their kin, shyly patrolling the area to look over males they may like to choose. Not too far off he spotted one keal systematically going from one male to another, speaking something to each one. If she was satisfied with their answer, she would show off her wings, but he only saw this happen a three times. Otherwise she would simply turn her back on them and move on.
Tarcua moved quickly to get her attention. She wore tight leathers along her arms, with a leather harness across around her torso and a simple loin cloth around her waist. She was slender and graceful as she walked, her maroon wings held high. She was confident in the Rites. He had to be confident in return.
As she approached, he immediately detected an aura around her. It flowed from her like water, as confident as her appearance. Tarcua expanded his own aura, a firm wind that wasn’t a wind wrapping around her. She didn’t appear to notice at first. However, she turned her back on another failure of a potential mate and marched directly to him.
Tarcua lifted his head and chest, flaring his throat feathers and crest, and spread his steel wings. The keal wove her head back and forth a few times, examining the wings.
“Are you a metal mage?” she demanded.
“I am,” he said.
“You use the manna to lift your wings,” she observed. “You were a Drinker, once…do you still drink the manna of others?”
“No,” he said. He paused, wondering if she would turn away, but she remained, listening. He spread his red talons. “The god Zarem saved my soul from Hunter damnation. Now I worship Zarem and Luna. Now I have joined the Kuuti in the Moon Rites to fulfill the Longing.”
He was tempted to ask her questions, but prying into the female lupogryphs could be off-putting to them. He let her take the lead in the conversation.
“If I chose you, are there any that could vouch for your returned honor?” she said.
“Yes,” he replied. “Hundreds could.”
She made a pleased hum and gently spread her wings for him. Her six white stabilizing feathers flashed. His heart thundered in his chest, and he almost lost concentration on his manna.
“I believe you,” she said, and then walked away. Tarcua gasped in a breath, lowering his wings. He glanced around. A dozen males had gathered around to watch the conversation, their eyes luminescent in the dying light. One of them, a gray-feathered lupogryph of the Abbari with green feathers pierced into his right ear, lifted a fist.
“Do you even know who that is, Drinker?” he growled. Tarcua cocked his head. “She is a Daughter of Sark-anat.”
Tarcua’s feathers flattened and his tail went limp. A Daughter or Son of the Mother Tree was a lupogryph who had gained the favor of all the tribe heads by performing difficult tasks; this in turn gave them the privilege and honor of starting a new tribe without open opposition from other tribes. No Kuuti Hakaan had gathered the support of all the chiefs for almost a hundred years. Tarcua lifted his claws before his chest and pressed them down, the gesture calming his erratic heartbeat. Acceptance and peace filled him, an assurance from the gods.
“Then if she chooses me, may I uphold her honor and the honor of all Kuuti, Abbari brother,” Tarcua said quietly.
The sky darkened completely. Behind a bank of dark, threatening clouds, the moon began to rise, beautiful and full. The scent of rain coursed across Sark-anat, the humid wind ruffling feathers and fur. Tarcua joined a ring of lupogryphs around the tree, standing just outside the Beacons.
“Luna,” he whispered, turning his gaze to the moon. “Let me fly strong. Let me fulfill this rite.”
He wasn’t the only Hakaan praying. Many chanted under their breaths or uttered short phrases to whatever gods and spirits they worshiped. Some gazed upon the metal-winged lupogryph among them with raised crests and a cocked head. Tarcua expected suspicion for his presence here. No Kuuti tribe liked the Hunters, even former ones. They had stolen many magic-makers away from the Kuuti bloodlines...Tarcua had gone willingly, all because of the Moon Rites.
The wind, the smell, the light … not so different from that time long ago when he had stood near this crude wooden Beacon. He had been too shy to show off his magic ability with a metal one. Where his heart beat steady now, then it had rampaged in his chest, so nervous. What if he didn’t find a mate? What if he failed his father?
Tarcua blinked as the females took flight. They circled the tree in a flurry of feathers, creating a gentle whirlwind that spread Sark-anat’s cherry scent around the area. They became a mix of colors against the oncoming clouds that threatened to swallow the moon.
The keels began to take flight, hooting and howling and screaming. Tarcua commanded his manna into the wings and reached skyward. They spread and jerked him upward. The manna streamed steadily from his blood and into the metal, maneuvering him between the chaotic cloud of lupogryphs. He gained speed the further he went, only slowing to throw himself to the side, tilt, and arc. As the male lupogryphs filled the sky, the females sped like arrows between them, heading down to choose their Beacons, and thus the male lupogryphs they wished to court. Amid the darting bodies, Tarcua could not see if anyone chose his Beacon.
He grunted and dove, having to shove aside those who did not see him right away. It allowed him to relieve his hold on his spell and conserve a few precious seconds of manna use that could make or break him later in the flight. He blinked rapidly and used his manna to pillow his fall, hovering. His Beacon was missing. His heart gave a thrash in his breast. He could not fail now. Someone had chosen him, and now he had to find her and show her his all.
There was only one keal that came to mind. The Daughter of Sark-anat. Tarcua grunted and forced himself up into the sky. The clouds covered the moon, and he could feel humidity rising along the skin of his nostrils. His grass-green eyes darted around, focusing in and out on lupogryphs. They were starting to separate into mostly pairs, but some females carried two Beacons, not just one. Those liked to see the males compete for her. As they did so, the sky began to clear. He searched for the crimson feathers, the brown fur, the white stabilizers...he twisted his head around. There, perhaps three hundred feet or so above, was the Daughter, carrying two beacons. Another male was swooping after her, copying her maneuvers.
Tarcua gave a challenging scream, the Longing now coursing like hot lava through him. All thoughts and feelings turned to the Daughter. He forced his manna into his wings, and it threw him up against the wind. He blinked his second eyelids rapidly to keep his eyes clear as rain suddenly stung him.
The other male was Abbari, the one with the green feathers in one ear. A glowing yellow stone set into a ring on his finger glared against the storm cloud gloom. Tarcua didn’t know everything about the Abbari, but he knew their stone trees granted the Abbari tribe some sort of protection and longevity. Having ties to their bloodlines would surely benefit a new tribe.
That was why he had to show why his blood would benefit her even more. Something about his metal, his wings, had impressed her. He was a powerful magic-maker. Tarcua laughed and rolled around the other male, who sharply cocked his head.
“Drinker!” he snarled like a curse word.
“Should I retrieve your Beacon for you, brother?” Tarcua called back. “Too bad she can only take home one keel.”
He whistled past the Abbari and took to the Daughter’s flight path. She started dipping up and down for dozens of feet at a time as shafts of horizontal wind and mist shot beneath them. The Abbari folded and flared his wings admirably, catching up to Tarcua. He grabbed one of the metal wing feathers and shoved it down. Tarcua wavered, not enough to lost concentration on his spell, but enough to fall behind.
He would like to see the fool try that again. A deep growl rumbled out of his chest, and an unexpected hatred for his competition flared in him. It had taken him last time, when he had attacked his rival rather than chasing the keal. His rival had slashed at Tarcua’s wings and broken the wing-elbow before taking off after the keal Tarcua thought could be his. He had lost all focus. He had only wanted to kill instead of mate then.
He shook his head, banking to the left as the Daughter turned. No hate. Only the Longing. Only her!
Lightning shot through the clouds in a massive branching system, zig-zagging over them. He gasped as she swooped up into the following black. A shiver ran through him; metal put him at a disadvantage with electricity. The Abbari pounded his wings after her. Tarcua called upon the Longing to give him courage, as reckless as it may be, and turned his manna heavenward.
Fists of wet wind pounded him from one side then the other, buffeting his vertical body even as his wings remained steady. His heart beat harshly at the amount of manna he had expended, his heavy breathing as loud as the thunder, and he prayed the Daughter would not draw this chase on much longer.
Two objects suddenly dropped past him. Tarcua blinked, halting his manna, and peered below him. His sharp eyes pierced the dark, and he spotted his Beacon and the Abbari’s twirling through the storm. Tarcua released his manna, wings folding back, and dropped after them just as a mass of red appeared in the corner of his eye.
The Daughter of Sark-anat peered at him as they fell through the maelstrom. Her eyes were sky blue, bright against the clouds. Tarcua refocused on his Beacon as he and the Daughter raced. The Abbari was soon on their tail.
“I won’t lose to a Drinker!” he cried.
The Abbari’s claws snatched at the leading edge of Tarcua’s folded wings and yanked. Without his manna, there was nothing to anchor him to the sky as they spiraled out of control. Tarcua reached back and grabbed the Abbari’s head, digging his claws behind the keel’s ears and yanking. The Abbari was forced to give in to the pull or have his ears ripped off, flipping over Tarcua with a curse. His wings thrashed wildly as he snatched at Tarcua. Tarcua punched the gray lupogryph across the beak and shoved him away with his hind paws. The gray lupogryph twirled away in a sodden gust.
Tarcua reoriented himself earthward, cocking his head back and forth as he fell. The Daughter had banked after the Beacons, which were falling horizontally in a powerful crosswind. He ignored the burning in his blood and awoke his wings, pushing himself to his flipping Beacon.
Once Tarcua was within fifty feet of his Beacon, he threw a second spell to it. His invisible manna latched onto the Beacon, and it launched itself at him. Had the Daughter still been holding it, he would have never tried the maneuver lest he risk her indignity. It slammed into his talon, and he quickly redirected the spell’s energy back into his wings, his body going limp.
The Daughter of Sark-anat laughed and dove through the clouds. She would be returning to the Mother Tree. Tarcua drifted down much more slowly. He had won his Beacon from her –– but that didn’t automatically mean she was his. After such a hectic flight, she would be expecting dinner. He had to hunt and bring her a meal, and then she would decide if he had fulfilled the Rite and earned the privilege of mating her.
“Gods, what a keal,” he whispered with a weary chuckle.
The lower he went, the less violent the storm became. It turned from whirling banks of rain to a drizzle as he emerged from the clouds. He gazed wearily across the Kuuti lands, with only the occasional lightning bolt to light it up. He saw the Daughter in the distance making her way to the Tree. He cocked his head as another figure emerged from the cloud canopy about half a mile away. The Abbari straggled through the wind, also headed toward the Tree, but he held no Beacon. He would have to locate it if he wanted another try at flying during the days of the Rite.
The Longing flowed happily through him, ignoring the drenching rain and his manna-burnt blood. Time to hunt, it said. You are so close to winning her. Fulfill the Rite. Start a family.
Out on the plains, there were few places for prey to hide from a flying Hakaan. Tarcua forced his last ounces of magical energy to carry him across the plains, and he spotted a grove of trees housing several small deer. He landed and harvested one of them, and then walked three miles back to Sark-anat with the dead creature slung over his shoulders.
Tarcua finally stepped into the ring of stones and began searching the encampments. The keals had larger tents, prepared for them and their new mates, many glowing from welcoming fires within. Tarcua searched for one particular tent, which would have a flag bearing two talons crossed together. It too was a larger tent, but housed representatives from each tribe, guests whose duty was to sanction new pairings with the blessings of respective tribes. Tarcua stopped outside this large tent and flicked his talons across some wood tubes hanging just outside.
A shadow, silhouetted from a campfire within, moved across the tent flap.
“Who it it?” it demanded.
“I am Tarcua Vidari, who has completed the flight, retrieved the Beacon, and seeks the blessing of the Vidari to pair with the Daughter of Sark-anat,” he replied, unable to keep the weariness from his voice. He realized his eyes were closed against the rain.
“Your request will be granted, should she accept the meat offering,” the shadow replied, and then moved away from the door.
A few moments later, a blue and brown Hakaan emerged, wearing a ruff of red lion fur around his neck. He swung a large cloak around him and gestured.
“We know of the Daughter of Sark-anat, brother Tarcua,” he said. “This way.”
Tarcua didn’t recognize this tribal priest; perhaps he was new enough not to know who Tarcua was, or of his Hunter past. Tarcua followed him up the hill to a tent set under the massive roots of the Tree, one of the most envied camping spots in the area. It was large enough for three or four Hakaan, and his body ached at the warm firelight emanating from the canvas.
“Daughter of Sark-anat,” Tarcua announced to the tied tent door. “It is me, Tarcua Vidari. I have retrieved the Beacon, and bring my meat offering to you.”
“Come in, Tarcua.”
Had her voice sounded this gentle and excited when he first met her? Or was that the Longing warping his perception? He didn’t care. He suddenly wanted nothing more than to hear more of her voice.
The priest was kind enough to untie the flap for Tarcua and hold it open for him. He nodded to Tarcua and let the flap drop behind him; the priest would wait outside for the keal’s approval of Tarcua so he could pair them.
Tarcua stood blinking in the glow of her fire. She had laid out several light brown furs along the ground, and a large fur sleeping mat sat on the other side of the fire. A long, large stone sat near the fire on his right. The Daughter of Sark-anat had removed everything save for her loin cloth, and sat beside the stone, ready for her meal. She had mostly dried from their insane flight, but he could smell the dampness of drying fur and feathers in the air.
Tarcua cleared his throat and laid the little deer on the rock, and then took a step back. His knees knocked from a mixture of exhaustion and the thrill of winning her, and he wasn’t sure if it would offend her to sit before he toppled over. She gazed at him, her ears and feather crest relaxed in a friendly manner, and flicked her talon towards the deer.
“I accept it,” she said softly. “Of course, I would have accepted anything you brought, Tarcua. You won me the moment you went after the dropped Beacon.”
Victory flared warmer and brighter through him than the sun. The Longing circled through him in a giddy dance. Tarcua went and sat just behind the rock, water droplets dripping from his feathers and beak. He held still as she gently stroked water from his cheek.
“Well, should we let our guest in?” she said.
Tarcua called for the priest, and he stepped in. The brown-feathered Hakaan looked upon them with his head raised proudly.
“It is a great honor when a new seed of tribes accepts a mate,” he said. “With your joining, you must find a new home to settle, a family to raise into new traditions that will keep the Kuuti strong.” He lifted one talon to the Daughter and the other to Tarcua. “In the name of the Vidari tribe, and with the blessing of all the chieftains, I declare you mated, joined in the life-long bond of the Hakaan. May your wings carry you far, and may your seed fill the Kuuti lands.”
Tarcua and the Daughter bowed their heads in agreement, and the tribal priest left. Tarcua looked upon his wife. His wife. He took in every curve and line of her feathers and wings and legs and talons. She similarly observed him, reaching for his wing harness, and then hesitated.
“May I?” she asked.
“Of course,” he whispered.
She undid the buttons and lacing on his wing vest, and he shrugged it off with a grateful whistle.
“It must feel wonderful to fly again,” she said.
“It is,” he agreed.
He wanted nothing more than to take her into his arms, but there was still the meat to cook. He located her equipment for a spit, speared the animal onto it, and suspended the animal over the flames. He sat as close as was comfortable to the fire, letting it dry him. He couldn’t very well hold her if he was as wet as a bog.
“What is your name?” he asked. He laughed softly. “I probably should have asked while we danced through that hurricane up there.”
“Harran,” she said. She scooted behind him and began to massage his upper back. He groaned in relief, heart fluttering at how comfortable she was touching a wingless Hakaan’s back. “I have so many questions for you.”
“I have answers,” he replied. “But just a few at a time; so tired. The only reason I’m still awake is because I just got married.”
He singed the fur off the animal, and then used a poker to prod the flames down into coals. Tarcua moved back from the fire, absently running his claws through his breast feathers. He had a lot of grooming to do.
“Harran,” he said. She placed herself beside him, keeping a wing extended against his back. An intimate touch that told him she trusted him with her wings. He lifted his talon and ran the back of it down her soft throat feathers. “Why did you choose me? Most Kuuti abhor the Drinkers… I made some horrible decisions that brought me to give away my wings.”
“The Drinkers only choose those with the most powerful manna,” Harran replied readily. “To see one who was a Drinker have the courage to come to the Rites, to invent his own wings, and to show off his aura...I was looking for a strong seed of magic to plant in my tribe. I….I want to learn more about this Zarem and Luna that brought you back to the Kuuti. I want to meet those you call friends.” She pressed her head against his cheek. A new wave of warmth surged through him. “I’m glad you came for the Rites. Now the Longing is fulfilled. Now we can start a family.”
The Longing caused a passionate stupor to come over Tarcua. He pulled Harran against him, rubbing his head and neck against hers, and she wrapped her wings tightly about him. His heart sang. Peace for a fulfillment he had craved for so long gave him strength.
As dawn approached, the full force of the Longing passed away with the night, and the only part of it left was a steely, loving bond with Harran that would never leave him. When he looked back at all the years of Longing he had neglected, with all its fears and confusion, Tarcua realized the gods had turned those years into a gift. He had thought his first Rite was the end of a peaceful life. Now the last Rite was just another beginning.
The Last Rite © 2022 by Sarah Bailey. All rights reserved. This may not represent the final product.
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