Rite of Exile: The Silent Tempest, Book 1 by E. J. Godwin

gardens. The bronze likeness of a woman towered on the roof of the canopy over the doors, dressed in robes and holding forth a shallow bowl filled with flames wavering in the breeze.
    Several people had gathered about the entrance. Among them were Féitseg, the Fifth Underseer, who always managed to find a kind word no matter who the recipient; Tenra, a heavy, intimidating woman nearly as fiery and stubborn as the Overseer; and Werten, the Ninth Underseer, a hesitant young man from Telené still finding his way among the political elite.
    Telai kept a firm grip on Warren’s hand as she led them through the crowd. Well-dressed attendants at the doors handed out tightly-rolled scrolls of parchment. She politely refused, but nodded at Caleb Stenger to accept one.
    “This is what the audience chants during the performance. I’ll explain once we get settled.”
    She threaded a path through the chattering crowd in the foyer and down the center aisle of the theater. Rows and rows of cushioned benches faced a lantern-lit stage in a wide arc. The beamed ceiling slanted upward from the foyer until it peaked high over the stage, with both floor and walls angling outward in the same fashion, all decorated with painted murals trimmed in silver. The illusion of depth was so effective that it often caught newcomers unawares; Warren, gaping as usual, stumbled over his feet and almost dragged Telai to the floor.
    “Warren!” his father hissed, adding a few words in his native tongue. Telai frowned, and not because of his tone. The sound of his strange language always unsettled her, like a solitary voice out of tune with the rest of the chorus.
    They sat near the end of a row fairly close to the stage. “Here, Warren, sit between us,” said Telai, patting the cushion at her side. She smirked at the flash of disappointment in his father’s face.
    Caleb Stenger undid the scroll, his brow furrowing as he scanned it. “Telai—I can’t read this. It’s in Urmanayan.”
    “Don’t worry, no one will notice. I thought you might like it for a souvenir.”
    “The chanting is part of the play?”
    “More like a recognition of it,” she answered. “The dancers are members of the Olahurali , which means silent singers in the old tongue. They act out historical events using only acrobatics and costumes. The audience chants lines at certain points to honor both the performers and the ancestors they represent.”
    Most of the crowd had found their seats by now. The attendants walked the perimeter, dousing the lanterns along the walls, and the hubbub of voices faded.
    “What historical event will they be performing?” Caleb Stenger asked.
    A few heads turned; Telai leaned in to whisper. “The tale of our ancestors, the oldest we know. It opens with Urman’s journey across the sea and ends with the victory of Grondolos over Heradnora.”
    “You’ve given away the ending,” he whispered back, grinning.
    She wasn’t about to surrender the advantage in their little game of revenge. “Well, you’re the only one here who doesn’t know it.”
    “Really? So much for your intuitive powers,” he shot back, and pointed at Warren’s head. She wrinkled her nose in a playful sneer.
    A quick hush fell. A man dressed in black, close-fitting shirt and breeches walked out onto the stage. He stood teetering on the forward edge, arms folded. Then he shot his hands high and wide, revealing a starred symbol on his chest with a gold rune at its center. Telai chanted as one with the audience, her voice flowing from years of practice:
    Adru a yentré at kwali homel. Otu kali fronyé kwali hegré!
    A thrill ran down her spine—the same rush of excitement she experienced whenever she found some ancient artifact or faded document. She resisted the temptation to whisper the translation to her guest: Reveal the past to your descendants . Let us honor your sacrifice. Why was his understanding so important to her? Why had she been so adamant about showing him