For clare_dragonfly‘s prompt.

Set approx 750 years before the Rin & Girey novella

Ektatkya studied the holy book. The Tabersi had, she’d discovered, a lot of gods. Lots and lots of them, herds of them, packs of them. No wonder they needed so many priests. No person with a field and herd to attend to could keep track of all of these.

And they’d left so many of the Tabersi priests behind. The tribes had their own, of course, priests and god-chasers, gods (but not that many. Not enough to needs books, just enough for a statue here, a carving there, a token off a saddle somewhere else). But this was a new land, and they were no longer going to be the goat-tribes. They were no longer going to be a different people from the Tabersi.

For that to happen, both peoples had to change. And a place to start would be these books. She looked up at the Tabersi priest; he looked at her solemnly.

“Can it be done?”

“Of course it can be done. The question is, will you pay the price?”

“The price?” He was offended. Of course he was. The Tabersi’s god-chasers were not the same as the tribes’. They had Position. They had Status.

“Both will have to move. Your god-people must let someone else rule. Ours must learn to stand forward in the town, not at the back edge of the encampment.” The tribes-people who were here had been living in Tabersi cities and towns for generations, but they still acted like, thought like, nomads. That would need to change, too. This was not the warm pastureland of their home.

“Let someone else rule?” He nodded, slowly and reluctantly. “Yes. I see. To take a role that will not seem so strange to your people. And the gods?”

She would not rip pages out of a book. They had too few left. But she made the gesture as if to. “You need less. We need more. We take these, and make them less-and-more.” She flapped one hand negligently. “Make prayers a dirt-grubber can remember.”

“And still fancy enough for a money-counter?” The priest’s expression had changed. Ektatkya knew this one; it was that of someone seeing a challenge. “It will take time. But we can do it.”

“We must do it.” She nodded, but she was smiling as well. “The peace demands it.”

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For inventrix‘s prompt.

A kehlag is a small furry domesticated animal; a dohdehr is a a weasel/ermine like creature with soft fur. In the interest of not calling a Rabbit a Smeerp, I will probably call them cats and fishers (or weasels) in the long run, like the pahziht and pyahz are goats and horses.

The rainy season was at mid-point, and many of the animals were beginning to give birth. Much to the distress and consternation of her five-year-old daughter Oniarya, Upunbina (the Mayor of a small northern Callennan town) was every bit as focused on her new child as the mother goats were with their kids, the mother dohdehri with their kits, the mother kehlagyi with their kittens: nobody wanted to play with Oni, and nobody wanted to let her play with the little ones. It was going to be the worst festival ever.

She carried around a rag doll her grandmother had made for her, pretending to feed it, pretending it was a baby, but she didn’t really want a baby; her new sister was loud and messy on both ends. The kittens were cuter, less loud, softer, and when the kehlagyi weren’t so distracted with all this child-stuff, they often slept on Oni’s bed in the cold season. But now they wouldn’t play with her at all, and her bedroom had three mice and a noise she was afraid was something bigger. Maybe a monster.

Not only that, her parents were so distracted with all this baby-stuff, between the goats kidding and the baby sister and the rest of it, that they hadn’t even mentioned the mid-rain festival. Oni had been born there, five years ago. It was her favorite thing ever, less grown-up than the frost-break festival, less boring than the mid-cold festival. And now the day was here, the day was finally here, she had dressed all by herself in her best festival tunic, her favorite one, with the lines of purple and orange embroidery along the hems, and her parents were nowhere to be seen.

They had forgotten. They were off doing something else, they were busy with the stupid baby or the stupid goat kids or the stupid dohdehri who had bitten Oni last week when she tried to pet a kit. They were all stupid.

“Oni?” A little mewling sound followed her mother’s voice. “Oniarya, are you hiding again?”

“No,” she sulked. “I am playing castle in my closet.” She peeked her head out.

“Well, come on out, honey. Your father and I were just finding you the perfect festival present.”

“Present?” They hadn’t forgotten! She popped out of her closet, braids flying, hands outstretched. “I’ve been a good girl and I braided my own hair and I buttoned myself and…”

“And you’ve been very patient. Here, she’s just weaned.” Her mouth passed down a tiny little kehlagyi-kitten, its swirling spots buff-and-brown. “This is for you. She’s all your responsibility now.” She took on the Grown Up Voice she used when doing Mayor work. “Now that you have a little sister, you need to be the adult. This little one will help you remember that.”

“And we’ll help you remember her, and teach you how to take care of her.”

Oni cradled the kitten, holding it close, its tiny claws tickling her skin. This was going to be the best festival ever.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/363562.html. You can comment here or there.