The Fall of Elan
A Prologue to The Wolf Queen
T
he Amasiti have always been one with the village, the earth, life itself.
From first we came, it has been our purpose to bring knowledge and
wisdom to the land of Yet and all the lands beyond. We were not a part
of The Way. We were The Way. They called us Mother, and so it was for
a thousand years – until the time of the Hir descended.
The talent to heal, to see, to lead was given to us by birth from the
Goddess, handed down to the descendants of Amalaki, to each girl child
within Her bloodline, because only women have the power to create.
But for all our gifts, we did not see what was to come.
With no Mother to receive my account and no chance of living past this
day, I commit the story of the Fall of Elan to this parchment in hopes of
preserving it against the treachery and deceit of these times. So that our
descendants, who must now hide within the belly of lesser shadows, will
one day know and reclaim that which has been stolen.
I write to you of the future as though it is past because I know what will
be. My name is Aferi and because of what I have done, I wear the poison
chains. I am the last sorceress of Elan.
To truly understand the Amasiti, you must first understand the language
of dance. To the Amasiti, the body is more than just a sacred vessel, it
is a channel through which, if trained properly, wisdom can be formed
into the shape of a woman’s hip. Even our greeting to each other is dance.
A soft curve of the palm over the heart, fingers held just so, so that the
intention is unmistakable. An open call from one goddess to another.
The Amasiti learn to dance early, with bare soles to bare earth so that
NKLC MAGAZINE | 89