The Fate of Miraanni: Tales of Aurduin, Volume II

By Martin W. Ball

No one has seen the enigmatic Orobai in a year. In his absence, Miraanni, the “Mysterious Child,” has fallen ill, lost in a catatonic state, but not before inspiring a fervent religious movement in Laftandiar-Urya, where she has been named “The Mother of the Perfect Creation” by the populace in the revived religion of the Tal.

Ashi has excelled in her lessons as a student at Hyanchalth-Murira, but when a mysterious woman gives her an ancient relic, it is only the beginning of her pilgrimage to find her place in Aurduin. Unable to help Miraanni any longer, Ashi must flee with blood on her hands, her fate calling her into the unknown while the Tal proclaims her the Kyandara and Holy Warrior of the religion that grows in Miraanni’s, and Ashi’s, name.

Now it’s up to Nataali to find a cure for Miraanni before it’s too late and she is lost forever. Her best option is the Serpent King, but that is a choice with its own consequences.

Meanwhile, the Motu leader, Kalzhat, makes an unprecedented overture to the peoples of the interior of Aurduin to mount a resistance to the growing threat from the west, promising a secret weapon to thwart their oppressive technology, and the blind Djinari Holy Man, Kulan, makes a desperate bid to find the missing Orobai, lead on by a dream of the Great Eagles, the Arnyar.

In this installment of Tales of Aurduin, Volume II, the pace quickens as the stakes are raised, tensions mount, and new possibilities arise. The choices that are made here will influence all that is to come. The fate of Miraanni could be the fate of Aurduin itself in this dynamic continuation of the story that began with Orobai’s Vision.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Mar 12, 2024
• ISBN: 9781304554017

Book preview

The Mother of the Perfect Creation

"N

o."

The sound of Nataali-Wantalth’s decision echoed off the stone walls of the meeting hall, accentuated by the percussive sound of her boots as she paced back and forth in front of the other sisters who had gathered for this crucial meeting.

I cannot accept it.  There must be another way.

M’Lady, said one of the other sisters cautiously, fully aware that the head mother was wrought with anxiety over the situation, we understand your reservations, but something must be done.  To date, nothing we have attempted here at Hyanchalth-Murira has had any positive effect.  Action must be taken, and soon.  We do not know how much longer we can keep this from becoming public knowledge, and once that happens . . .

That is not going to happen, said Nataali quickly, turning on her heel to face the woman who had just addressed her.  It cannot.

Some knowledge is too dangerous, said another.

Indeed, some knowledge is far too dangerous, thought Nataali to herself as she slipped into her own silent meditation.

How long had it been now?  No one was sure when it started, not even Nataali, despite her almost daily interaction with the fascinating child, Miraanni.  Could she have known even at the beginning, at the Ran-Khuxaita-Ur?  Could any of them? 

Why did she do that? 

Nataali thought she knew the answer to her poignant question. 

Because none of us can.  She did it because we cannot.

It had been only a matter of weeks after Orobai had left on his quest to the Goargathr when the city of Laftandiar-Urya held the annual celebration and ceremony of the Ran-Khuxaita-Ur.  Everyone who mattered had been there at the school, gathered together at the central grounds.  All the planning had been completed.  All the sisters and their acolytes were prepared and knew their parts.  Just before the dawn everyone had come together.  The sisters began their ceremonial chanting and performed the highly stylized dances and movements of their guiding philosophy, the Xhutai-Ku.

And then it happened.  Everyone had heard it.  Everyone had seen it.  Miraanni sang.  It was a sound that had never before been heard by the ears of the citizens of City of the Sun at the far eastern shores of Aurduin.  Heavenly.  That’s what everyone had said.  The sound had been heavenly.

Miraanni, along with the other sisters, had been at the western edge of the central reflecting pool, facing the east to witness the rising of Urya between the mountains of the opening to the bay.  As the first light broke through the darkness and the sky filled with color, Miraanni began to sing.  The entire audience was held in thrall.  At first, only a few people noticed, but before long all the dancers had stopped performing their sacred movements and stood transfixed, staring at the Mysterious Child, captivated by her magnificent singing.  Indeed, it was the first time that any of the sisters, or anyone else at Laftandiar-Urya, had heard her sing, or make any sound at all, other than her infectious laughter.

As she sang the light had swirled about her in luminescent waves of geometric patterns and forms of outstanding beauty and complexity.  Even the girl herself seemed to radiate a fantastic light from deep within her being.  At the time Nataali had thought back to what Orobai had said of what the child had done among the Yamné and could only surmise that this must be something similar.  Even Nataali had only seen small examples of Orobai’s work with the Altfein and thus she was just as surprised to see Miraanni at this time as anyone else.

But there was even more.  As the light ebbed and flowed around the beautiful, luminously white child, she lifted into the air.  It was a miracle.  Could there be any other word for it?  Nataali did not think so.  Everyone just stared, dumbfounded.  They had watched, mesmerized, as the child rose into the air and then stepped out over the glimmering waters of the reflecting pool, never ceasing her hypnotic singing.  The light swept behind and around her as she walked to the center of the pool as lotus blossoms bloomed in her wake across the surface of the still waters.  Once at the center, a burst of radiant rainbow light flew out in all directions at the precise moment that Urya, the brilliant orb of the sun, broke the surface of the ocean and ascended the sky between the twin pillars of the coastal mountains.  And when the light from the rainbow burst faded away two of the great eagles, the Arnyar, could be seen circling high above the gathered citizens of the peaceful city.

No one remembered precisely what had happened next, not even Nataali, despite her years of training in focusing her consciousness and awareness.  What was her next memory?  That evening?  Waking the day after?  She wasn’t sure.

Did it really happen?

Nataali couldn’t even answer this seemingly simple question.  She just did not know. 

What she did know is that things began to change quickly after this.  Miraanni had been a legend before she had ever come to the east.  Word of her power and mysterious presence had crossed the mountains long before she ever had.  Nataali herself knew of Miraanni’s coming long before she ever began crossing the plains of Northrun with the Djinari and Tolguin.  But this, this miracle, changed things.  If she hadn’t been a legend before, she certainly was after this.

For countless generations the sisters at Hyanchalth-Murira, the School of Advanced Mystical Arts, had taught the guiding philosophy of the Xhutai-Ku and the Khutan-Scyr to the people of Laftandiar-Urya, the Ulusi-Rata, a vast and complex multicultural society.  A system of scientific mysticism, the Khutan-Scyr emphasized process, energy, transformation, becoming, impermanence.  This stood in stark contrast to the more ethnic religious traditions of the people of Aurduin.  At root, many of the cultures of the Ulusi-Rata had had, at one time or another, profound theistic beliefs and religious tendencies.  The Sisterhood had changed that, however.  There was no God of the Khutan-Scyr.  No Creator.  No Master Being.  No Lord of All.  There was only power, and change.  Emptiness and Form.  As the sisters thought of it, they gave the people spirituality without religion, and for them, this was one of the greatest achievements of their civilization.

Soon after Miraanni’s miracle, perhaps immediately, word on the streets of Laftandiar-Urya took a step backwards in time, at least as far as the Sisterhood was concerned.  The small child had reawakened ancient religious feelings.  How much of it was a result of fear and anxiety Nataali didn’t know, but she suspected that this had much to do with it.  The council at Kur-Aku was perhaps the starting point, if ever there truly is a starting-point.  Talk of war, security, insecurity, safety, peace, power.  All of it was couched in fear.  Behind the thin veil of rational thought lay a gnawing fear, and with that, the need for hope.  The need for transcendent intervention had perhaps never been more strongly felt by the people of Laftandiar-Urya.

The people found this need fulfilled through Miraanni.  There was no denying it.  Rumors began to spread among the people of the hopes that Nataali herself had expressed about the girl, that she might be able to perform a miraculous act that would ultimately heal the wounds being created in the west.  Though Nataali had not intended this, the reaction of the people was to look upon Miraanni with salvific hope and dreams of freedom from fear and uncertainty. 

The people lost their faith in us and put it in her, thought Nataali.

What do they call her?  Wanlutan, the Mother of the Perfect Creation.  Quite a burden for any being to carry let alone a young girl, even for one as unique as Miraanni.  The devotion the people showed for Miraanni could only be described as religious fervor.  Nataali, along with the other sisters, had all studied the ancient religions and they knew of the pull that theism could have, but they had never expected to see a revival of such beliefs in Ulusi-Rata society.  But such was the only interpretation that they could give to the faith that the people were putting in Miraanni.  It was clear that she was thought of as a savior.  The people wanted her to free them from the uncertainty of death itself.

How could we have let this happen?  Though she asked it, Nataali knew that the answer to this question was that the sisterhood could have no control over this religious phenomenon.  It wasn’t that they had let it happen.  They had no more control over the girl than they did over the populace.  All were free to live and think as they would, and Miraanni, despite being in the charge of the Sisterhood, with Orobai’s blessing, was no different.  She was her own being and she followed her own will.

So she did it because they could not.  She made herself into a miracle-worker that the sisters could never be, despite all their skill and knowledge.  And as a result, faith in the Wanlutan spread like wildfire.

But who was this girl, this child who could work wonders and inspire the rebirth of ancient theistic tendencies in the supremely rational society of the Ulusi-Rata?  Nataali had to admit that she didn’t know.  No one did.  Perhaps not even Orobai.  Wasn’t that, in part, why he left on his quest to the Four Mountains?  To find answers to his own burning questions.

I hope he has found his answers.

No one had heard any information about the mysterious Gem-Seeker who had originally brought the strange child to the city for her own protection.  He had said he would not return for nearly a year, and now Spring was coming once again.  He had gone on a quest to the Goargathr, the four sacred mountains of Aurduin to seek a vision of the future.  Nataali hoped that he would be back soon, but she felt in her heart that this was not to be.  He isn’t coming.  Not now . . .

At first, at the time of Orobai’s departure, Miraanni had seemed fine.  As she had prior to this, the girl stayed with Ashi, the Djinari woman who had accompanied Orobai and Miraanni over the mountains and had lost her husband in the process.  Each day the sisters took Miraanni to study her and her abilities.  Miraanni had seemed so certain and poised at that time.  They never could have guessed what was to come.

As time passed, they started to notice subtle changes in Miraanni.  The intensity of her being seemed to lessen.  The depth of her spirit clouded over, and she was no longer the radiantly clear child she had been.  Only the sisters noticed at first, and even then, it was only the most sensitive.

One of the first signs came after the miracle at the Ran-Khuxaita-Ur.  Miraanni spoke openly for the first time, saying Nataali’s name.  Knowing that the girl could understand her, Nataali had asked her of her own identity.  Do you know who you are? she had asked.  Miraanni gave her answer clearly and succinctly.  As she had put it, I am my brother’s sister.

This had been a burning question for the sisters – who, exactly, was this strange girl?  They had hoped that upon speaking that Miraanni herself might be able to provide them with something of an answer.  Instead, they only received confirmation of what they already knew.

But at least she had some kind of self-identity and concept.  She was her brother’s sister.  Through this relationship she knew something of who and what she was.

The sisters, Nataali included, had thought with the passing of time, given Miraanni’s rapid development, which was approximately four times that of a normal child, that Miraanni would soon be able to communicate fully all she knew of herself.  This was not to be, however.  The more time that passed since Orobai’s leaving, the less able Miraanni seemed to be to communicate her thoughts and intentions.  Over the following weeks and months, it only became worse.  The child who had previously been magnificently focused in all aspects of her being became easily distracted, fragmented, and ultimately, lost. 

Miraanni even stopped using a singular pronoun to refer to herself.  At some point that no one was quite sure of, all her self-references made use of a plural pronoun.  She was no longer I but We.  The sisters were dumbfounded.  They had never seen anything like this before.  For all intents and purposes, the child appeared to be insane.  It was unacceptable.

Yet the situation worsened.  Miraanni began to speak of people long dead and she seemed to take on their personas as though she were possessed.  At other times she would seem to be as an animal and would make incomprehensible sounds and grunts.  Even some of the sisters began to fear her and they spoke of her as a demon.

Nataali had done what she could to keep this knowledge secret and out of the public.  Regardless, word had slipped out that Miraanni had the ability to speak with the dead, as the people liked to say.  They did not quite understand the dire and distressing nature of this development, and instead it only served to further the messianic fever that was building in the populace.  Try as she might, Nataali could not quell the rising tide of religion.  What would they think if they really knew?  They probably wouldn’t believe it.  They wouldn’t accept it as true.

Thus the legend grew.

And now this.  When it was thought that the situation could not possibly get worse, this had happened.  Miraanni had essentially shut down.  It had been a brisk winter day.  In the morning and on into the evening Miraanni had seemed incredibly focused, more so than she had been since any time the sisters could remember.  She was so intense, meditating through the day, never breaking her concentration.  She had then entered what appeared to be a deep and impenetrable trance, out of which she had never fully emerged.  It had been several weeks now and nothing the sisters tried had had any noticeable effect.  Miraanni was not comatose, but she simply was not there.  They could get no reaction from her no matter what they tried.  She was completely catatonic.  So it had come to this, this last hope to avert despair.

We’ve tried everything, Wantalth.  It’s time to take more direct . . . drastic measures.

Nataali was drawn out of her reverie by these comments.  She was tired.  Too tired.  She knew, as the head mother of the school and the one whom Orobai ultimately trusted to care for his sister, that she must make the decision, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it.  She couldn’t make the decision now.  What if I make the wrong choice and lead us all down the wrong path?

I will inform the council of my decision when it is made, said Nataali, doing her best to mask her uncertainty and anxiety over the situation.  Return the girl to her guardian and I will visit them together.  Ashi should have some say in this decision.

Worried and unhappy looks were exchanged about the room.  Everyone had been hoping, indeed, expecting, a final decision at this meeting.  The School Mother had wavered, however, and there was to be no final word as of yet.  Nataali listened to the sounds of displeased grunts and shuffling robes as everyone exited the meeting hall, leaving her alone with her thoughts.  What would mother do? She wondered.

Sacrifice

I

t was a typical day in the center of the city of Laftandiar-Urya.  Vendors were busy hawking their wares as citizens milled about through the colorful booths with the sound of wind-blown banners, music, laughing, and intimate and casual conversations filled the air.  Underneath the veneer of the ordinary was a growing anxiety, however.  There was a palpable feeling of anxious expectation that no one could quite define or express openly, yet it was there, and all could feel it. 

One wouldn’t notice such feelings merely through examining the visual scene.  Ulusi-Rata society was colorful, and no amount of worry would change that.  The Ulusi took pride in their appearance and in the quality of their surroundings and thus the surface of all that could be seen at the city center was bright, colorful, and appealing to the eye.  To the casual observer, all was prosperous, positive, and bustling with energy, efficiency, and productivity. 

The ears heard something different, however.  In hushed conversations people spoke openly about their worries and concerns.  The delegation that had been sent to the west nearly one year previous had not yet returned, and all the while reports of sightings of strange technology were increasing on the far side of the mountains surrounding the city.  Rumors of war, struggle, and desperation had also made their way to the people here from the far west.  The Ulusi wondered; would they be next to fall?  Would the aggressors finally come to their city?

Yet among this worry was also the talk of hope and great expectations.  The Wanlutan was among the Ulusi.  The Mother of the Perfect Creation would save them from death and the destruction that was being brought to the weaker and less protected peoples of the west.  But to be saved the people must repent and must purge themselves of their transgressions.  They must pledge their allegiance to the new powers that would eventually rule the earth and rid it of wickedness, greed, arrogance, and all things evil and destructive.  It was undeniable that a wave of religious fervor and expectation was in the air.

The hooded figure wrapped tightly in her dark green cloak had heard it all before as she hurriedly passed by one of the many preachers who had sprung up in the wake of Miraanni’s miraculous performance at last year’s equinox celebration.

The Mother of the Perfect Creation will restore the world to a state of Godliness, of Holy Purity and Perfection!  Open your hearts to her and she will show you the way to your own immortal salvation.  Freedom from fear, from want, and worry!  Open your hearts!  The wicked will be vanquished, and the world born again anew!  Who will be there?  Will you?  Will your family?  On which side will you stand when the enemies come to our Holy Bay, to the home of the Wanlutan!  Speak up and declare your oath to the Holy One!  Stand in sacred confirmation! boomed the preacher to the excited agreement of the gathered crowd.

This is the fanaticism I was warned of by my teachers.  It feeds their fear and illusions.  It is not the Khutan-Scyr!

Ashi pulled her cloak tighter about her as she slipped through the crowd.  In the beginning she had walked openly through the streets of the city she had come to love and call her home.  But such was no longer possible.  After all, she was the guardian of this mythical Mother of the Perfect Creation, and was held in special esteem by the people who flocked to the new religion in throngs.  At first Ashi had been somewhat amused as well as perplexed by the strange attention and devotional adoration that was directed at her as she tried to go about her daily life.  It had become too much, however, and she had learned that secrecy and anonymity were the best choices. 

Pulling past the captivated crowd Ashi contemplated how much she had changed over the course of the past year.  Would I have been one of the faithful? she wondered.  Her own people, the Djinari, did not think in terms of salvation or the creation of a perfect world free from evil.  Like the teachings of the Sisterhood, she had learned about balance and harmony among her own people.  But she had also seen the devotion that was shown to the great Ohuan, the Holy People, of her culture.  The danger was that the devotion to the person could became greater than the principles and philosophy upon which his powers and abilities were based.  Ashi had learned that the sisters called such phenomena cults, something they thoroughly disapproved of.  Yet she could see the appeal of it.  To find answers and security in one person could bring peace of mind in uncertain times.  Nevertheless, according to the wisdom of her teachers, such was the danger of power and persuasion.

Regardless of whatever might have been, Ashi knew for certain now that she could never join the crowd, knowing what she did.  Ali couldn’t bring my Wiko back.  The thought made her reflect on how surprised she was at how easily she had moved from her old life as a Djinari to her new life as a member of the Ulusi-Rata.  The death of her husband seemed so long ago, and almost as though it didn’t truly matter.  In some sense Ashi believed that what had happened had been meant to be.  But she knew the truth.  Miraanni did not have power over death as these people so firmly wanted to believe.  True, she had power, but it was much different than what these people thought.  Not even Miraanni had had the ability to bring her dead husband back when he was killed by the machines of the west.  Even the Wanlutan could not conquer the irreversibility of death.

Besides, Miraanni was sick.  The people simply had no idea.  Why don’t the sisters tell them and put a stop to this religion before it gets out of control?  Perhaps it was already too late.  As her teachers had taught her, fanatics will see and hear only what they want to see and hear.  Everything else is lies and deception.  Such was the heart of a desperate person.

Is there any hope at all?  Will this city eventually fall like the other peoples of the west?

Ashi was beginning to wonder if she had any faith at all.  Yet she felt compelled to action.  I cannot stay here, she decided.

At the moment of Ashi’s decision a sound intruded into her private world.  I know who you are, said a voice in Ashi’s ear, breaking her train of thought.

I know who you are, repeated the voice as Ashi turned to find herself facing a dark-skinned woman in ocher robes.  Ashi repeated the sound of the voice in her mind, trying to place the accent and dialect.  Language had become something entirely different for her after receiving the Than-Azarn from her teacher Shintan-Vur.  Ashi had learned how all languages were related through the original tongue of Illanii, the language of the ancient ones.  Though now vastly different, at root, their genealogies were the same and all languages could be intuited by one properly trained.  This woman here was obviously from the south, Ashi decided, as she scanned the woman’s dark eyes and mulled over her accent in her mind.

Yes, you are known to us.  Your cloak cannot hide you, said the woman, staring directly back at Ashi, undeterred by Ashi’s uncertain attempt at the intimidating gaze of the Sisterhood.

I don’t know what you mean, said Ashi, pulling away from the woman who reached out to take her hand.

Don’t worry.  I won’t draw any attention to you, but you cannot hide from who you are, said the woman, clasping Ashi’s hand tightly in her own, preventing her from slipping away back into anonymity.

I’m not what you think I am.

Perhaps, but I do not believe that I am incorrect.  You are the guardian of the Wanlutan.  You will be her prophet.  I’ve seen you before.  I saw you at the council at Kur-Aku.  You cannot hide, said the woman with great conviction.

I am Homneth, continued the woman.  I am a priestess of the new order of the Wanlutan and the Holy Tal and I must speak with you, for you are Holy to us.

I can’t help you.  Leave me alone, urged Ashi, trying once more to pull away from the insistent woman.

You have nothing to fear from me, said Homneth.  I would take your time for but a few moments.  Please.

You don’t understand, said Ashi.  You may have identified me, but you do not know who I am.  You know nothing about me.  You see only what you want to see.

This may be, but I do know something about you.  I know you are Djinari.  I know that despite your appearance you are still Djinari, and because of that, you will leave us.

Ashi was stunned.  How could this woman know this?  Ashi had not spoken with anyone about her private thoughts of late.  But it was true.  She had been thinking of returning to her people.  It was not because she necessarily wanted to leave.  On the contrary, she loved Laftandiar-Urya and being a part of the Sisterhood of Hyanchalth-Murira.  She owed everything about her new life to this place and these people.  In truth, she decidedly did not want to leave.

Yet of late she had felt increasing pressures to do so.  Having been instructed by Shintan-Vur in the Ulm-Lanish, animal empathy, she had become ever more sensitive to the beings that were so close to her heart, the mighty Wakintunlan, the great bison of the plains upon which her people, the Djinari, depended for their food, shelter, and spiritual sustenance.  Intellectually she had known that they were becoming weak and sick, dying from diseases caused by the people of the west.  Now, however, she could feel it.  She could sense it in every aspect of her being and it pained her enormously.  She also knew that she could help, if only she could return to her people.  The Xhutai-Ku was powerful, and she could use it to benefit her people.  Yet she knew the consequences of leaving.  There would be no turning back.  She had dismissed the thoughts as unrealistic.  And besides, she could never leave Miraanni.

So you see, I do know something of you, said Homneth.  I am certain by your reaction that I have spoken the truth.  Perhaps now you will listen to what I have to say?

Very well, said Ashi, still somewhat reluctantly, I will hear you.  But only for a moment.  The sisters would not be happy to find me speaking with you.

Of course, said Homneth in a pleasing tone.  Follow me and we can speak privately.

Ashi agreed and followed the woman into a side alley away from the bustle of the main square.  Ashi was relieved to be out of the open but was still wary of this woman whom she knew nothing about.

Come in, said Homneth, opening a dark red wooden door in the side of a gray stone building.

The door opened to a private courtyard with lush green plants and squat trees that were filled with small brightly colored birds that flitted about, chirping and singing, clearly undisturbed by the presence of the two women.

A small stone path wound through the garden and led to an open room across the way with dark woods and low cushions lining the walls.  Ashi followed Homneth into the dimly-lit room and as her eyes adjusted, she began to make out the familiar images of Ulusi spiritual wall hangings covering the wooden walls.  Many of the wall hangings, or skrit-yal, as they were called in Ulusi, were known to Ashi, being standard reproductions of common images.  Their quality was exceptional, however.  They were better than many that Ashi had seen at the school.

By the look of things Ashi judged that this was some kind of meditation hall, or at least had been at some point in time.  Given the current state of the room, it seemed to Ashi as though it had gone unused for meditation for some time.  There was no fresh incense, no carefully placed altars or fresh flowers.  In fact, the room was somewhat stagnant and stale.  The meditation cushions were pushed into a corner and piled against the wall.  The skrit-yal were dusty, and despite their quality, were old and tattered, as though they had simply been left to rot.  If this was once an active meditation room, it clearly no longer was.

Homneth continued on through the room and passed through a sliding paneled door to the left and walked down a short flight of stairs, encouraging Ashi to follow.  The room below was dark, causing Ashi to hesitate a moment and question the wisdom of following the strange woman who claimed to be a priestess of this new religion.  What did she call it?  The Tal?  The order of the Wanlutan?  She disregarded her caution, however, and followed as Homneth stood at the bottom of the stairs, staring back up at Ashi expectantly.

Do not fear, said the dark woman.  You have nothing to fear from me.  Nothing . . . she trailed off as she gestured with open arms and upturned hands.

Slowly Ashi descended the stairs, giving her eyes time to adjust to the dim light.  There were no windows and no obvious exits, with the exception of the way they had just come.  Seeing that her guest was following, Homneth went to the far wall and lit a collection of differently sized candles.

Ashi was astounded by what she saw.  There, at the far wall, was what was clearly an altar to Miraanni.  At the center of the altar hung the most beautiful and intricate skrit-yal Ashi had ever seen.  Pictured in the skrit-yal was Miraanni, floating above crystal waters, surrounded by rainbow light with lotus blossoms at her feet and two magnificent Arnyar above her head.  It’s the Ran-Khuxaita-Ur, thought Ashi, easily recognizing the depicted scene.  The colors of the sacred wall hanging were so vibrant that the image itself almost appeared to move with the same fluid motion as the light that had surrounded Miraanni on that day nearly a year ago.  The detail was exquisite.  Ashi thought that it just might be the most well-crafted skrit-yal she had ever seen.  She was surprised to find that she was almost as mesmerized by this image of Miraanni as she was by Miraanni herself.

Ashi was so mesmerized that, at first, she missed some significant aspects of the image.  Once the initial awe wore off, Ashi saw that at the bottom corners of the picture were small, yet still magnificently detailed, images of what could only be sisters from Hyanchalth-Murira.  Ashi could not quite put her finger on it, but it seemed apparent to her that the images of the sisters were rendered in such a fashion that the women were clearly impotent.  This interpretation was reinforced by the way that Miraanni stood triumphantly over their diminutive figures, forced into a small corner of the image.  Opposite the impotent sisters in the other bottom corner were images of skeletons and decaying bodies.  The effect was gruesome and startling.  Is this how they see Miraanni?  The victor over both death and the Lalntalthta?

Ashi’s thoughts were pulled away from the sacred image before her and brought back to the room.  She then realized that the woman, Homneth, was standing beside her, watching her intently, obviously wanting to read Ashi’s reaction to what she was seeing.  Ashi could see by Homneth’s expression that she had missed something, something important.  She’s waiting for me to react, but to what?

Ashi turned back to the image to examine it once again.  Her eyes skimmed over the surface, glancing at colors, shapes, forms.  What does she want me to see?  If not the sisters and the dead, then what was so important to Homneth?  She’s brought me here to see this. 

Then Ashi saw what Homneth was waiting for.  In the top right corner of the image, somewhat hidden due to the lack of bright light in the room, was herself.  It was unmistakable.  It was Ashi.  There she stood, and not alone.  On either side were the two wolves, Fenruk and Elkil, and above them their companion, Sto’orn.  We’re all here – but how does she know of the wolves and the eagle?

Yes, said Homneth as Ashi turned to look at her.  So now you see how important you are to us.

Ashi said nothing.

I made it myself, Homneth continued.  It’s my finest work – don’t you agree?  She didn’t wait for an answer.  I’ve made many others and have many more to make yet.  It is a very popular image among the followers of the Wanlutan.  What do you call her?  Ali?  That is a beautiful name.  It sounds similar to your name, Ashi.  What does that mean in your language?

It is the name of a flower that blooms only at night.  Here in Laftandiar-Urya you call it ‘moon flower,’ answered Ashi untruthfully, not wanting this strange woman to know what her name really meant.

Ah, yes.  Beautiful.  Just like the girl, and just like you.  It is only proper that the Holy Ones be beautiful in name and form.  How else will the world be rid of ugliness and evil?

I’m sorry, said Ashi, but I don’t know what you mean.  I am no more holy than you or anyone or anything else.  I’m just a woman, like you.

No, that is where you are wrong, said Homneth with a conviction that sent a nervous shiver down Ashi’s spine.  You are not an ordinary woman.  I can see that you don’t believe this yet, but you will.  Perhaps you do not yet know who you are, but you will.

What do you mean? asked Ashi incredulously.

You are the Holy Warrior of the Wanlutan.  It is you who will be the victor in the Holy War that is to come.  It is your fate.  You cannot turn from the path.

Homneth’s eyes burned with a fierce intensity that Ashi knew was fueled by a religious faith that was alien to her.  Despite Ashi’s training she felt compelled to turn away and hide her face in the darkness.  She did not want to hear what else Homneth might have to say.  Who is this woman?

I know, continued Homneth.  These things can be hard.  The Truth is powerful, and only the strong can withstand it.  Those you call ‘teacher’ cannot face this truth.  Ask them.  Do it!  Ask them if they will stand and fight in the Holy War!  They won’t!  They cannot! said Homneth, working herself into a fevered pitch.

I’m sorry, I have to go, said Ashi as she attempted to back away from the crazed woman.

Homneth reached out and grabbed her once more with a strength that was surprising to even Ashi’s finely trained body.  Yet as quickly as Homneth grabbed Ashi, she let her go with a sudden change in her demeanor.

No, she said, I am the one who is sorry.  I’ve disturbed you, and for that I should be ashamed.  After all, you are the Guardian, the Holy Prophet.  Forgive me, Your Holiness, said a now-weeping Homneth.

I’ve got to get out of here.  This woman is mad.

I know . . . I know what you must be thinking.  I can tell by your face.  Forgive me.  I’ve offended you.

Look, said Ashi, emboldened now by Homneth’s submissive posture, I appreciate that you have strong beliefs, but know that I do not share them.

I know, answered Homneth.  "I was once like you.  I was a student too.  I too once used the title ‘Lalntush,’ just like you.  I meditated.  I practiced the Xhutai-Ku.  It was there that I learned the art of skrit-yal making.  But I failed.  I truly was a ‘Lalntush,’ just an ignorant girl.  It was a mistake.  Someone made a mistake, letting me enter that school.  The great Ulanishar herself told me so.

"I was heartbroken.  I wanted so much to be one of them, one of the powerful women.  In my disgrace I began this humble mediation center and made a living making skrit-yal for wealthy patrons.  I thought that even if I couldn’t complete my education and training that I could still practice, still walk that path.  My skrit-yal paintings are the finest, but even here I was a failure in meditation.  Ironic, isn’t it?  I was blessed with the hands and heart of a true artist, but my mind is weak.  I had assumed that a great artist would also be a great woman.  Perhaps that’s what the sisters thought too.  But they were as wrong as I was. 

I see by your face that you feel sorry for me, especially because I know you are such a gifted student.  Only one year.  Only one year up on the hill with those women, and look how far you’ve come.  But don’t feel sorry for me.  All that has happened is what was meant to be.  All things have their purpose, and were I still a member of that exclusive sisterhood I would not be here now, with you, and in possession of the Truth.

And what is that? asked Ashi, truly curious.

That the Wanlutan is our Savior, of course, said Homneth, somewhat surprised at Ashi’s naïveté.  And you, the Guardian, the Prophet, are the Holy Warrior.  You will lead the Mother of the Perfect Creation into victorious battle to rid the world of the wicked, the ignorant, and those who fail to believe.

Homneth’s conviction was almost too much for Ashi.  She looked back up at the skrit-yal.  She had to admit, it was beautiful, and powerful as well.  But this woman is mad.  She only seeks to justify her own failure.  Can she not see this herself?  Or perhaps she does not want to see.

Do not worry, said Homneth.  You will come to believe.

Ashi turned back to her.

Look at your image.  What do you see? asked Homneth.

Ashi looked closely once more as Homneth held up a candle to the skrit-yal to assist her.  Ashi’s eyes roamed about her small image, taking in the details.  There was something in her hand, something she couldn’t quite make out.

Yes!  You see it! exclaimed Homneth, excited and animated once more.  It’s the Kyandara!

And what is this ‘Kyandara?’ asked Ashi, I can’t see it well enough.

Then look here! cried Homneth excitedly.

All it took was a quick flash of candlelight off of the blade held in Homneth’s hand for Ashi’s training to overpower her conscious mind and cause her body to react defensively.  She was still a student, however, and she over-compensated in her reflexes and before she could pull back, the deed was done.

Do not fear, said Homneth, gasping as she held the handle of the dagger that had slipped so quickly between her ribs and pierced her dying heart.  I know through my faith that what happens is what is meant to be.  This could not be otherwise.

Ashi’s mind was spinning.  What have I done?!  What have I done?!

Take it.  Take it.  It is for you. Only for you. Thank you . . . Thank you . . .

Homneth was dead.  Her body slumped against Ashi and then fell to the floor.

Ashi stared at her body, unbelieving. 

What should she do?

She did not know why, but she took the knife, this kyandara.  Without thinking she wiped off the sticky, coagulating blood on a nearby piece of cloth.  Quickly Ashi placed the knife beneath her cloak and rushed up the stairs, through the unused mediation hall, out the path through the garden, and left the lifeless body of the strange woman, Homneth, who somehow had felt that her fate had been fulfilled.  The empty street greeted Ashi and she hurriedly made her way to one of the closest transports, climbed in, and was on her way back to the safety and solitude of Hyanchalth-Murira.  She knew in her heart that she had just passed through a moment from which there could be no turning back.

Through Dreaming Eyes

K

ulan knew that his wife, Nikala, thought he was foolish.  She didn’t need to say anything (she rarely did).  He could tell just by the sounds she made as she moved about their wintado.  She had thrown aside their bison-hide blankets with an air of indignation as she got up, letting out soft grunts as she dressed and began to prepare some food to break their fast.

You’re an old man, said Nikala.  Your place is here, as a revered Ohuantun, she said with a bite of irony in her voice.

Tashu woman! exclaimed Kulan in an exasperated tone in retort.  Do you think that I do not know my place?  I am Ohuantun, as was my grandfather before me and his before him, for countless generations now.  I know my place.

Then why do you have such crazy ideas?  You can’t go wandering all over based on a dream.  Even if it were true, and your interpretation accurate, how could you ever find your way?  You may see in your dreams, but in this world you’re still a blind old man. 

My Heyadani will guide me, said Kulan matter-of-factly.  From where else would the dream have come if not from the Djun, from Danmakadun?  They will guide me, as they always have.  Though Kulan knew that Nikala couldn’t argue with logic he also added, for good measure, Besides, I’ll take Anlin with me.  Now she wouldn’t be able to argue, he thought.

You mean you’ll have Anlin take you.  You can’t ride a horse without someone to guide you, said Nikala, accentuating her syllables by simultaneously banging some of her belongings together.

That’s not the point, said Kulan.  I don’t want to argue.  After breakfast go get Anlin for me.

Kulan was satisfied that he had had the last word.  He always did.  After all, he was Ohuantun, a revered elder and respected Djinari holy man.  It was Nikala’s place to listen to what he had to say.  And despite Nikala’s misgivings, he had had enough prophetic dreams to know their value.  True, their meanings were often cryptic and difficult to decipher, but Kulan did not think this one so difficult.  He knew very well what he had to do and why.

Nikala got the point.  She went about her business preparing their morning food.  She knew that Kulan had made up his mind and that nothing would dissuade him at this point.  Ever since that Black One had come to them the year before, Kulan had become even more insistent than he had been.  Now he only wanted to talk of the important work ahead of him.  He was at an age where he should be letting go of his Heyadani, his power, yet he held onto it now tighter than ever, convinced that he had great deeds yet to do.  Selfish man, she thought to herself.  He doesn’t even care that the Oguantun took our granddaughter from us.  And now she’s dead, along with her husband.  He doesn’t even care!  And now he’ll kill himself and leave me.

She cared for him though, despite any wounds or frustrations.  She had spoken truthfully when she had said that he should know his place as a revered Ohuantun, for that was truly what he was.  She had seen all the people he had helped, and continued to help.  He was one of the pillars of Djinari society.  He was what all the Ohuan