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Cultural Relations

Chapter 5

©2025 Bruno Hirschkoff

For Irving

The following is a work of erotic fiction intended solely for adult audiences. It is not intended for commercial publication nor for widespread distribution without the permission of the Author. The Author asserts the exclusive right of ownership of Asantrea, and all characters, settings, concepts, locations and events described herein.

Approx 8,700 words / 40 minutes reading time

“We have arrived,” Nur-Ayya announced.

She stopped walking, and turned to Araxes. She placed her hands on his shoulders, touched her ossicones to his, and then drew back to stare into the Lamaye’s eyes. He seemed nervous, to her.

“Be not afraid. We shall not eat you,” she gave him a little smile.

“I wish he would eat me,” muttered Veyo from beside him.

“Perhaps,” Nur-Ayya returned.

“You interrupted me moments before my climax, this morning,” Veyo complained.

“Moments before your fourth or fifth climax,” Nur-Ayya corrected her. “Araxes was beginning to struggle to restrain himself.”

Veyo made a throaty noise of sexual frustration.

“Doing what, am I must?” Araxes asked.

Nur-Ayya turned her attention back to Araxes, somewhat apologetically.

“Ayya-Yurah is my mother, Aethyrsage of the Y’Dasz. One of twelve. Like… like a shaman. She will examine you. You must allow it. It may be uncomfortable. She must know that your spirit is pure, to become Y’Dasz. She will enter your mind and she will know all that you know. See all that you see. And she will show you what it is, to be Y’Dasz. You may have many questions. She may answer, and she may not. But you must trust her.”

Araxes gazed up into Nur-Ayya’s eyes. It was the most serious he had yet seen her, so he knew her words carried no ambiguity.

“They are coming,” said Veyo.

Araxes turned from Nur-Ayya.

The Aethyrsage’s hut was woven from living plants, like all the other structures of the Y’Dasz, in the lowest fork of a monumental tree. Mosses, ferns and clusters of orchids clung to the tree’s vast bole all around the hut, and a wide, shallow bridge of woven vines connected it to the forest floor. Down that bridge came three giraffes around Araxes’ age; an Y’Dasz woman, and two tall, slender Sagunu men, judging from their pelt markings. Each of them wore an elaborate mantle around their shoulders constructed from finely wrought coins of obsidian, woven together with fine thread, and long strips of gossamer thin flowing cloth that billowed behind their otherwise naked bodies as they walked.

“Ayya-Yurah’s attendants,” Nur-Ayya explained quietly to Araxes. “They will escort you, and assist with the initiation rites.”

She squeezed his shoulder, and then gently pushed him forward. Araxes stepped forward, and the Y’Dasz attendant approached him with a critical eye. She walked around him slowly, humming under her breath in a way that made his fur stand on end. He forced himself not to stare at her heavy, soft breasts, which her mantle left deliberately exposed. She carried a sweet, cloying scent with her, which caused Araxes’ nostrils to twitch. He stood still while she examined him like livestock, prodding and feeling his body, but he couldn’t suppress his gasp when her long, purple tongue dragged up the side of his neck.

“I am Tsu-Isi,” she said into his ear. “Araxes Lamaye. The Aethyrsage has watched you on your journey to us. She will receive you. But first, you must wash.”

He turned his head and stifled a gasp when her hand casually slid inside the pouch of his loincloth to feel his cock.

“While the stink of your many unfulfilled arousals has a certain appeal,” Tsu-Isi said sultrily, “Ayya-Yurah must be able to detect your pheromones over the reek of your manhood. Go with Ivaeah and Shayya.”

He grit his teeth, begging himself not to get an erection. He failed, but no one seemed even vaguely perturbed. Tsu-Isi held him while he hardened, her body pressed to his hip, and then withdrew her hand from his loincloth. She spoke to one of the Sagunu men, and the two of them took Araxes, guiding him with their hands on his shoulders.

“Where are we going?” he asked them, holding his hands over his groin.

“Not worrying. Not scaring. Safe. Ayya-Yurah protect,” said Ivaeah, one of the attendants, in heavily accented Y’Dasz.

Araxes allowed himself to be guided. He supposed there was little he could do about it, in any case—although being around two men was slightly jarring after the past week of seeing no one but women. Still, these men did not project any sort of aggression. They were softly spoken and slender of body, very much like Araxes himself. They led him between two closely-set trees, whose trunks had grown together into a natural archway a few dozen paces from the Aethyrsage’s elevated hut. A dense wall of vines and undergrowth formed a very private space beyond the trees, within which a pool of crystal clear water lay, although its source was unclear at first.

“Sacred spring,” Ivaeah said. “From ancestors of Y’Dasz. Wash.”

Araxes flinched when Shayya tugged the knot of his loincloth, but allowed himself to be undressed. Then he stepped reverently into the water. It was the same water he’d seen in the ancient cavern of the ancestors when they’d first entered Ammunash’s Garden, he realised; the same mineral crystals glittered at its edges. The water soaked through his pelt instantly, and made his skin tingle slightly. Araxes immersed himself in the water, including his head, and felt his heart rate slowing as the sacred water cleansed the sweat and dirt from his fur.

When he emerged, he shook vigorously and heard the Sagunu men share a chuckle. Shayya handed Araxes a strip of cloth.

“For drying,” he explained. “Not for wearing.”

Araxes scrubbed the water from his pelt, and handed the cloth back. Ivaeah was staring openly at Araxes’ manhood, and Araxes realised that he was, by a considerable margin, the larger of the three of them. Oddly, it made him feel self-conscious, but when he went to cover himself, the Sagunu man stopped him with a gentle hand on his arm.

“Pride, having. Not shame,” Ivaeah said quietly. Then he looked once more, and Araxes saw that he was growing erect. “Good looking spear. Handsome. Thick, virile, hardens easily.”

Shayya clicked his tongue and folded his arms behind his companion.

Ivaeah rolled his eyes. He spoke quickly in Sagunu, and Shayya laughed heartily. Then he stepped forward and playfully grabbed Ivaeah’s erection.

“Liking you, Ivaeah said. Most men unhappy to be inspected by other men. Not Araxes.”

Shayya was getting an erection by that time too, and despite his uncertainty, Araxes observed them. He had never paid much attention to other men; among the Lamaye, to have openly stared at another man’s erect penis would have been to invite a snide remark or a rebuff. Araxes’ own member, when erect, was substantially longer than either Shayya or Ivaeah, although the similarities between them outnumbered their differences. Shayya slid his arm around Ivaeah’s waist and pulled him close, and Araxes watched in fascination as they kissed, bringing their erect members together in a deeply erotic way. It was brief, and only for a moment of exhibitionism, but it left Araxes flustered.

The two Sagunu men slipped their arms through his, and the three of them walked from the sacred spring back towards the Aethyrsage’s hut, all three led by their bobbing erections. The reception from the gathering of Y’Dasz women at that sight was one of cheers and laughter, and Araxes caught sight of Veyo all but drooling over them, her hand busy between her thighs.

*

Ayya-Yurah opened her eyes when Tsu-Isi returned. The Aethyrsage was sitting cross-legged in the centre of her hut, on a mat of woven mosses and reeds. Around her, arranged in a specific way, were the implements of the initiation ritual. Several clay bowls of sacred water, pouches of herbs and dried fungi, and two small clay cups.

Tsu-Isi held open the reed curtain across the doorway of the hut, and through it came Ivaeah and Shayya, her two Sagunu attendants… and Araxes. The Lamaye giraffe was considerably shorter than the two Sagunu men, and skinny. She could see his ribs and his hips through his pelt, although his nudity revealed that he carried a weapon to rival many Equids.

The Aethyrsage shifted her heavily pregnant, naked body and leaned forward in anticipation.

“Araxes Lamaye,” she intoned, in a voice that resonated in the intimate space. “Come, be welcome. Sit with me. I am Ayya-Yurah, an Aethyrsage of the Y’Dasz. I and my eleven Aethyrsage sisters are the spiritual guides of our people. It falls to us to assess newcomers to our places, to judge their worthiness and their suitability to become Y’Dasz.”

Araxes’ eyes were wide, but Ayya-Yurah was pleased to see that he exhibited little fear. He sat opposite her without needing to be prompted twice, mirroring her cross-legged position, and close enough to her that their knees almost touched. It was the correct position. Either Tsu-Isi or Nur-Ayya had clearly taught him some aspects of the initiation ceremony. Ayya-Yurah was pleased.

Tsu-Isi picked up a small clay pot filled with a vibrant, glowing paste, and approached the seated Araxes. She squatted immodestly beside him and leaned her body heavily against his.

“Be still,” she commanded him when he squirmed. “The body paint is made from the extract of the Nightglow Orchid. Its glow shall allow you and the Aethyrsage to see one another in the dark. Worry not for its physical consequence, it causes most men to become erect. Let it.”

Ayya-Yurah watched with undisguised interest as the flesh between Araxes thighs swelled and rose, although whether it was from the scent of the Nightglow Orchid, or the breasts of Tsu-Isi against his chest, she could not be certain. Tsu-Isi painted several stripes of the glowing paste across each of Araxes’ cheeks, and one down the top of his muzzle between his nostrils. Then she dipped all of her fingers into the pot, and raked six parallel stripes down the front of his torso, from his collarbones to his hips. Then she rose smoothly to her hooves, straddling his legs facing him, and lingered there for a moment. Ayya-Yurah saw his rod twitch and pulse, and the skinny Lamaye’s chest moving rapidly with his elevated breaths. His reaction to the open sexuality of Y’Dasz women pleased her further, and caused a bloom of heat in her groin even before Tsu-Isi applied the Nightglow Orchid paste to her body. The patterns Tsu-Isi made on the Aethyrsage’s body were quite different to Araxes; for her, she emphasised the curvature of her breasts, painting concentric circles around each of her swollen, wide nipples, and wavy lines upward to her collarbones. On her face, Tsu-Isi painted curved smears across her cheeks with her thumbs, a circle in the centre of her forehead to represent her spiritual eye, and several wavy lines radiating outward from it. Then Tsu-Isi licked the remaining paste from her fingers, and stepped away. Ayya-Yurah watched Araxes closely. The young Lamaye’s eye followed Tsu-Isi closely, although subtly.

“Be not ashamed of your attraction, Araxes Lamaye,” Ayya-Yurah reassured him. “The Nightglow Orchid makes the desire stronger, but it does nothing if there is no desire present to begin with. The sight of your spear so swollen and erect pleases me greatly. It shall please us all greatly, of that I have little doubt.”

“Thanking, am,” Araxes replied shakily. “Honoured, am.”

Ayya-Yurah hummed deeply in appreciation, and shifted her body closer to his. That required her to uncross her legs and spread them around him, and Araxes rose to his knees to accommodate her.

“Mm. Not best position. Tsu-Isi? Please sit behind me to support me.”

She complied with a soft, rhythmic click of her tongue, and sat back-to-back with the Aethyrsage. That allowed her to lift her legs over Araxes’ own, bringing their bodies closer still with their legs intertwined. His erect penis pressed to the gravid swell of her belly, and Ayya-Yurah clicked in appreciation.

Ivaeah and Shayya, the two Sagunu attendants, were preparing the psychedelic ritual draught that both Ayya-Yurah and Araxes would drink, to commence the initiation. They handed them each a small clay cup when it was complete. Araxes carefully mirrored the Aethyrsage’s body language, holding the cup with one hand flat beneath it, and the other gripping its rim with thumb and one finger.

“Drink,” Ayya-Yurah said.

Together, they swallowed the draught. It was bitter, but the unpleasant flavour was short lived. Almost immediately, Ayya-Yurah began to feel its effects. Bright flashes of ephemeral light began at the periphery of her vision, and by the shock registering on Araxes’ face, it was occurring for him, too.

“Be not afraid. Lean forward, Araxes Lamaye. Bring your head to mine.”

He seemed familiar with the Y’Dasz gesture of touching ossicones, for he did so with ease. She could taste his breath, and with their heads bowed, she could smell him, too. The cleansing he had received at the sacred spring rendered his pheromones the only prevailing scent, overwhelming even the musty warmth of their shared sexual arousal.

The world outside shrunk around them in Ayya-Yurah’s perception, as the hallucinogen began to take hold. It blurred the boundary between wakefulness and dreaming, and she felt Araxes more as a spiritual than a physical presence before her. He was tense, though; guarded. She pressed her ossicones softly against his own, and raised her hands to cup his cheeks.

“Be not afraid, Araxes Lamaye. You must relax your mind. You are safe. Nothing will hurt you. Let me in.”

It took some time, but eventually, as a young woman exploring herself for the first time, Ayya-Yurah felt the resistance in his mind begin to give. She was gentle, and for a long while simply existed with Araxes in this blurred, indistinct, shared consciousness. The sounds, scents and feelings of the physical world melted away into the background of her mind, such that all that remained was darkness, shot through with the glowing stripes of Nightglow Orchid paste, and the two of them, as amorphous knots of consciousness, orbiting carefully around one another.

Can you hear me, inside your mind, Araxes Lamaye? Do not speak with your lips. Speak with your mind. Project a thought. Ayya-Yurah said, inside Araxes’ mind.

A nonsensical garble of unmetered consciousness replied to her. The prevailing mental picture she received from him, though, was vagina. Veyo’s, specifically, although the image flickered between Veyo, Yt’tai and Nur-Ayya. Veyo’s though, was the strongest.

Ayya-Yurah could not contain her mirth. Her laughter, in that realm of altered, disembodied consciousness was a pulse of bright light that throbbed rhythmically, and cast joyful sparks around them.

You are trying. This is good. Try again. Worry not for what you show to me. Project forth your strongest emotion. I need to have something that is deeply tied to your mind, so that I can come inside your head, and know you.

The savannah. The dry, open plains, sparsely dotted with acacias and termite mounds. The rocky escarpments, outcrops and ridges. The bright harshness of the suns. The vastness of the sky. The Firmament of stars. The scarcity and value of water.

Ayya-Yurah used his emotions like a ladder to climb into his mind, and finally, their thoughts began to meld together, to become one. The Aethyrsage deliberately kept her own mind tightly controlled, for to flood Araxes’ mind with her every thought and knowledge would likely cause him to lose his sanity, and his sense of self. Instead, she allowed his thoughts, his memories, to whirl around her like a fog. Disjointed flashes of events long passed flickered through her consciousness.

A shamaness, silent for his entire life, although she desperately longed not to be. His mother.

The pain of being pushed to the ground and kicked by his peers. Of rejection.

Solitude. Sitting alone on the savannah and watching the suns sink towards the western horizon, blurred beneath the heat haze.

Searching for water in dry seasons, and finding solace in hidden caverns in the red rocks.

Chieftain Isaeos. A brutal and savage creature dripping in blood. A Bezari, like his father.

No future. No hope for one such as Araxes. The spectre of death, looming over him like a third shadow.

Bloated bodies of young men, tied to the baking rocks. So many of them, their blood staining the rocks black. More, more, always more.

The fear of the Forest Demons. Lies, fear. Stolen sacrifices.

The son of Isaeos. Shuva. A powerful Bezari warrior, a Chieftain in waiting. Not as he seems. Suspicion. A tiny spark of hope.

Amel bless you and guide your passage.

Incredulity. Hope. Salvation.

Deception. Pain. Blackness.

Death.

Sheqi, Nur-Ayya! Lur a’amadeti!

Lah! Raq’ahbat.

Esti Lamaye-ur?

Ayya-Yurah paused. Meditated for a long moment within Araxes’ tumultuous memories. He had been cast out from his people long before he was left for dead on the savannah for Nur-Ayya to find. He had remained alive perhaps only because his mother was the shamaness. Oh, how she must be grieving his loss! Nur-Ayya felt his years of fear and trauma as a powerful upwelling of sadness in her heart, and in her physical body, she embraced him closely, rocking him like a frightened calf.

There was a long moment of silence from Araxes’ memories. And then, to Ayya-Yurah’s surprise, she received a strong, cohesive picture. Not only a picture. A story. Araxes was deliberately replaying in his own mind, the story of his journey through Ammunash’s Garden. Fear, pain, grief and apprehension gave way to resignation and dejection, and then to a flash of curiosity, quickly smothered. That was when the first twinge of arousal came through. Ayya-Yurah focused her thoughts. This was the important part of the ritual. She needed to determine whether or not Araxes had broken shaka’hakt. She hoped intently that he had not; that his soul remained pure, and that he was worthy to be welcomed among the Y’Dasz.

What she found in the skinny Lamaye’s recent memories caused her heart to race with excitement. His fear persisted for some days, only to be replaced by…lust. The sheer power of his attraction to Nur-Ayya, and to Veyo, and later also to Yt’tai, had a more profound effect on Ayya-Yurah than the strongest aphrodisiac. Her entire being tingled as she travelled through Araxes’ memories, experiencing them through his sensations and his emotions, just as he had experienced them first.

She knew from experience that he would be reliving them again himself at the same time, and took pleasure from knowing that their physical arousal and sensation was completely shared. She could feel through his memories the hardness of his erection, the wetness around its head, and the pleasure of moving the foreskin over the glans while Veyo and Yt’tai masturbated right beside him. And, shortly thereafter, the power of his orgasm rippled also through Ayya-Yurah’s consciousness, and her body.

Araxes had not broken shaka’hakt. Indeed, Ayya-Yurah found shortly thereafter, he had even defended it, when presented at an Y’Dasz village with the opportunity to mount a young woman he would likely never see again.

Pride grew in Ayya-Yurah’s heart for him, and she knew, in that moment, that he was worthy. He was pure. He deserved to be Y’Dasz. She spoke to him within his mind of the Y’Dasz; of their language and society, and gauged how much of their custom he already knew from travelling with Nur-Ayya. She showed him why he was here. To be a father. To save the Y’Dasz. To give them life.

Finally, she felt her consciousness begin to separate from Araxes’ once more, separating them into their respective bodies and minds.

*

Araxes felt as though he was awakening very slowly from the deepest sleep he had ever experienced, yet he was utterly exhausted. The dreams had been so intense, so real – and in this case he knew them to be real. Ayya-Yurah had really entered his mind, melded her consciousness with his own for that brief time. And while she had been experiencing his memories, learning his past and judging his character, she had also been showing him in a series of feelings and emotions, what it meant for him to become Y’Dasz. She showed him his role as the common companion of all Y’Dasz women; available at any time to anyone who so desired him, with his consent, as well as his domestic role around Zalemanya.

His consciousness crystallised slowly as the fast-acting psychedelic faded into the background of his being. He felt an extraordinary sense of peace and belonging, unlike anything he’d experienced before.

He felt Ayya-Yurah shift her body against him, and his eyes snapped open to the feeling of wet fur.

He’d ejaculated on her during the trance.

Thick, heavy streaks of semen—four days’ worth—clung in sticky ropes both to his own body, and to hers, coating her heavy, pregnant belly and her swollen breasts. He felt a moment of worry, but the look on Ayya-Yurah’s face bore not a trace of distaste.

“Have no fear, Araxes Y’Dasz. The feelings you experienced, I also experienced. You are worthy of us, although you came very close on three occasions to breaking the shaka’hakt.”

Araxes’ ears burned. “Sorrow, having… resisting… difficult.”

“Your forgiveness is earned. There is no transgression. Veyo is… forceful, when she wishes to be. I should know. She is my daughter.”

Araxes’ ears perked sharply. “Veyo… sister Nur-Ayya?”

Ayya-Yurah laughed good-naturedly and nodded. “Yes. They are similar, did you not see? Nur-Ayya has learned to control herself better, since she shall one day be Aethyrsage. But Veyo… Veyo need not restrain herself. Especially now, that you are one of us. Not to mention… that it was Veyo, not Nur-Ayya, who found you, and saved your life. According to our law, you are to be hers, first. But that is for my daughters to decide. Come now, my back aches and I need to rest.”

Slowly, Ayya-Yurah reclaimed her legs from around Araxes’ hips. He rose quickly, stumbled and recovered, and moved to help the Aethyrsage to her hooves.

“Thank you,” she said.

Araxes blinked. His stomach growled, and he desperately needed to piss. Ayya-Yurah spotted his confusion.

“Time has little meaning in the realm of Aethyr, Araxes,” she said quietly. “We may have been in our trance for many hours. It is why you are so tired. Go, and rest, and then be welcome among your brothers and sisters.”

“Mother, allow me to guide Araxes to a place of rest, do not exert yourself,” said Tsu-Isi, who had risen from her position supporting Ayya-Yurah.

Ayya-Yurah turned to face her, and gave a half-smile. Araxes’ mouth fell open. Tsu-Isi was another of Ayya-Yurah’s daughters? She seemed quietly eager, and Araxes felt a pang of concern that she may take advantage of him before Nur-Ayya and Veyo had their chance to consummate their connection to him. Such a thing would be against Y’Dasz custom, but Tsu-Isi seemed much calmer than Veyo.

Ayya-Yurah clicked her tongue in thought, and then nodded.

“Very well. Remember that he is Veyo’s to hold, first. Then Nur-Ayya’s. To you, he remains shaka’hakt.”

“Yes, mother, of course.”

Tsu-Isi, to Araxes’ surprise, disrobed. Her ceremonial duties completed, she lifted the heavy mantle from her shoulders and with it, the gossamer scraps of silk that only nominally concealed her genitals. Then she slipped her arm through Araxes’, and led him from the Aethyrsage’s hut.

“You performed very well,” she murmured to him. “Soft and considerate you are. It is what we seek, in our men.”

It was night. Among the boughs of the monumental trees, tiny lanterns flickered and glowed, filled with the ubiquitous Nightglow Orchid extract, or bioluminescent fungi. Few Y’Dasz were around. Araxes cast his eye around for Nur-Ayya, Veyo or Yt’Tai, but could not locate them. His head swam with tiredness. He realised he remained naked, but lacked the self-consciousness to care.

“Where sleeping?” he asked Tsu-Isi.

“Somewhere safe. You must eat, then rest and recuperate. The ritual of ascension is draining. You may rest in my home. I shall watch over you.”

Araxes opened his mouth to ask a question, then realised it would be presumptuous. Tsu-Isi chuckled.

“Worry not, I have control of my needs. I shall pleasure myself if I feel the need, but you belong to my sisters first.”

Tsu-Isi’s home was almost directly opposite Ayya-Yurah’s hut, part of a ring of living structures that surrounded it, elevated above the forest floor and connected by walkways of living branches and vines, that soared over the understorey. Tsu-Isi climbed up a stair of moss-coated stones, to access those elevated walkways, and Araxes followed her closely. He stared openly at her backside as he climbed, and saw glimpses of her womanhood between her thighs. He was not sure he would ever get used to such sights, such that they would not cause him to swell and his mouth to water. Tsu-Isi seemed unperturbed, and glanced at his half-swollen manhood when he reached the platform.

“This pleases me,” she said simply, tapping it with a fingertip. Then she turned and led him across a bridge of vines, to an adjacent tree, within which half a dozen small, roughly dome-shaped structures were nestled, looking almost like inverted birds’ nests. They were tiny, barely large enough to sleep in, but that was their sole purpose.

Tsu-Isi ushered him into her nest. Araxes ducked, and slid inside. Like Ayya-Yurah’s hut, it was delicately lit with nets of fungi, and had a floor covered with mats of woven grasses. Tsu-Isi’s bedding lay along its curved wall. It was not large enough to comfortably sleep two.

“Tsu-Isi, sleeping where?” he asked her.

“Beside you, of course—where else would I go?”

Araxes found himself unable to protest. He was simply too tired. His heart skipped in his chest when he abruptly realised… I am Y’Dasz.

Tsu-Isi fussed until he sat among her bedding, and then sat opposite him, cross-legged. He stared at her sleepily. She smiled. She was very pretty. But something was troubling Araxes. He knew of many Lamaye men who had been taken by the Y’Dasz, but had not seen any of them in Zalemanya. He posed the question.

“Not all of the men who come to us are accepted, Araxes.”

A tiny tingle of fear buzzed in his abdomen. “Where… others? Going-next-when? Surviving?”

Tsu-Isi snorted. “We have heard of the silly Lamaye legends that we cannibalise your men, or kill them for trophies. We do not. The Y’Dasz are a peaceful people, although we have many warriors. But our warriors are not only warriors. They are healers and pathfinders and foragers, as you well know.

“Many men do not make it to Zalemanya,” Tsu-Isi continued. “Some run into the forest. Some fight the spear sisters. Some are violent, or try to plant their seed before it is time. Those… we cannot accept. But we try not to kill. Victory in battle for an Y’Dasz warrior is avoiding any killing. We mourn those we are forced to kill.”

Araxes nodded. “Many… breaking shaka’hakt?”

“Most, yes,” Tsu-Isi said sadly. “You are rare, Araxes. But have no fear. Those who are not welcomed to the Y’Dasz simply continue their journey, beyond our lands, to the south. They live. They find their place among the other tribes of Ammunash’s Garden—the Shefa, Khala, Jera, Dhriti or Vataki.”

Nebulously Araxes considered that this must be why he saw so few men among the Y’Dasz, despite their widespread reputation for taking men from the villages north of the Garden. Tsu-Isi’s words also hinted at the extent of the Garden, of how vast it truly was, if there were at least five more cultural groups further into its depths. The thoughts blurred together in his exhausted mind, and he swayed.

“You are in need of rest,” Tsu-Isi said. “I will bring you food and water.”

She rose, and ducked back out of her nest. Araxes was asleep in moments, and did not hear her return.

*

Shuva’s first days as Chieftain of the Lamaye passed in a blur. His ascendency was years ahead of when he was expected to take the mantle of leadership, so there was much he did not know. Atatafi the shamaness spent much of her time with him. She taught him the ways of chiefdom, his responsibilities and his rights. His, it turned out, was a position of absolute despotic authority. None were permitted to question him.

That, Atatafi told him, was not always the case. Beltezaar, as he had done with so many of the Lamaye’s customs and traditions, had rewritten their common laws to suit himself, and sealed his reforms with blood.

Shuva’s work, then, was cut out for him. He knew immediately what he needed to do, but he lacked the knowledge or experience to know how, or where to start, to undo the evils of his father and grandfather.

“Laws are only oppressive if a leader uses them to his advantage, to inflict suffering,” Atatafi said. “And you have a lifetime to enact changes.”

“But where to even begin? The task seems momumental,” Shuva said.

“Oaal and Xanaf,” Atatafi suggested to him in her raspy, hoarse tone. “I know it was not truly they who killed Isaeos. Amel too, knows this. The Goddess has been silent, but never has she been blind. But she is a goddess of change and transition, of the turning of the seasons, and she does not disapprove of you, Shuva. Oaal and Xanaf have been granted to you as a tool. Use them to show the Lamaye how you will lead them.”

“What do you mean?”

“Do not execute them. You know in your heart it would be wrong. You are morally conflicted about it, yes?”

Shuva shifted uncomfortably. “Yes, that is true.”

“Let me heal them. Use the power of Amel to show mercy and forgiveness. They are lost, like calves left out on the plains. They cannot see the horizon for the tall buffel grasses all around them, and right now the buffel grasses are burning. They are afraid. Make them afraid not of their fate, but of their own actions and misdeeds. They will come to you.”

It was a clever plan. Shuva remained uncertain about whether the two boorish louts would keep their silence, or if they would seek to turn on him. Isaeos had many devotees among the Lamaye, and many were doubtful of Oaal and Xanaf’s guilt.

The Chiefdom came with absolute power, but Shuva knew he could not use it if he was to be a different, and better, leader. That included to put down any suggestion that he had killed Isaeos himself. He decided that if he was confronted with such a thing, he would admit to it. The Lamaye had seen his initiation, and had seen Amel’s approval, which continued in the rains that fell.

He thanked Atatafi, and she bowed to him as he stood to leave her hut. From there, he returned to his own. He had rejected Isaeaos’ hut and had elected for it to be dismantled and its building materials distributed to those who needed them. His father’s legacy hung heavy in the air over the imposing structure, and he wanted his leadership to be his own. All around him, then, as he walked through the village, there was a buzz of optimism and activity. People were harvesting timber, thatch and stone from the Chieftain’s hut and repairing or expanding their own homes with it. Lamaye men and women hailed him as he passed, and he waved to them and acknowledged by name those he knew.

Arashi was outside Shuva’s hut, speaking with Nataye and Orosfes, two women from the longhouse across the village. Nataye was pregnant, her belly round and heavy with Oaal’s calf, and appeared to be upset. Orosfes was a well-known midwife who, it was said, could produce milk from her enormous breasts even when she did not have a calf to feed.

As Shuva approached, the two women took their leave.

Nearby, Luwam squatted in the shade of an acacia, and Shuva motioned to him. Following his ceremony, Shuva had immediately elevated Luwam to be his wazīr, a traditional office neither Beltezaar nor Isaeos had offered. The Chieftain’s wazīr was a respected and trusted advisor, and an executor of the Chieftain’s wishes.

Luwam rose and followed Shuva into the hut, along with Arashi.

“Shuva, the people are happy,” Luwam said.

“It has been mere days. Give them time,” Shuva replied with a chuckle. “Luwam, would you arrange for messengers to be sent to the Sagunu and the Il-Qahra, and… and to the Y’Dasz, if they can be found?”

“The forest demons?” Luwam looked shocked.

“They are nothing of the sort, Luwam. I have never believed so. They have never committed violence towards us, and have only ever taken men my ancestors were attempting to sacrifice to Bezar. I believe they should be contacted. They should know what has passed here. It may change their tactics.”

Luwam bowed and left the hut.

“What will you say to them?” Arashi asked, once they were alone. “The Y’Dasz, I mean? If they come?”

“I know not. But I know I shall speak to the Sagunu and the Il-Qahra, and to them I know what I shall say. I shall offer them the blessings of Amel and seek to build a lasting peace.”

He stared intently at Arashi, and she met his gaze unfalteringly. He loved her with all his heart, it was true, but she had been taken from the Sagunu at spearpoint, and forced to live among the Lamaye.

“Would you return home?” he asked her quietly.

Arashi’s mouth opened and closed a few times, and she stuttered. “I-I… to the Sagunu?”

“Yes. My father took you. I shall not keep you here if you do not wish it.”

Arashi pressed her body to his, and held him. He enfolded her in his arms and breathed deeply of her. But she did not answer his question. Instead, she pressed his hand to her soft breast, and kissed him passionately. Shuva felt himself rise to her intimacy, and eagerly lifted her up by her buttocks when she touched him, such that she could lift her legs around his waist and take him inside her. She was hot and slick, and he made no attempt to resist. He made love to her with the same urgency and passion as always—no one had ever fired his blood the way Arashi did. Every time felt like the very first, and she seemed to want it even more often than he did.

In the centre of Shuva’s hut was a stout central column, made from the whole trunk of a tree. He pressed Arashi’s back up against the column, and she reached upward over her head to grip onto the rafters of the hut, lifting her body and presenting herself to him. He kissed her deeply, and gyrated his hips against hers, moving inside her with slow, clear intent. His seed spilled forth into her fluttering core within a few minutes, and she clamped her legs around his hips to hold him inside while he trembled and bucked and ejaculated.

Behind him, Luwam cleared his throat politely. Shuva’s eyes flew open and he hurriedly withdrew from Arashi and spun to face his wazīr. Luwam smirked at his Chieftain, and made a show of not staring at their partial nudity, or Shuva’s slowly receding arousal.

“You could have waited outside, Luwam,” Shuva quietly rebuffed him.

“Yes, I suppose I could. But to witness the Chieftain of the Lamaye in such a performance as that? I could not resist.”

“The raised spear in your loincloth suggests that you enjoyed his performance, although not as much as I did,” Arashi commented.

Luwam grunted and half-heartedly covered himself with one hand.

“What news, Luwam?” Shuva pressed.

“Messengers have been dispatched. You may need to speak to the Y’Dasz group though, they seem to think they’re going on patrol.”

“I shall. Arashi, when I arrived, you were speaking with Orosfes and Nataye—she is carrying Oaal’s calf, is she not?”

“Yes, that is true. Orosfes says the birth will be soon, and she was here to ask me to beg you on her behalf not to execute Oaal.”

“He is accused of murdering the Chieftain,” Luwam pointed out.

“Luwam, before my grandfather became Chieftain, few among the Lamaye were executed. Rape and violent crime was punished with castration, and even those accused of murder were sometimes not killed, but stripped of their warrior titles and spears, and ordered to work in the quarries or the mines. My father and grandfather recruited murderers to their side, took slaves from the Sagunu to work the quarries, and executed those who disagreed. Oaal, though he is accused of killing Isaeos, freed the Lamaye from his brutality. I shall not execute him. Nor Xanaf.”

Luwam’s eyes were wide, and the wazīr processed the Chieftain’s words slowly.

“To be clear,” Shuva continued, “Oaal and Xanaf are to be delivered to the shamaness to be healed. They both bear injuries which, I am told, are festering and threaten to kill them if not attended to.”

“To not execute murderers…”

“Is a clear statement, Luwam. It is a statement that I am not my father. That is all it is. Go.”

*

Xanaf was frightened and dirty and in pain, when he and Oaal were brought to Atatafi. Oaal had not regained full consciousness since being knocked out by Shuva, several days previously. The side of his head was split and swollen, dried blood matted his fur, and he had only managed to open his eyes and cling to consciousness long enough to drink a little water. Xanaf’s shoulder wound had been bound, but the bandage was soaked through with blood and was beginning to stink. Atatafi was forbidden by the most ancient customs of the Lamaye from speaking with any other but the Chieftain or another shaman. She could not communicate in words with Oaal and Xanaf.

But a shaman does not need her words, to be heard.

She gave them urba’azi laced with a mildly hallucinogenic sedative, the same thing she used herself to enter a trance and commune with the gods. Healing the wound in Xanaf’s shoulder took time, but time was something a shaman had plenty of. The warm, tingling glow of the energies she channelled through her body and into Xanaf allowed her to communicate with him with no words being exchanged. She entered his mind, touched his soul.

She chose to appear to him as an avatar of Amel, the river goddess. It was an indulgence, she knew; no one had ever seen Amel, to know how she truly looked. But the Lamaye used to depict her as a giraffe with the rump markings of an okapi, and with fur that waved in the wind like a field of ripe wheat.

She sensed Xanaf’s fear and awe when he saw her inside his mind, like a lucid dream from which he would be unable to wake. His thoughts were chaotic and unguarded. Atatafi saw Xanaf’s every fear, every desire, every hidden secret. She was surprised to see that a young man named Temekar was the object of most of his desires, something that would have seen him exiled or castrated by the former Chieftain. She saw that Xanaf and Temekar had been intimate since they were calves, and were well used to absconding from Impili at night to seek solitude together in one of several secluded places in the landscape where they could lie together under the stars, unobserved. Their love was beautiful, she noted; gentle and compassionate.

She comforted him with her thoughts and the regal calmness of her presence as Amel, and laid her hand on his wounded shoulder. The warmth of her Aethyric energies wove itself through the wound, stitching together the torn flesh slowly. And while she healed him, Atatafi showed him the error of Isaeos and Beltezaar’s ways. Amel was the goddess of the plains and the rivers, not of fire and stone and blood, as Bezar was. The Lamaye were a people of the plains and rivers, and had long been peaceful. She showed Xanaf that Amel was not displeased with him, and saw the truth of his situation. She showed him that he would not be killed. That Shuva was Amel’s chosen Chieftain, and that following him would earn him favour with Amel. And she knew that Xanaf’s heart had been won.

Oaal was more challenging. There was violence and cowardice in his heart, and an outlandish notion that he could be crowned Chieftain himself by uncovering Shuva’s treachery. But above all else, Oaal was driven by fear. Atatafi subtly adjusted her avatar of Amel to depict her as a more powerful goddess, the patron goddess of the Lamaye, whose displeasure at the events of recent history could be seen in the dry riverbeds and failed crops. She showed him that Shuva was her chosen Chieftain. That Oaal would encounter great suffering if he stood in the way of the goddess’ will to further his own ambitions.

To drive the point home, she showed him Nataye and his unborn calf, and caused the spectre of death to loom over them.

Oaal pissed himself in his trance, and Atatafi knew her work was nearing completion. A man driven by fear could only be controlled by fear, only encouraged by fear.

She offered to heal his cracked skull, and to protect the lives of his lover and child, only if he promised to abandon all thoughts of destroying Shuva. She projected to him that without her healing, he would die. Not a heroic death, but a slow, withering death, never regaining consciousness.

He agreed out of fear.

Atatafi reached out through her avatar and touched him in his trance, laying her hand over his wounded skull. Knitting the bone and reducing the swelling on his brain took the rest of the night, and by the time she was done and could retreat back into her own body, dawn was breaking.

Oaal and Xanaf lay in peaceful repose in her hut. Xanaf’s shoulder was healed and clean—a neat scar was all that remained, and over it, the subtle imprint of an ear of wheat, one of Amel’s symbols. Oaal’s head wound was completely gone, and all that remained was the dried blood in both men’s pelts. Atatafi rang for an attendant to come and help her to wash their bodies, and then she sent a messenger to Shuva to tell the Chieftain.

*

Xanaf declared his allegiance to Shuva almost the moment he awoke in Atatafi’s hut, and was almost desperate to kneel down before him and offer himself to the Chieftain’s every service. Oaal followed suit, although his allegiance was offered out of fear, not love or admiration or gratitude for sparing his life. The one who was most grateful for Oaal’s sparing was, as Atatafi had suggested, the mother of his calf. Nataye was so relieved that her waters broke, and hours later, she gave birth to a daughter, delivered by Orosfes. Shuva made a point of being present shortly after the birth, to offer the child his blessing and protection.

That swayed Oaal’s mind, Atatafi considered. She had seen the look on the cowardly warrior’s face when Shuva had offered Amel’s blessing to his child, without being prompted to do so. To him, it would appear as though the lucid dream he’d had while unconscious was coming to fruition, and would prove that he had indeed met Amel, and the goddess had personally healed both he and Xanaf.

The messengers sent by Shuva took seven days to reach the Sagunu, and ten to reach the distant Il-Qahra, and so it was over a month before their envoys arrived in the lands of the Lamaye. The Y’Dasz could not be found. But then, that was their wont; to remain unseen, hidden among the jungle, but ever-present.

The envoy sent by the Sagunu was a relative of Arashi’s.

Arashi made a soft, strangled cry in her throat when she saw him.

“My father’s brother, Tadesse,” she said breathlessly.

Shuva, standing beside her, patted her rump softly. “Go to him. Have no fear,” he whispered.

She launched herself toward Tadesse, covering the dusty ground with great leaping strides. Lamaye scattered before her, and when she was thirty paces away, the Sagunu envoy caught sight of her. A great roar of joy erupted from his lips, and he flung aside his travelling bag and staff to throw his arms wide.

Arashi knocked Tadesse flat to the ground, and the two rolled around in the dust, laughing and weeping and clinging to one another for a long moment.

Eventually, Arashi rose once more, and Shuva stepped calmly into what had become a ring of Lamaye spectators to offer his hand to the Sagunu envoy, to pull him to his hooves.

“You have taken a great weight from my heart this day, to find my Arashi alive!” Tadesse said, gripping Shuva’s hand in both of his.

“It is my burden to carry, that she and many others of your people were taken by Isaeos. My sorrow runs deep as the rivers in full flood, and not half as swiftly,” Shuva replied.

Tadesse’s face became serious, and Arashi saw him examine Shuva intently, as if attempting to peer into his soul.

“So… it is true?” he whispered. “You are not your father’s son?”

“Isaeos sired me, that much is true; I and my sisters, seven in total. I cannot speak for them. But I am the eldest among them and Isaeos’ only son, and the Lamaye have accepted me as their Chieftain. But I am, as you say, not my father’s son, in intent or in ambition. I seek peace. To heal wounds, not to cause them. And to call upon Amel to hear us, as she once did.”

“Our village elders are troubled, Shuva Lamaye. As well you know, the rains have not come for many seasons, as they seem to have come for the Lamaye this season. We know not why.”

“The ancient traditions must be observed,” Shuva said. “My shaman, Atatafi, tells me that many of the old ways fell into disuse during the reign of Beltezaar and Isaeos. Come, we have much to discuss.”

Shuva led Tadesse and his party of four through the village, and hosted them in his own hut. Arashi silently followed, with her arm looped through her uncle’s elbow. Shuva did not sit on an elevated throne, but on the reed mats of the floor at the same level as Tadesse. Arashi sat beside Shuva, with Luwam on her other side. She felt vaguely ignored by the men, and it rankled her. But, she reminded herself, both of their cultures were patriarchal.

She listened intently nonetheless while Tadesse and Shuva discussed relations between the neighbouring tribes. Before long, the legacy of Isaeos reared its head.

“I must emphasise my sorrow that so much blood has been spilt between our peoples,” Shuva was saying. “Many a time, our peoples have fought and skirmished, and it is an aspect of our meeting that I cannot leave unspoken. Under my leadership, I hope that there will be no more war between us. The Lamaye will no longer attack our neighbours unprovoked.”

“Likewise, Lamaye blood stains our soil,” Tadesse replied, slowly and diplomatically. “Many Lamaye were slain by Sagunu warriors. But unlike the Lamaye, the Sagunu do not raid our neighbours, nor take slaves.”

The barb was well-aimed, and Arashi felt Shuva flinch.

He nodded. “It is true, Isaeos and Beltezaar before him took slaves from your people. It is a practice I despise, and will not continue. Any Sagunu among the Lamaye today, including those who were born among us, are free to leave, to return with you to their homeland if they wish. Those who choose to stay, will live among us as Lamaye.”

Several pairs of eyes turned to Arashi. She sat up straight and pricked her ears.

“That offer includes you, Arashi,” Shuva continued, turning to look into her eyes and take her hands into his own. “I love you with all my heart, but you were brought here against your will by Isaeos.”

Arashi stammered.

“You are free, my love,” he said.

“This is good, Arashi! A day of great joy! You must return to us, my child,” Tadesse said.

“I would miss your touch, and the tenderness that has grown between us, but I shall not keep you here,” Shuva said.

“Your offer is kind and thoughtful,” Tadesse persisted. “And we accept it with thanks. Arashi?”

Arashi felt her throat tighten, and forced herself to swallow her emotions and speak coolly. “No, Tadesse, I cannot.”

Tadesse gasped. “But you must! Your father will expect you to return when he learns you yet live—you are a shaman’s daughter, your loss caused the Sagunu to lose much respect!”

Fire flashed in her eyes at Tadesse’s outburst, and she stood. “I am no slave, nor am I here against my will any longer! Did Shuva not say, mere moments ago, that the choice is mine to make? Do not presume to order me to return with you, Tadesse!”

Her voice cracked, and she fled from the hut. Tears blurred her vision and she nearly bowled one of Tadesse’s retinue over in her hurry to escape. She leaned on the trunk of the acacia outside Shuva’s hut, and moments later felt his presence behind her. She spun to face him. Tears dampened her cheeks, and she sniffed angrily.

“If you want me gone, you need only say so,” she said bitterly. “You offered to let me leave once before, and I refused by making love to you. Was it not enough? Am I not good enough for you, now that you are Chieftain? So much so that you now push me away from you having summoned my uncle to collect me and take me back?”

“Arashi, I…”

“Save your words! I had thought your love for me was genuine, that I was more than a plaything to you. You showed me tenderness and kindness, and I loved you! I still love you, Shuva. I would choose to live here, with you, as you have also offered! I… I am carrying your calf.”

Shuva’s ears drooped and his eyes opened wide. “What?”

“Did you not hear me?” Arashi snapped. “And are you not intelligent enough to know that if you plant your seed, it will eventually germinate? It… has been two months since my last bleeding.”

Arashi softly lifted the front of her tunic. It barely showed, but her belly was very slightly distended. Shuva trembled visibly and stepped forward. He delicately touched her abdomen with his palm, and lifted his gaze to meet her own.

“Truly? It is mine?”

“The shamaness made sure of it,” Arashi said. “Isaeos had me only twice, and I went to her afterward to ensure his seed did not take root. This calf is yours, Shuva. That is why I cannot leave. I will not leave. I will fight to stay, if I have to. This is where I want to be. But I need to know that you love me, and that you will keep me and not toss me aside for diplomatic favour.”

Shuva had no words, but the strength of his embrace, and the tears that dampened his cheeks, told her all she needed to know.

“So will you stop trying to give me back, now?” Arashi whispered.

He sobbed with joy and held her all the tighter. “I shall never let you go.”

In the distance, to the west, a long, low rumble of thunder rolled across the plains, and a cool breath of wind lifted dust in its wake. Tadesse and the Sagunu party had emerged from the hut, and at the sound of thunder, all heads turned to the west—towards Sagunu land.

Tadesse turned to the embracing couple, then back to the west.

Atatafi gently agitated a gourd filled with dry seeds, and hummed an eerie prayer.

“Amel blesses you,” Tadesse breathed. “The rains come to the Sagunu!”

*