The Alchemist and the Eagle: Tales of Aurduin, Volume III

By Martin W. Ball

A temple containing and enigmatic egg has appeared in the nightly dreams of the leader of the Jolao empire, Rin Jao. Thousands of followers of the Wanlutan and the Holy Kyandara have gathered at Rangorn-Vuchuli, awaiting the coming holy war for Aurduin. The determined leader of the resistance, Kalzhat, has gathered his own rag-tag army in the heart of Jeaniaurduin, ready to strike out against the Jolao and bring their mining operations to a halt. Orobai has awakened, but Miraanni has disappeared into the Void of the Goarnaltrai. In her absence, Orobai embarks on a new quest to the far north of Aurduin to discover the identity of the White Eagle, the source of the kyandara possessed by Ashi. Undertaking her own quest, Nataali sets out from Laftandiar-Urya in her solar sailboat for a voyage around Aurduin, trespassing right into the heart of the Jolao Empire.

Multiple story-line weave and intertwine in this engrossing and surprising continuation of the epic adventure that began with Orobai's Vision.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Mar 12, 2024
• ISBN: 9781304553973

Book preview

The Egg

A

vast and open landscape.  Barren.  A hot, dry wind blows abrasive sand and dust across an endless expanse of nothingness.  Every direction is the same.  Which way to go?  Would it matter at all?

It was nothing like home.  No humid sea air.  No sound of waves crashing against the beaches below the towering white cliffs.  Completely foreign.  Completely Other. 

Sand obscured his vision as he walked barefoot on the parched earth.  Like a fine white powder that works its way into the most hidden of places, the alkali dust clung to his body and clothing as it seemed to work its way into his very core.  It threatened to dry him out from the inside, leaving him a withered husk of his former self, a cast-off of refuse from the wasteland. 

Why did it seem so intimate?  Why did it seem as a part of himself, this foreign place, so far removed from his world?  This was not he.  This was not his making or his doing.  But why did it feel as though it were?  He wanted answers.  But none came.  Just more nothingness.  Hot, dry, bitter nothingness.  Empty and without signification

Day passed into night.  Still nothing changed.  Stumbling now he wandered blindly into the darkness, into the unknown that lay before him.  He didn’t care anymore.  It all seemed so pointless.  Those things that had given him meaning, comfort, and purpose all passed from his mind as meaningless trinkets of vague illusions, worn down into empty shells by the biting sand that cut into his being, threatening to scour him away. 

He could tolerate no more.  In a final act of defiance, he pulled what little saliva he could into his parched mouth.  Ah, the familiar taste.  Metal mixed with spit and bile.  Now there was power.  There was life.  He rolled it around in his mouth, thinking that this would perhaps be the last time he tasted the precious elixir.  Then, with a force that spat out all his bitterness at this place he expelled the fluid into the dark night.  Defiance and power.  Even now, at what could be the end, it felt good, even satisfying.

It was then that he realized that he was no longer lost in the void.  There before him, directly in his path, was a large structure.  Moonlight shone down, illuminating it in an eerie glow as the dust and sand continued to whip about with the incessant wind.

He stared hard for some time.  Was it really there?  Was it some phantom or illusion?  A final trick of his mind before he passed from this world into the meaningless oblivion of death?

He walked up to it.  It became clearer now, more real, more solid.  Pausing for a moment, he tried to take it all in.  He knew what it was, but he didn’t know what it meant, or why it was there.  What did it represent?

Who are you?! he shouted, struggling to force the harsh words from his dry throat, nearly choking as he did.

The temple that loomed before him gave no answer.

I said, who are you?! he shouted again against the dusty wind, this time with more vigor, but with no more confidence that any answer would come.

The strange building merely stood silently, ominously.

He walked closer.  It was like nothing he had ever seen.  It simply didn’t make sense to him.  What was it for, here in the middle of nowhere, in the wasteland?  Standing atop tall pillars it pierced the night sky like a needle into the darkness.  The closer he came, the more detail he could make out.  Strange shapes and images filled the temple.  Though the images were familiar, none of it made sense to him.  It was perfectly open and present, but completely impenetrable.  It was beyond understanding.  Simultaneously completely transparent and maddeningly opaque.

Closer still he came.  From a distance he had seen a curious geometric shape that caught his attention.  He consciously chose now to ignore the rest and focus only on this shape, this pattern, this one thing alone that seemed to make any sense to him, though he did not know why.

Walking between the great pillars he drew close to the circular disk of strange, angular patterns that worked their way out from the center of the design.  It stood several feet above him, looking down upon him.  What he wanted more than anything was to get a perfect look at it, to have his eyes meet the exact center of the design in a perfectly symmetrical relationship.  Try as he might, however, he simply couldn’t do it.  No matter how he adjusted himself, the image just wasn’t right.  His neck began to ache.  His back hurt. 

Who are you!? he demanded once more of the temple, this time directing the full force of his insistence at the circular design and the flowing patterns it contained.  It did not answer.  It merely stared back.

He felt supremely uncomfortable, defeated even.  He knew then that he would get no answer.  Out of nothing came this strange and magnificent temple, but it refused to give up its secret.  It was mute.  Silent.  Unforgiving.

In defeat and resignation, he bowed his head.

It was then that he saw it.  His heart raced.  He felt the vitality come back into his body.  Exuberance!  It was exactly what he was looking for.

There, at the base of one of the large pillars, delicately resting nestled in the grip of pointed conical fingers that thrust up from the dry earth below was the image of a perfect egg.

It was exactly what he needed to see, and for a moment, all his questions were answered.

* * * *

Rin Jao hadn’t been sleeping well as of late.  His dreams had turned to a recurring theme of an egg.  Each time Rin Jao is fascinated by the egg and is drawn inexorably to it.  He caresses it, cradles it, treats it with love and care.  Yet he cannot overcome his desire to crack it open, to reveal its hidden secrets and all that lies within.  Always he smashes the egg, or gently cracks it, or lets it slip from his hands, shattering on the ground below him, leaving a chaotic pile of fragments, refuse, and destruction.  The worst of it is that he isn’t satisfied.  And he knows, when he dreams anew he will again find the egg, and all will transpire once more, forever repeating in an endless cycle of hope, destruction, and the bitter feeling that remains that something was lost along the way.  The secret of the egg, once revealed, didn’t satisfy.

Without yet opening his eyes Rin Jao replayed this most recent dream in his mind.  Unlike most of the others, this dream had ended when he found the egg.  He pondered this.  It had to mean something, but what?  Finding it had been so satisfying, as though it had been enough simply to see it.  But Rin Jao knew that such was rarely, if ever, the case.  What he truly wanted was to open it, to find what, if anything, lay inside.  Such a provocative dream.  Though it had been a difficult dream, he smiled now as he thought about it.  He almost liked the feeling of not opening the egg and letting it rest there in its strange, enigmatic pose, resting upon the pointing fingers, there at the base of the mysterious temple.  Yes, he almost liked leaving it there, in that place that seemed so right for it.  Almost.

Rin Jao rolled over and opened his eyes, taking in a deep breath of the humid sea air that filled his room.  Nothing quite as comforting as the familiar, especially after such a trying dream.  He pushed back his soft covers and planted his bare feet on the cool surface of the fine hardwood floor of beautiful redwood.  So different than the bitter alkali of the dream.

Light of the new day was streaming in from the east.  Pushing himself up from his bed he walked to his balcony and threw open the ornate glass doors that let out to a spectacular view of the white cliffs and azure sea.  Waves crashed against the rocks below, sending a rich, salty foam into the air.  Rin Jao opened his arms to let the spray caress his naked body.  He admired how he shimmered in the morning light.  Such a beautiful silver.  He ran his fingers through his short white hair and tasted the salt mix with the familiar metallic taste in his mouth.

Turning back inside he threw on a soft silk robe.  Even in winter the temperatures were moderate here and he only tied his robe loosely and left the balcony doors open so that the cool air could wash through the house.  As he did so he thought that he was perhaps compensating for the dream.

Rin Jao licked his finger with anticipation.  Taking a seat in a plush cushion chair with smooth wooden arms he gently reached over and dipped his wet finger into a small shell bowl.  The metal powder stuck to his finger as he rolled it about.  Holding it up before him he admired it in the morning light.  So beautiful, he thought.

Slowly, savoring the moment, Rin Jao closed his lips about the extended finger covered in metallic dust.  His eyelids closed as his eyes rolled back into his head as the first waves came over him.  Ecstasy . . .

A while later the sound of sea birds brought Rin Jao back.  It was a good thing too, for it was time.  He concentrated as he began the delicate internal process.  He could feel it working in his stomach, the alchemical magic.  He was an adept and it didn’t take long.  In only a few moments he could feel the change.  The convulsions began.  He retched, reaching over to a receptacle at his feet.  A shimmering, silvery liquid poured from his mouth into the metal bowl.  Rin Jao made sure to spit every last bit out before putting the lid back on.  He knew better.  Never give in to the temptation, he reminded himself.

Now he felt good.

Rin Jao got up from his comfortable chair and poured himself a cold glass of fruit juice.  His mind turned back to his dream as he sipped slowly at the tart liquid that complimented the ever-present metallic taste in his mouth. 

Why wasn’t she there?

He only now realized that he was disappointed.  Perhaps what he had wanted to find was the beautiful young woman.  Instead, he found a meaningless temple in the middle of nowhere.

At least my egg was there.

But it was so much more exciting when she was holding the egg.

It had started a few months ago.  Rin Jao didn’t know now if it had been an apparition, a waking dream, or some vision, but he had seen her – and not just her – there had been another.  But his fascination had become fixated.  She was so beautiful, and so very young.

Ever since then he had, on occasion, dreamt of her.  But the dreams were so real.  She seemed so much more than merely a fleeting dream image.  In fact, Rin Jao was convinced that she was a real person.

Her beauty made her fascinating enough, but there was something else about her – something else entirely.  Rin Jao couldn’t explain it.  He had never experienced such a thing.  It was as though a wind blew through her and it carried the very vital power of life within it.  Was such a thing even possible? 

Of course he didn’t dare tell the others.  What would they think?  A heretic.  Infidel even.  No.  It was far too dangerous.

But there she was.  Not every night, certainly, but it was enough.  Rin Jao could hardly contain himself when he found her in his dreams, there, holding the egg.  It was so seductive.  He found her irresistible.  In a beautiful act of violence, he would take it from her, or even wrap his hand around hers, crushing the egg and letting its secret substance drip over their joined hands.  It was almost sexual.  Almost. 

But she hadn’t been there this time.  Only the enigmatic temple and the egg.

What did it mean?

Rin Jao feared that something, somewhere, had changed.

Precipice

A cartoon of a sword Description automatically generated

O

robai stood at the edge of the Goarnaltrai for what seemed an eternity.  It had pained him in more ways than he could count to watch Miraanni fall.  To have not been with her for so long, having gone on his quest, and then becoming lost in dreamless sleep for a year -- it hardly seemed real.  But there she had stood before him, just a short while ago.  His sister.  His younger sister.

She had looked so beautiful.  She had lost the soft, round curves of an infant.  Her face had shaped into a beautiful oval with two deep silver eyes.  Her long silvery-white shimmering hair had whipped about her in the wind.  Even at that young age she had seemed tall and slender.  In human years she would have been counted as seven, or perhaps even eight years old.  But it had hardly been two years since Orobai had found her, a mysterious jewel, born from the heart of the world, Jeaniaurduin.

When he left on his quest and entrusted her to the wise Nataali and the young and flowering Ashi she had only been in the world for a few months, at best.  Even then she was developing quickly, far beyond any human standard.  But it was only a few months.  And now, two years later, she had blossomed into a young girl, no longer a baby, or even a toddler, as she should have been, were she human.  But Miraanni, like her older brother, the ancient black being, Orobai, was anything but human.

True, she had human features and characteristics, but that was all.  Her mind and spirit had been beyond anything Orobai had ever experienced previously in his many thousands of years of walking the face of Aurduin.  Not even the powerful and all-knowing Mwataan compared to the special child in terms of depth of spirit.  The Mwataan was a metaphysical entity, hardly even real, and barely here – just a witness to the world, a vibrating string from which greater symphonies rang.  But Miraanni, she was real.  She was a complete being, even if she would forever remain a mystery.

Yet Orobai had seen it.  There was no doubt.  Never had he seen a being so lost.  Never could he have imagined the pain that looking deep in her eyes had given him.  He felt guilty, though he knew that things never could have been otherwise.  In his absence she had descended into a kind of madness, catapulted by the final shock of his apocalyptic vision into utter catatonia.

How she must have suffered.

It was terrible.  Yet, in some sense, Orobai knew and accepted that it had to be.  Orobai, the solitary wanderer, Gem-Seeker, Preserver of the Four Ways, Returner, Earth-Born, knew who he was.  His identity and purpose had been given to him.  The first words the mighty Arnyar, the great eagles, had spoken to him were his names.  He had stepped out of the dark, fathomless waters of the Goarnaltrai and there they had greeted him at the base of the majestic Black Mountain, Norgath.  Grundin Orobai Rundi Eyarlum, they had said to him.  He had known from that moment precisely who he was, and his purpose.

No one had been there for Miraanni.  No one had been there to give her a name when she came into being.  Even the name Orobai had given her was more a description than anything else – Mysterious Child.  That was what she was to him, and to the Arnyar as well.  It was up to others who met her along the path to name her.  But who was she?  Were any of the names that came to her true to her nature?  Was she Sará’é, the Heavenly One?  Or even Ali, Kind?  Was she a sorceress, or the Mother of the Perfect Creation?  Orobai didn’t know.  Neither did Miraanni.  She remained an enigma, even to herself.

She had met with the Mwataan.  That Orobai could tell.  He could always tell those who had had the unique opportunity to come face to face with the strange cosmic serpent.  He had helped her -- that was obvious.  If it hadn’t been for the Serpent King Miraanni would undoubtedly still be lost.  But not even the Mwataan could find the answer to the riddle of Miraanni, or if he could, he hadn’t revealed it.  If he had, she wouldn’t have come here, to this point, to this precipice overlooking the Great Void, the Goarnaltrai.

It had called to her, beckoned her to come and to lose herself within its unseen depths.  This too was obvious to Orobai as he gazed upon her beautiful face.  He could see it in her eyes.  She had to go in.  She was ready and it was calling to her, just as it had called to him the year previous.  The time had come.

As Orobai watched her small white frame plummet through the cold mountain air he held out hope.  He knew it was a selfish desire, however.  He wanted, more than anything, for her to come out.  He prayed that she, like him before her, would reemerge from the void, and be ready to walk the mountains.  He wanted to take her about this beautiful world, Aurduin, and show her the Great Mountains, the Orgathen, and teach her of the profound esoteric secrets they embodied.  He would have been her guide and mentor, instructing her and pouring his wisdom and experience into her, shaping her into a mature being with a deep knowledge of all that he held dear, and especially the Altfein-Aryat.  It would have been a new role for Orobai, and perhaps would have made up for lost time, time taken from them by his need to go on his quest, and the precious year lost in sleep.  He just wanted to be with his sister.

But that was not his fate, and it was not to be hers.  Though connected in ways he still did not understand, their fates ultimately lay upon different paths.

He watched for a long time.  The deep black waters had swallowed her up.  Even from this great distance he had heard her plunge into the cold, opaque waters in a splash of white foam that quickly returned to the placid, mirror-smooth reflective surface.  No tiny white shape returned to the surface, no one crawled out at the shore at the base of Norgath.  She was gone.

Orobai could feel it.  It was like a shockwave went out from the exact spot of her entry and passed through the entirety of Aurduin.  There was no doubt.  The Void had swallowed her whole.  In some way Orobai was sure that every being in Aurduin knew, even if they did not understand or could not make sense of the change that followed her submersion.  But it was there.  It could not be denied.  Aurduin was changed, and would only continue to change more.  Though Orobai knew it, he could not predict what would become of his sister, or of this world that he loved so dearly.

Orobai opened his mouth slightly, moved his tongue to the roof of his mouth, rounded his lips, and began to sing.  Soft and beautiful were the complex tones that flowed from his inner being and subtly filled the space above the Void between the precipice and the Mountain.  It was a prayer for Miraanni – a prayer that in losing herself, she would find her way – that somewhere, deep within the Void she would find the purpose to define herself, and find that path that she was to follow.

Home

A cartoon of a sword Description automatically generated

H

ome.  The mouth of the bay gaped wide before the small solar-sailboat.  Both currents and wind had been strong, quickly speeding the diminutive craft on its way from the heart of the humid Durndlith basin up the coast to the sheltered bay that its passengers called home.  Much of the journey had been spent in quiet solitude for the two traveling companions.  So many questions lingered at the edge of their minds surrounding all that had transpired, and uncertain anticipations dwelt deep within concerning what they would find upon their return. 

Despite the somber and serious causes for their original journey, Kalisha had greatly enjoyed the time away from her lifetime home, Laftandiar-Urya.  Never before had she traveled out of the safe embrace of the city along the bay, and she had seen and experienced much on their journey south that wound into the deep recesses of the dense rainforest.  There they had gone to the mysterious and provocative Mwataan Agdlan, the Temple of the Serpent King.  True, Kalisha was disappointed that she never did get to meet this Serpent King, nor did she ever truly comprehend just who or what he was supposed to be.  But the peculiar and frenetic rituals of the Alngbwat had opened her eyes and the odd, paradoxically jovial nature of Ixshan, her mistress’s twin brother, had caught her off-guard and challenged her expectations.

And of course, there had been Ulanishar, such a comforting and understanding grandmotherly figure.  Kalisha, in her free time, had faithfully transcribed the strangely compelling story of the girl and the Shuunlar, the sacred Moon Moth of the Shundway people.  She had refined and edited it along the journey back and was eager to send a copy to her masaa, her grandmother.  She hadn’t stopped there, however.  She had also busied herself with detailing what she had seen of the bizarre rites at Mwataan Agdlan and their strange juxtaposition of libidinous release and morbid embrace of self-sacrifice to the monstrous serpents of the green river.  Never had she imaged that people could act so passionately and with such abandon.  Her world, as she knew it through her mistress, was one of control, form, precision and prediction.  The chaotic world of the sorcerer-priests and their myriad followers had both horrified and fascinated her. 

She supposed that her mistress shared some of the same mixed emotions.  Kalisha had seen how even the thought of going to the temple had discomforted her.  Their ways certainly weren’t the ways of the Ulusi-Rata, nor of their central philosophies and practices of the Xhutai-Ku and the Khutan-Scyr.  And the Mother was so different from her brother, Ixshan, who seemed to revel in the odd contradictions of his world with his perpetual smile and trickster-like nature.  Despite his authority, he seemed unburdened by responsibility, almost casual.  Perhaps it was because the real authority was the Mwataan, whoever that may have been.  Regardless, the twin brother and sister were almost like night and day.

Nataali, unlike her brother, at least in appearance, was deeply burdened by responsibility – responsibility for her school, her role as a leading figure in Ulusi society, for Miraanni, and ultimately, her sense of responsibility for all of Aurduin.  She carried all these with her, even when the objects of her concern were far removed.  Kalisha could tell that her mistress never once forgot the turmoil she had left in Laftandiar-Urya, and she could see that it all weighed heavily upon her now at their inevitable return.

During their trip back, when they stopped at the various travel houses along the Durndlith, reports had come in of the situation back home and of the increasing presence of the Tal and the spreading religious fervor that had seemed to grow even stronger in Miraanni’s absence.  Nataali had gathered what news she could and would often sit pensively by herself, meditating and mulling over possibilities in her mind, letting Kalisha take control of their small boat.  Hours would go by, and she would say nothing – just thinking, looking inward, hardly moving or even breathing, it seemed.  And when she wasn’t thinking, she was meditating, or practicing the Xhutai-Ku exercises, which she skillfully managed to perform on the sometimes-unsteady boat.  But she did not share the private contents of her ruminations with her young servant girl, who could only guess at the true nature of her mistress’s thoughts and worries. 

Kalisha suspected that her mistress was considering an important decision.  Nataali, as gifted as she was, didn’t need written reports or overheard news for her to have an intuitive understanding of what was taking shape in broader Aurduin.  Dreams and visions came to her in ways that Kalisha could never understand, but always respected.  Often the Mother would know things before they happened or could tell of events taking place in faraway locales, or even times.  Kalisha didn’t know how the Mother accomplished such feats, but she knew that she was seldom, if ever, incorrect.  Kalisha had a feeling that such information was coming to her mistress now, and that this was leading her to some choice, but what that was she could not guess.

It was with both a sense of relief and sadness that their journey had come to an end that Kalisha looked at the mouth of the bay and the familiar site of Ulusi fishing vessels as they passed in and out between the towering mountains.  It would be good to be home, to see her parents, and return to the familiar, but it also meant that for her, the adventure was over.  It would be back to the old routines of helping the Mother at their school, Hyanchalth-Murira, the School of Mystical Arts, perched high in the mountains overlooking their great city, Laftandiar-Urya.  The thought of sleeping in her own bed was a surprising comfort, as was the thought of returning to her favorite places in the forest and the city.  But she missed the excitement of the unexpected already, and she missed Ix’s peculiar company and the haunting Temple.  Perhaps she would have to go back there someday, when she was older, she thought, when she could travel on her own.  Maybe then she would have the opportunity to meet the Mwataan, though she wasn’t entirely sure if she really wanted to.  But regardless, they were home now.  This was her world.  This was her reality.

It occurred to Kalisha that she should take one last holo-image with her shaulin before they returned.  She had been so excited when they left that she had never thought to take an image of the bay or the city.  It would be a fitting final image to her holo-journal of collected images.  Given the light, mist, and many beautiful and ornate boats, if she got the image right, it might turn out to be one of her best.

Kalisha left her mistress who was sitting in quiet contemplation on the bow of the boat and went below to find her holo-crystal.  She loaded one of the synthetic crystals into the machine and hurried back up top so as not to miss the last and crucial shot.  Right as she reached the upper deck her mistress let out a disquieting gasp as she suddenly stood up and clasped her heart.

M’Lady! called out Kalisha, rushing to her aid, carelessly letting her valued instrument drop to the floor of the boat.  But Nataali made no response and merely stared into the distance as though she were seeing something that was beyond the girl’s ability to perceive.

Kalisha had been correct in her belief that Nataali had been greatly preoccupied by thoughts of her responsibilities at home, but in reality, she had given much more thought to what she considered wider, and ultimately more important, concerns.  Laftandiar-Urya could weather any local storm, even as one as potentially tempestuous as the Tal, but could Aurduin withstand the rising flood waters of the Jolao?  Connected to this was the fate of both Miraanni and her brother, Nataali’s life-long friend, Orobai.  Nataali had had no other choice than to let the girl go once she awoke from her catatonic stupor.  Despite her pledge to Orobai that she would watch over her, she had no right to keep her, and she had gone her own way.  Nataali felt in her heart that the mysterious child would seek out her wise older-brother, but she couldn’t be certain.  Who was to say if Miraanni was really healed?  True, she had returned from oblivion, but what had she returned to – a world in turmoil and religious expectations that she become some kind of redeeming savior.  It was enough to cast anyone into a crisis of identity and purpose, and certainly Miraanni had been so affected – that much had been obvious about the girl. 

Ixshan had seen it too.  Ixshan had seen many things, via the Mwataan.  He, like Miraanni, through the medium of the metaphysical serpent, had seen Orobai’s apocalyptic vision.  Was this really what was to come?  And he had also seen Miraanni’s struggle to reject the expectations and beliefs forced upon her by others.  He had seen how she wanted to define herself, but had been unable to.  She had thus left them in a state of confusion, ultimately without an identity.  Nataali could only hope that she would find what she needed to find -- not only for her sake, but perhaps for everyone’s.  Was she what the Tal made her out to be, or something else entirely?  Could even Orobai answer these questions, having now received his sought-after vision?

That Orobai was once more awake in the world was obvious to Nataali.  Though Ixshan had not been certain, he had greatly suspected that after Miraanni’s final session with the Mwataan that something had changed for Orobai.  For Nataali’s part, she could simply feel it.  She knew that he was out there, somewhere, and that he was no longer sleeping as Ixshan had learned through the interaction between Miraanni and the Mwataan.  Her greatest hope was thus that Miraanni and Orobai would find each other.  It was the best she could hope for.

As Nataali meditated now on the bow of her small boat the intuition came to her that the moment had come.  A feeling like a gentle sigh passed through her body, like a soft breeze blowing from somewhere to the west.  They have found each other.  The brother and sister have united.  Almost imperceptibly Nataali’s mouth inched into a subtle smile.  For a moment, her worries seemed unnecessary, and the release of relief seemed at hand.

But then it happened.  Like a sudden pulse, she could see a massive wave of subtle energy propel itself outward from some central point.  The Goarnaltrai . . . the Void . . . the Void . . . She’s jumped into the Great Abyss.

Nataali stood up with a sudden gasp.  She knew precisely what had happened.  Miraanni, the poor lost child, was gone, and Orobai was alone in the world once more.

Identity

A cartoon of a sword Description automatically generated

F

or reasons she could not explain, her hand reached out for the handle of the knife that stood upright before her.  The curved blade cut deep into the hard stone of the isolated cliff ledge that overlooked the wide valley below.  Her hand paused for a brief moment as it wavered above the intricate handle made of four colored jewels.  Its shimmering end contained a mysterious light that seemed to wax and wane with the light of Urya and Ranya.  Though she was not yet touching it, she could feel it.  It pulsed as though it were alive, as though some unseen spirit resided deep within and gave it a secret life all its own.

We are one now . . . We share the same identity . . . We share the same name . . . We share the same purpose.

Slowly her outstretched fingers clasped the cold handle of the sacrificial knife.  The instant contact was made between flesh and metal and stone, a jolt of power passed through Ashi that stiffened her body and arched her back.  The valley below with its dark rock and lush green canopy disappeared.  In its place a great void remained that threatened to pull her within.  She recoiled from it instinctively, but still it came at her, like a gaping mouth that would consume all.  She knew that to struggle against it would only bring it closer, devouring her. 

Though she could not see it, she gripped the knife firmly in her hand, now placing her other upon the first, as though it were a stable point in the midst of chaos that she must hold onto for dear life and sanity.  She knew instinctively that as long as she held the knife, she would not be lost.  It would not move, and neither would she.

Let it come.

Even before the thought had fully passed through her mind, the great void rushed in upon her.  She felt herself dissolving, disintegrating, like a flame quickly extinguishing from lack of substance.  She was gone.  It had pulled her in.

A sound.  She knew the voice.  She knew the rich tones and the intricate subtlety.  It could be no other.  The names echoed through her mind.  Grundin Orobai Rundi Eyarlum.  With each subsequent syllable she could feel another change taking place.  By the final syllable the scene had changed entirely.

The hypnotic singing propelled her upwards.  She could feel the wind about her like the rich tones of Orobai’s voice.  She felt the air give her life and buoyancy as it passed through her feathers.  I remember . . . With vigor and strength, she gave her mighty wings a strong downward push, propelling her even higher.  She banked to her right and circled around.  As she did so she glanced at her outstretched wings.  The White Eagle . . . the White Eagle and the Kyandara are one . . .

Looking down once more she saw that Orobai was now far below her.  He stood upon the precipice of the Goarnaltrai.  Not far above him she recognized a familiar shape.  Sto’orn watches over his friend.  But there was something missing.  She knew precisely what it was.  Miraanni . . . my precious Ali . . .

The great white eagle circled round one more time and then turned south.  Ashi tucked in her mighty wings that she intuitively knew were far larger than even the greatest and most impressive of the majestic Arnyar.  The tighter she pulled her wings the faster she flew, always with the sound of Orobai’s voice in her ears.  In only moments Rangorn-Vuchuli came into view before her.  Even from a great distance her supreme eagle eyes had pinpointed her precise spot, sitting in solitary mediation above the hidden valley with its mysterious stone faces and ancient temples.  She let out a piercing cry, flying even faster now, pulling her wings close to her body and aimed directly at her sitting form.  At the very last moment she arched her wings, spread wide her deadly talons, and dug them deep within her placid and vulnerable body.

It felt like death and life all in one exquisite moment.  With a gasp Ashi released her grip on the kyandara.  She found herself whole in body, heart, mind and spirit.  Half expecting to be otherwise, she looked down at her body as she brought her hands up to her chest.  She felt the smooth fabric of the ocher robes she had donned when she arrived only a few days ago.  She touched her face.  She felt warm, but unharmed.  Her gaze then passed to the kyandara, still firmly stuck deep within the dark rock.  Something seemed different about it, though she couldn’t quite conceive how at first glance.  As she looked more closely, she realized that what had previously appeared to her as a unique quality of light at the end of the knife was in fact a round, smooth stone.  Why did I never see this before?  The same light that she had been able to perceive before was still there, but now it was even more vibrant.  The only way she could describe it was that it was alive – alive in a way she had not been able to see previously.  What had been only ephemeral and translucent was now solid and fully present.  Has the knife changed, or have I . . . or both?  Ashi suspected that she knew the answer was the latter.

Another change.

Ashi had seen many changes.  In many respects, she wasn’t even Ashi anymore.  That name only held meaning for herself and her two sisters.  To everyone else she was now Kyandara, having received the name of the very knife that she now held within her gaze.  Here in Rangorn-Vuchuli, Ashi was nothing and Kyandara was everything.  Ashi was a Djinari woman who had lost her son, her husband, her culture.  Ashi was a killer twice over and an exile.  Ashi was someone with an uncertain fate and even a less certain spirit.  Kyandara had supplanted all these things.  Kyandara was the supreme human leader of the reborn religion of the Tal.  Kyandara was the Holy Prophet of the Wanlutan, the Mother of the Perfect Creation.  She was a Holy Warrior.  She was infallible.  She was confident, wise, and more powerful than she ever could have imagined.  She only need say one word and her followers would sacrifice all for her and their savior, Miraanni.  It was more than the naïve and hopeful Ashi ever could have asked for, and certainly far more than she had ever wanted.  But the time of Ashi was over.  She carried the name in her heart, but for nearly all the rest of the world, Ashi was dead.  For some she had died upon the plains of Wakintunlan-Dashikital.  For others she had died upon her exile from her people.  As for Ashi, a little bit of what remained of her old self had died right here as her alter-ego of the white eagle had pierced her body with its mighty talons while her body sat meditating upon the ledge.  Yes, something had changed here, right in this moment.  Miraanni was gone, and so was Ashi.  She knew it.  To the world she would be Kyandara, though in her heart some remnant of Ashi would always remain.  At least in her thoughts, she would not relinquish her old name – not yet.

Holy Kyandara, came a voice from behind her.  They are waiting m’lady.  It is time.

Ashi did not need to look to know that the voice was that of Shintan-Vur, her former mentor.  She also knew that only Shintan-Vur, master of the teachings of animal empathy, could have walked up behind her and not be killed instantly by her faithful wolf companions, Elkil and Fenruk, whose lives had become bound to hers just as her life had become bound to Miraanni’s.  The fact that Shin had addressed her so formerly indicated that she was not alone.  Ashi wondered if she could ever get used to this appellation coming from her mentor, someone she still looked up to, and if things had been otherwise, someone she would still be under the tutelage of back at Hyanchalth-Murira in the city that now seemed a far and distant memory.  Ashi wondered what Shintan-Vur thought of all this, and wondered even more why she was here.  Granted, Shin and the older woman, the Matron, as everyone addressed her, had explained that they had come to help Ashi and her sisters in what they perceived would be a formidable challenge – orchestrating and leading a potentially volatile religion that had formed around the mysterious figure of Miraanni, whom they called the Wanlutan, the Mother of the Perfect Creation.  For Ashi’s part, she had been thrust into the role of prophet and human emissary for Miraanni completely against her own desire or choosing.  What she at first hoped she could ignore refused to let her be when people, or perhaps events, had conspired to bring her to this fate.  Ashi recalled how the turning point had been the death of Homneth.  The strange woman who claimed to be a new priestess of the Tal had accosted her on the streets of Laftandiar-Urya.  There she had taken her into her decrepit meditation hall and presented her with the knife, the kyandara.  Everything had happened so fast, and before she knew it, Homneth was dead and her blood was literally on Ashi’s hands, and on the sacred sacrificial knife.  There had been no turning back from that point.  As it was for Homneth, Ashi’s fate had seemed sealed in that very instant.  Strange how death and profound change seemed to come together for Ashi.

But neither Shintan-Vur nor the older woman, who looked somewhat familiar in a way that Ashi could not quite place yet, had needed to come here.  Shin obviously had a great deal of respect for the Matron.  Indeed, the only other person Ashi had seen her give so much deference to was Nataali-Wantalth, the head mother of their school, Hyanchalth-Murira.  Did they want something here, or had they really come to help Ashi as Shin had claimed?  Why anyone would willingly join in this morass of apocalyptic fervor was beyond Ashi’s guess.  As for herself and her sisters, they were drawn here by forces that seemed to lie beyond them, calling to them in their dreams and pushing their fates to this strange and remote place.  None of them had ever desired the religious devotion that the followers of the Tal bestowed upon them, however.  Yet it came freely, and the people had accepted Nuya and Ohada just as easily as they had accepted Shintan-Vur and the Matron.  Had the two Lalntalthta somehow paved the way for the sisters’ fated arrival?

What have I gotten my sisters into?  Ashi could easily accept by this point that she was destined to be here and follow this course, but along the way she had ensnarled her two sisters as well.  In wisdom or folly, she had taught them the ways of the sisterhood and their esoteric practices, but they had parted before Ashi had fully instructed them – indeed, at best she had only just begun to share what she herself had learned.  Now here they all were, and in her absence Nuya and Ohada had managed to permanently entwine their minds together so that, when in close proximity, they practically thought and acted as one.  Nuya seemed to take it all in stride, as was her character, but poor Ohada.  It frustrated her to no end.  The only escape she had found was to focus her mind to gain some peace and solitude.  This had come in the way of transforming the mystical mind-body exercises of the Xhutai-Ku into a martial art form which she was now busy instructing others in here at Rangorn-Vuchuli.  Even Shintan-Vur had been greatly impressed by Ohada’s insightful innovations and had taken to learning what she could from Ashi’s next youngest sister.  It seemed the only solace for Ohada, who otherwise found all of her thoughts and actions invaded by their youngest sister, Nuya. 

Despite the fact that Nuya was taking these challenges in stride, she also had her own struggle.  When Nuya and Ohada had ensnarled their minds together they had been attempting to perform a psychic journey.  In the process Nuya had somehow led them far astray and had encountered strange individuals performing some ritual.  This in itself was not necessarily a problem, but somehow one of the people had seen Nuya, and presumably Ohada as well.  He had been furious, storming at Nuya who quickly receded.  Ever since then, images of the strange silvery-grey man had been a common theme in Nuya’s dreams, and they were beginning to take their toll on her, unaccustomed as she was to the odd imagery and sensations that seemed to accompany him.  Neither Nuya nor Ashi had been able to determine if these dreams were actual visitations or residual impressions from the first encounter.  Either way, Nuya did not like them, but had been unable to control them.  Needless to say, Ohada, joined to her sister’s mind, didn’t like them either.  And quite significantly, Nuya was convinced that this man in her dreams was one of the Jolao.  It was these people who ultimately were the cause and inspiration for all that was taking place.  In short, they were the enemy who were destroying Aurduin and who had spurred on this whole religious movement of the Tal and the crisis of good and evil that they perceived was at hand with Miraanni as their holy savior.  Nuya, in her folly, had managed to meet one of these people face-to-face.  To Ashi, it seemed incredibly dangerous.

At least Ashi did not need to feel that she had been responsible for the other situation that her youngest sister Nuya now faced – she had become pregnant.  Foolishly, in Ashi’s judgment, Nuya had let her passions get the best of her when she met what she described as a beautiful and courageous man who was leading a revolt against the Jolao in the interior of Aurduin, apparently ensnaring their flying ships in cat-and-mouse games with deadly consequences.  Why Nuya had fallen for such a man was beyond Ashi, but apparently Nuya was not the only one who was taken with this charismatic figure.  Their own father was now deeply involved in this rebellion, an eager follower of the daring Kalzhat, who was creating something of a unified front of Motu, Djinari, Tolguin, Absokale, and Zhinjan peoples.  The secretive Motu had found the threat from the west so compelling that they had forgone their isolation to bring together those who remained free within Jeaniaurduin to put up whatever resistance they could to the far more powerful and technologically superior Jolao.  It seemed a hopeless battle, but what else could they do?  And now Nuya carried their leader’s unborn child, and he didn’t even know.

M’lady, came Shin’s voice again, intruding once more upon Ashi’s thoughts.  The slight edge in her voice let Ashi know that she had taken all the time she could afford.  The people are waiting to hear from their prophet.  The Kyandara must speak to them.

Ashi knew that she could postpone no longer.  Shintan-Vur was right.  They were all waiting and had been since long before her arrival.  They had been patient with her upon her joining them, giving her the space and time she needed to adjust to her new role, but the passion of these people was strong, and what they needed now was to hear from the prophet, the one human whom they believed carried a special connection to the holy child, the Wanlutan.

Ashi reached out in front of her once more and took hold of the knife, the kyandara.  Though she had driven it into solid rock she pulled it up easily now as though it were stuck in nothing more solid than loose earth, and in its place no visible scar remained.  The dark rock was without blemish or wound, as though the knife had never been there.  Ashi tucked the knife into the sheath she kept beneath her ocher robes and stood up, turning to face those who had sought her out.

Kyandara, came the reverent call from the small collection of followers who had accompanied Shin to Ashi’s secluded ledge who all bowed their heads low in reverential unison as she surveyed them.  Only Shin caught her gaze with a knowing look as Ashi looked over the pilgrims who had traveled from the various reaches of Ulusi-Rata territory and perhaps beyond to gather here at this secret place where they felt free to worship the Wanlutan and gather in redemptive expectation.  The sampling of individuals before her now was fairly representative of what she had seen in the valley below.  People of all ages of different ethnic backgrounds, men, women, and children alike, all dressed in the same robes with the same expectant looks about them and a yearning in their hearts that was obvious upon their faces.  They all desired to follow the Shining Path of the Tal to a true salvation and deliverance from the evils of the world and looked to Ashi to guide them to this ultimate goal.  How could I have come to this . . . ?  Not even Ashi could explain it.  But they had waited long enough and now were impatient to hear what their prophet had to say to them.  The mouth of God, after all, must not remain silent for long.

Ashi took a deep, cleansing breath, gathered her confidence, and stepped forward.  Quickly the crowd parted along the path that cut down through the dark stone on ancient steps.  As she passed, they threw flower petals at her feet and murmured hopeful prayers.  Has this happened before, at this very place? Ashi pondered as she felt the soft petals crush beneath her feet against the