Meta-Conversations: Your Questions (Ascension Rituals)

“This one is from a different person, one I’m not sure you’ve seen,” I say. “And it’s interesting. It’s about the ascension rituals. They’re thinking of one of the first aphorisms Farren shared with us about the heir to Wakedzen, and his rejection. How that interacts with the ishas evaluation, and the merethek. Do Regals also have this ritual?”

“All those who rule above the Wall of Birth must undergo the ritual,” he says. “But not all of us rule. That is perhaps a misconception.”

“Go on,” I say, bemused.

“The head of the family, who answers for, and directs the activities of, the family for Thirukedi—that person rules. And his or her heir, trained to succeed him, also rules. But the majority of those of us above the Wall of Birth are not considered rulers.” He pauses. “Does that distinction help?”

I am thinking now of the difference between a CEO and the vice presidents that report to him. “Yes, I think so. Does that mean that you are the one putting the ribbons on your family?”

That makes him smile. “I do not, no, datyani. My caste is the final caste between a normal Ai-Naidari and Thirukedi, so all of us go. We are each marked personally by Him. And before you ask—‘so many of you!’—I will say that not all go annually. Those of us who manage the family do, but those of us who attend to the business of the caste at my direction… they go when they are called, or they ask to be seen. The rathked, who are the rank below the aruked… their rulers go to Thirukedi for the permanent ribbons, but their family’s markings are applied by their caste-rank lords.”

“You,” I guess.

“Correct. But it is a more intimate and less… formalized… matter than below the Wall,” he says. “Sometimes I send someone to Thirukedi because I deem it necessary. Sometimes, the ribbons wait, or need to be applied by someone else. We are given that latitude because our duties are often unpredictable, and so we make shift with our schedules and our needs.”

“That sounds like a good way to have your needs not met,” I say.

“But they must be, so we attend to it. It is part of our duties.” He touches his arm at the elbow, just enough to pull the outermost sleeve back. It shows nothing but the next layer of sleeve, but the action is enough to draw my attention to what I know is under it, burned into his follicles. “Enaril are not merely promises given and received. They are a form of…” He looks for a word. “They are therapy. Counseling. Religion. I don’t know how to say it for you. A reason to be received with love and to feel and share that love. We cannot function without it. So we don’t. We won’t.”

“I understand,” I say, quieter. “So… the rituals? How does that work?”

“The ascension rite…” He trails off and his sigh then is… interesting, because it reminds me of the way someone would react to something that they enjoyed, but that frightened them. The kind of experience that makes you say, ‘I wouldn’t do it again but I’m glad I did it once!’ Focusing on me again, he says, “You are aware that the relationship between the ruled and the ruler is just that.”

“A relationship?” I nod. “Yes.”

“Then in order for a Regal—or Noble—to rule, they must not only have the ishas, but they must be acceptable to those they lead.” He holds up a hand. “Note that one can have the ishas but not be among the right people, in the same way that one might be a loving person, but not have found the right person to love in the right way.”

“So… before the ribbons get painted on, permanently, you have to be identified by the existing ruler as a candidate for the next head of household, and then… that candidate has to undergo the ritual, which is what proves to the people they will be leading that they are the right leader?” I say. “And then if that works out, then they get the ribbons?”

“In essence, yes.”

I muse. “These rituals are the ones adapted by the First Servant of Shame for his priesthood.”

“His are… more severe.” The Regal pauses. “Perhaps. The First Servant’s ritual is much longer, and usually more physically demanding. But ours can be very intense, particularly because it is so personal.”

I remember, long ago, when I didn’t really understand Kherishdar well, that I started a short story about a Noble’s ascension ritual. I recall the premise: “You chose your esar quality, and then the rite is designed to test it.”

“Yes,” he says. “And you wish to ask now what I chose and what my rite looked like, as if it were some private thing. But the rite is never private, datyani. By design, it must be witnessed. Even if the esar trait would be served by solitude, the results are witnessed and discussed, and then recorded. It is not a secret to be concealed.”

I nod, slowly. “Then… what did you choose as your esar quality, arukedi?”

His answer makes sense of his reaction earlier. “Is.”

Maybe that’s a bird singing in the garden, filling the silence. They have birds, I think, or things enough like birds as makes no difference to me. “I can’t imagine,” I say finally, “that a rite designed to test your ability to remain composed when suffering an excess of emotion must have been… pleasant.”

“It was rigorous,” he allows.

“Rigorous,” I repeat. “Did they beat you, the way they do Shame?”

“Such an exercise would lack elegance.” I’m not sure if that’s humor or not; for once, I think it’s a language barrier thing and I’m not seeing past it clearly. Either that, or even Ai-Naidar one rank down from Thirukedi find it hard to make jokes about Shame. “Also, it would be too impersonal.” He laces his fingers together, what I can see of them from beneath the sleeves. “My grandmother had my training, mostly, and she died untimely and unexpectedly from a wasting disease. She wrote several poems in her last days. I was asked to select the most meaningful one and recite it to an audience of strangers.”

I wince. “That’s… harsh.”

He glances at me now, surprised. “But that was not the test.”

“Then what on earth was??”

“After the recitation, I had to be willing to go into that crowd of strangers, and weep on one of their shoulders, and be comforted.”

That blindsides me, but in the moment after I am confused, it stops confusing me. “Oh,” I murmur. “How perfect. They need to know you can set aside that thing you’re proud of being, and able to be, and embrace the reciprocating quality that is also necessary.”

He dips his head. “Yes, datyani. That is exactly it.”

I am quiet, contemplating that. Then I go on. “They accepted you.”

“Immediately, yes. Sometimes the results of such a rite require discussion, and consensus builds slowly, which is why Wakedzen’s heir needed time ere his rejection.”

“But,” I say, remembering what happened to him, “he really did end up a lord somewhere, once you rehabilitated him! So does he have permanent ribbons now?”

The Regal smiles. “An anathkedi is in the Noble caste, and does not receive permanent ribbons. Except in exceptional cases. Thirukedi will claim people, sometimes, no matter their caste-rank. But normally, Nobles receive their enaril from their Regals. Which is fitting, because we work closely in concert with them, far more than the average Ai-Naidari beneath the Wall does with their liegelord or –lady. Think of the Calligrapher before he was elevated to osulked; he saw his lord but rarely, and for the ribbons once a year. But I might need to speak with the Nobles in my atani several times a year. The ones in the capital might see me several times a month.”

“But Nobles also have ascension rituals,” I say, thinking out loud.

“Their heads of household and heirs, yes, just as ours do. But like Regal families, the members of Noble families who do not rule—they do not need to be evaluated by their people, only by their heads of household.”

I wrinkle a nose. “It feels complicated.”

“It is complicated,” he says. “But it is as simple as we can make it while being complex enough to serve our needs.” His eyes twinkle. “As you would expect.”

I am still thinking of his performance during the ritual. He is so quiet, and so self-contained, and so very important… as one of the heads-of-household of an aruked family, he’s literally one of Thirukedi’s direct reports, the highest you can get within the Ai-Naidari caste system without being Emperor yourself… which of course, no one can be, who isn’t already Thirukedi, who is immortal. Imagine holding someone that rarified in your arms while he wept over his grandmother’s death.

“They must love you,” I say suddenly.

“I don’t know,” he says. “But I know that I love them, so I, personally, am content. And I love my work, datyani, as you know I must because I have been elected to do it.”

“Yes,” I say. I spread my hands; the papers I wrote the original questions on are gone, and I haven’t had a chance to write the new ones down. For the best, I think; the Regal might have been chosen to serve as a quasi-ambassador to aliens, but we’re not his only job and we’ve used up enough of his time for this session. “I believe that’s all for now, arukedi. I know my peers will have other questions, but I’ll bring them to you another time.”

“Very good. Then there is one final thing we must discuss.”

I look up. “That being?”

“You might know me by my name, and call me by it,” he says, smiling. “I am ij Elidzin Jael Thoron-arukedi.”

If he’d punched me he couldn’t have caught me more by surprise. I maybe even wheeze.

“You perhaps wonder at the construction,” he continues. “It is true, as you wrote lately, that placing the House name first when using the full name is an antiquated custom, but it is still customary for the Regal caste, and occasionally the Noble. I could introduce myself as Jael Thoron-arukedi, ij Elidzin, and be correct, but it would be unexpected.”

This is not what I’m choking on. “You gave me your private name.” And: “And I know it!”

Because all those above the Wall of Birth have two first names, one they share publicly, and one for close friends and family. People would know him as Thoron Elidzin-arukedi; only a handful would be on good enough terms to know him as Jael.

My first Ai-Naidari character ever, a country Noble… her private name was Jael.

“I think you would not abuse it,” he says. “And yes… it is not an uncommon private name, Jael. Like you we often name our children after family members, or after names that we like the meaning of. In that case it was both: Jael was my grandmother’s private name, and she was named it because of its meaning.”

It means ‘promise’.

“We do not make as much distinction between names appropriate for females versus males,” he adds. “A little, but not as often as you do.”

“I think,” I say slowly, “I will continue to call you arukedi. But I am honored to have been given your personal names. They suit you.”

“That is a significant compliment,” he says, dipping his head. “I thank you, datyani.”

Which concludes this talk with him, and I’m a little glad because I’m overwhelmed. I will compile your follow-on questions for another day… or possibly another person, if I think I’ll get a better answer from someone else.