Chapter I – Shorena

The light umber of the skin, the deep black of the hair, and the red of the lips sent scents of roasted eggplant, sunflower seeds, and pomegranates through Shorena’s mind. She followed the soft smile and benevolent eyes up to the crown of grapevines and leaves bejeweled with golden walnuts and red grapes resting on her brow. Shorena’s hands longed to imitate the stance of the ancient queen on the mural. With the bowl of wine in one hand and the sword in the other hand below. Surrounded by the mountains and trees, the ailanthus, the great popular, those with figs and walnuts and pomegranates, and behind them their giant stone cousins. When a lazy, warm breeze sneaks into the knight’s hall from the garden of Mtskheta’s keep and carries in the scents of blooming flowers. First the soft ones of purple lavender and white chamomile and then the invigoratingly pungent of the yellow mountain lilies and pink rhododendron. Shorena, in these moments of strong emotion and in that particular one, clad in her mourning attire, always wished for absolute empathy and nothing of the self. A sort of transcendence from all the human emotions to gain godlike mastery over them. For the good of others. For the good of all. No wants and needs of her own. An eternal mother. Wise, kind, good, patient. Invulnerable. The blood of Queen Tamar on the mural runs through her veins. How long until she could join her there? For now, she would sit at a massive dining table. Carved from a single, legendary walnut tree, as the stories claim. So sturdy and stubborn that it would only ever bow its head to the true sovereign of the land that it drilled its roots into. And when Tamar came to claim her title it bowed its head and bestowed her crown the golden walnuts. A radiant image that has been burned into Shorena’s mind since she was a child and first saw the mural on the wall of the knight’s hall. The tree promised Tamar that any food that was put upon it would make her stronger, and the wine served on it would enrich her might. Any friend she invites to her table would gain the same benefits. Shorena pours wine into her cup and while she leans on the edge of the table her fingers loose themselves within the fine engravings that frame the tabletop with the stories of her mythical ancestor. She had dreamed about this table even though it had only found its way into its ancestral home a few days ago. The moment was so ordinary to her in that dream she could not realize she was dreaming at all. Even though she was watching herself from the outside. And like thick, dark lava her hair fell from her bowed head, staining her shoulders and the table in front of her and the surrounding earth where she watched the shadows that were cast around her. And slowly she melted away. She shudders as she remembers and is interrupted by the low, slow thud of the gate opening and closing as the first guest of her mother’s funeral enters. 
“Back home where it belongs”, Lord Davit exclaims, gesturing towards the table, inviting Shorena closer to it.