Rites of Interchange

“I grow weary of this travel, Grejyre.”

These were the words which set Grejyre’s once carefully manicured life into tumult. They were spoken from the reflection of a pool of enchanted water in a private sanctum at the very highest peak of the grand library that Grejyre had devoted her life to, by a peer she respected more deeply than anyone else, and though the words themselves were not imbued with any magic of charm nor binding it made no difference for she still knew herself to be compelled by them.

“Are there no more libraries to plumb?” Grejyre tried, “No more records to attest?”

“That is not what I said.” Chaethyra spoke gently, but Grejyre had never heard her say anything that she did not mean. “Time has rolled out under me like so many miles. I have seen, and I have lived. It is your time now, Grejyre.”

“I wish to stay, to continue in my post here at the citadel.” It was a statement of truth, between these two who lead the most noble corps for truth, but wishing would not make it so. What were the wishes of even a high provost in lead of their commission in the face of the edicts of the establishment which imbued them with that position in the first place?

It was Chaethyra’s right to engage the Rites of Interchange, the rotation of provosts, one always domestic to the citadel and one left to pursue the League’s interests abroad. 

Much preparation was completed in the weeks that it took her procession to complete their pilgrimage back to the Citadel from the far flung planes they had lead to. Grejyre took that period to develop a spell, she dug through the archives and set to learning a new word. “Qesoleovre”

She read it, and read of it, and reread it, but to know a word of power was not all that was needed to understand it, not truly.

So, she chanted the word as she walked the Gardens Menagerie, admiring the weave of disparate species of glowing flowers and crackling trees, magical flora all kept there against their native climes. Each of them had been labeled by little metal placards which would summon a relevant tome on touch, a collaboration she had initiated between her department and the Commission of Bioarcanomics.

She chanted the word as she climbed to the top of the Leytime Tower, feeling her weight in her legs as she pressed up the historic stone staircase. When she reached the top she felt the wind through her hair, listened to the resonant bong of the massive bells marking out the asynchronous alignment of the planes.

She chanted the word as she flew through the grand library of the Commission of Attestation, the Archival Vaults, where she had first celebrated her election to the honored position of provost. When the leagues of guildfellows that were her staff looked up from their loyal cataloguing to salute her as she passed, she waved them away. She didn’t pull any scrolls, didn’t need to requisition any illuminated texts. Mostly her eyes remained closed as she floated through, as she tirelessly fixed in her mind the smell of parchment and sweet ink that suffused the place.

She drank in all of the things she loved about her life in the Citadel, and she poured them into that word.

When the day came, she draped herself in finery befitting her station. Her robes were a rich blue, trimmed in gold with a hood just off of white, billowing around her. She carried herself with pride as she walked down. Io Plaza had been cleared and cordoned off, the sidings crowded with guildfellows. Those masses were murmuring excitedly, letting their eagerness for the occasion’s aftermath to bubble over into the event itself.

The air crackled with anticipation as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm, golden glow over the gathering. The plaza, adorned with banners and fluttering flags, seemed to hold its breath in reverence. The guildfellows, clad in a spectrum of vibrant colors, created a tapestry of unity. As she proceeded, a hush cascaded through the crowd, a momentary silence acknowledging her presence. The surroundings, usually abuzz with commerce, had transformed into a grand theater of tradition. The guildfellows, a mosaic of expectations and aspirations, watched with bated breath as the ceremony unfolded. It was not merely an event; it was a culmination of shared dreams and collective purpose, a testament to the enduring legacy of the Athalial League.

As Grejyre took her first steps up the long uphill plaza, her gathered retinue in her wake, a glimmering portal whirled and apparated at the far end. Stepping through it, Grejyre could see Chaethyra clearly. She seemed older here than Grejyre remembered, a sleight hunch that she hadn’t noticed in all the many discussions they had had through the reflecting pool.

The two strode towards each other, every step echoing with significance, each footfall a beat in the ceremonial rhythm. At their collision, they embraced. A cheer went up from the crowd, but in that close moment Grejyre could only hear the beating of their own heart and the words off of Chaethyra’s lips. Words meant only for her.

“I have loved this freedom with every fiber of my being.” Chaethyra handed Grejyre a journal bound in leather and ivory, sheets and foils of advice from one provost to another. The notes Grejyre handed Chaethyra were recorded, dictated into an intricately gilded rod of pearl. “I know that in time, you will come to feel the same.”

And with that brief moment together, they parted once more. 

Grejyre strode towards the portal that would take her away, her heartbeat thundering through her feet with each step. She began to chant, a spell brimming up from inside of her.

“Rykontegc Cinsy Omadio’kylaty Mybohy Qesoleovre”. Reconnection, sense, emotionality, memory, and finally resilience.

As she took that first step out into the world, away from her dear home, she released her incantation and was suddenly engulfed by the warmth and love and beauty of every memory of that fatal place that she had collected, and she walked on knowing she would carry them with her always.