Thanks, everyone! I just attended a workshop where most of my fellow authors did seem to feel I had "white room syndrome" going on. So I tweaked this chapter a bit. Here is the result so far.
On the twenty-ninth day of the month of New Sun, Kiril Tesurik and his cousin Thanike declared themselves dead before the gods.
Kiril arrived at the meeting place first. The sun was just starting to set, and the broken walls cast long shadows. He stood in the central circle in the middle of the ruined city and waited for his cousin to bring the holocam.
He didn’t have long to wait. Before he had time to wonder when she would arrive, Thanike slipped down the hill and into the ruins. “Do you have it?” he asked. She said nothing, but tilted her chin up in response. Then she shivered. There was a slight, chill wind stirring the dry grasses, but Thanike, like him, wore a new quilted coat. Her parents had given it to her for the festival. It was tied closed and her heavy dark hair was tucked under the hood. Kiril knew it was not the wind that made her shiver.
“I’ll go first,” he told her, and she raised her chin again. Her eyes were too bright, as if the wind were drawing tears from them. He went to stand in front of a broken wall, and she managed to speak.
“Not there. I need the light behind me.” They changed places. Thanike balanced the little palm-sized holocam on the wall. Her hands were shaking.There was a long pause, during which Kiril could hear the grasses rustling in the rising wind. So much whipgrass, and anat, too. A good place for game. Their cousin Skel had said so four years ago, when they'd stumbled across the ruins. If he were here—
No. Thank all the gods Skel wasn’t here.
He jerked his chin at Thanike to let her know he was ready. Then he began to speak
I, who was once Kiril Tesurik, renounce my family, my name, and my life. I am dust and ashes. I have no name. He who was my father, Varen Kelesta, is dead to me. I do not know him. The woman Lirith, who was my aunt, is dead to me. The man Keren, who is her husband, is dead to me. . . .
The declaration was long. It had to be. Kiril named every member of his household, from his great—aunt to the youngest servant child. Then the animals the serfs kept for their milk and fur. Then the house, the land, every field and all the crops. There must be nothing omitted, no way for the police to take their revenge on his family, once he had become a traitor and criminal. His voice shook when he came to the names of Merike and Skel, their two favorite cousins, but he kept going. It seemed to Thanike that he would speak forever; the first of the moons had already risen, just ahead of the sunset. They must finish soon. Then she heard him say, "All these are dead to me. I have no clan, no land, no home. I am outcast and nameless. I am dead."
She pressed the switch to stop recording, and Kiril came to stand beside her, reaching for the camera. "Here," she said to him, “push this up to record.”
"Is there anything else I should know?"
"No. Just that switch; push down to stop.” He raised his chin and she walked forward and turned to face the recorder’s eye. The sun was a red streak at the edge of the sky, and the slight wind had freshened. She shivered.
“Niki?” Kiril said. She exhaled in a sort of sob, took a deep breath and jerked her chin at him. She could do it. She had to. And, when she began to speak, the words came out perfectly, just as she had intended them to. "I, who was once Thanike Tesurik, renounce my family, my name, and my life. I am dust and ashes. I have no name."
The boy, Kiril, kept his eyes fixed on his cousin. It seemed to him it might give her strength if he looked steadily at her, and, indeed, she was looking into his eyes as she spoke, not at the eye of the camera. Her voice shook as she named her parents, and he gasped slightly in sympathy, but she went on. He could tell that she would finish, just as he had. They had already done their mourning; the time for that was over. They were dead now, and the dead do not mourn.
