Page 3 of Ashborne Phoenix

I was woken on the morning of my birthday by my mother’s voice, happy and singsong as she led a line of servants into my room and urged me from bed.

I was fed my favorite sausages for breakfast, then bathed, dressed, combed, and primped by smiling adults.

But then, instead of being led to the stable, I was draped in a robe and blindfolded with black silk.

My heart pattered in my chest. I had to force my smile. The adults surrounding me laughed and clapped, chattering about the special surprise.

This was a celebration. I was special. I would be happy with them.

When my mother’s cool hand took mine and led my hesitant steps down, down, down the spiral stairs, I began to sweat.

We entered the echoing chamber under the house. Even with the blindfold, I could feel the manor’s weight over our heads. I wanted to cry. But my father would be here somewhere in the sea of hands that directed me, and feet that shuffled on the stone. At ten, I was too old to cry. He wouldn’t say so in front of these others, but he would punish me later when we were alone if I gave in. I was almost a man, and a man didn’t weep from fear.

So, I swallowed the lump in my throat, and prayed.

Surely this was only a prank? A joke? They had taken me through one of the underground passages that peppered this property. They would remove the blindfold and I would find myself in the stables, or under the gazebo.

I was ushered to my place, whispers in my ears to direct my steps, then left standing as others drew away. There was no breath of fresh air on my skin. No comforting smell of horse. But there was the odor of ash. And the cold scent of stone.

I was in the ritual chamber.

My heart pounded.

“Vane Xavier Ashford, master of the House of Ashford, and Heir to the Ancient Honor, we welcome you!”

My skin goosebumped at the soft rustle of a circle made of many bodies around us, bowing and curtseying. I knew that sound. My parents received obeisance in this space. Always.

“Can I take the blindfold off?” I asked, trying to make my voice strong as I reached a tentative hand toward the silky fabric. But there was a hiss, much closer to my ear than I expected, and a cool palm slapped the back of my hand before I reached it.

I froze.

My heart thudded painfully, my pulse thrumming in my ears so loudly it seemed my heart must echo in the chamber.

“The blindfold is the symbol of your purity, and ignorance. You walk into the dark until you are enlightened,” my mother intoned, a tight edge in her tone that ratcheted up my fear. “You will not remove it. Now, let us continue.”

Then the chanting began, the low, sonorous voices first, but soon joined by the higher, thinner female tones. And my thumping, panicking heart sank into my belly.

I knew the words, though they were in a language I didn’t understand. I’d heard them once per year, every year of my life. But never on my birthday. And never when I stood at the center, next to the sooty, stained altar.

For that, I deduced, was where I must be.

My parents’ ritual chamber was massive. Larger than the stable building. And taller, as well. Utterly without light, except that cast by torches or lanterns brought down to the natural cavern my father once told me was the reason our father’s father’s father had chosen this site for the house.

The space was somehow both damp and dusty, grit crunching under our shoes, while the air was cold and smelled like water, and metal.

Once the chanting began, I could barely breathe.

I remembered some of the words later. But it was the sounds, the smells, the sensations that took root in my chest and never left my mind…

First, something smooth and cold was placed in my hand.

Then my mother’s hand clasped around mine as her voice rose along with the others, heavy with anticipation and a strange, breathless quality I didn’t understand.

I shook between her arms, for she encircled me. I couldn’t move without pressing into some piece of her, her hand gripped so tightly around mine I couldn’t discern the shape of the item under my palm, only that it was hard, long, and cold. Then her knees pressed, one at a time, behind mine, walking me forward in a slow shuffle, in time with the words.

“Raise your chin, Vane. You walk into your future. Into your power.”

I’d been pressed hard against my mother’s body, instinctively trying to slow our forward progress, but that edge in her words reminded me… I had a purpose. While I wished with all my heart that I could return to my bed and never wake to this day, I made myself straighten and raise my chin, to walk as she directed, though every inch of my skin crawled.