Chapter 3.1: Memories

Kyra lifted her chin off her chest as she heard someone entering the small hut in which she and Berten had been imprisoned for Aros knew how long. Long, dark legs entered her field of vision, and when she lifted her eyes, she saw the woman who had come in before. How long had it been since then? There were no windows in the hut, and the thick fronds that made up the roof let in no light. How long had she been trapped here? Thoughts were hard to hold onto; her wounds had all closed and her head had stopped hurting, but she’d been without food too long, and she was dangerously close to losing consciousness. Across from her, Berten was sleeping, slumped back against the thick post behind him, his head lolling to one side. At least, she hoped he was sleeping. She tried to watch his chest for the motion of breathing, but her eyes were slipping in and out of focus.

She realised the dark woman was asking her a question, but all she could manage in reply was, “Food. Please.” The dark woman grunted and squatted before Kyra, grounding the butt of her spear firmly with one hand and taking Kyra’s chin with the other, turning her head slowly from side to side. Kyra felt a small surge of hope that perhaps she would be allowed to eat - how many days had it been? - but the hope dwindled and vanished after the woman released her and left. Long minutes went by, then an hour, and another.

Aros, if you can hear me, I could really use your help. Her eyes slid closed, and she was unable to open them again.

She was standing on a beach, the sand wet between her toes from the deluge that hammered down all around her as she stared out at the pounding waves. The sky above churned and boiled with a fury she’d never seen, except perhaps for those strange storm clouds that had covered Palistair in recent months. Focusing, she tried to alter the sky, to change it back to a clear blue, but amathani resisted the change, pushing back at her. Shocked, she tried again, to no avail. Never in all her long life had this happened. The waves and the wind did not respond to her efforts, either. Being able to manifest a dagger in her hand successfully only provided her a small measure of relief. What in the world is happening that can affect amathani so? A brief thought created a bubble around her, a shield from the rain that stung her bare skin with its force.

This weather must have something to do with this ‘Lord Maloth’ in the north. Or was this Rava’s work? If the Mother of Storms had awoken, she could scour the land with her tempests, but Kyra had never heard of the Utok’lakapa holding any sway in amathani. This place was a realm of Aros’ creation, and only She or Her children should be able to affect it.

A thick bolt of lightning stabbed into the sea as she looked around the beach, lighting up the sky with a purple-white flash. Thunder cracked almost immediately after, a booming roar that became a deep rumble, as if a giant were rolling a colossal ball around in the heavens. A sudden wave of helplessness washed over her, and she realised her face was wet from more than just the rain. A dark and terrible force was coming, and if she didn’t find a way out soon, she was going to die in that small hut. An arohim could not live long without food, not when one was expending as much energy as Kyra had been.

Think, woman! She scolded herself. You’ve been in worse than this a hundred times! A small voice spoke up in the back of her mind then, taunting her. But you were never starving, were you?. Never without your vala to help. “What can I do?” She shouted into the storm. Shouted at Aros. “Is this how I die? After nearly eight hundred years of service?” The weight of those long, endless years suddenly dragged at her like a dead horse across her shoulders. The hiding, the running, the loneliness ... For the first time in eight centuries, she considered surrendering to her fate, rather than fighting the winds pushing against her. Closing her eyes, she fell to her knees in the sand, dropping the bubble and turning her face up to the rain.

She sensed the light through her eyelids before she actually saw it, and felt warmth on her skin as the rain came to an abrupt stop and the wind died. She opened her eyes to see a man standing before her, tall and dark and handsome. The clouds above him had parted in a wide ring to let sunlight through, brilliant and welcome, so she had an excellent view of this stranger. As naked as she herself, his form was sculpted as if to capture the epitome of masculinity; his nose and jaw were strong beneath his bald head, and dark eyes regarded her calmly. Thick, muscular arms were crossed over a broad chest as he stood there in the sand like a statue.

“Who are you?” She asked, pushing herself to her feet with some effort. Even here, she felt weak. It didn’t help that her head only came up to his chest.

“You are struggling within yourself, child,” the man observed in a bass voice, ignoring her question. “You have endured much.”

There was something about the way he held himself, a sure confidence blended with something else, something ... ancient. A powerful vala radiated from him, the strongest she had ever felt. Her body hummed in response, flooding with heat that she felt in her cheeks, and elsewhere. “Are you a Paladin?” She asked slowly. If he was, then how did he find her? People could not interact in amathani unless they knew one another intimately in the real world.

Silently, the man offered a big hand. When Kyra hesitated, he said, “You are not lost, or forsaken, young one. Come.” Young one? This man looked no older than thirty himself, but the way he spoke, the way he looked at her, made him seem much older. From the strength of that vala, he could be very old, even for an arohim. Taking a deep breath, she took his hand, her smaller, paler one enveloped completely by his. The world shifted, blurred, and a moment later they were standing together on a dirt street lined by ramshackle houses of rough-cut timber and thatched roofs, many of them with broken windows, and some with no glass at all to keep the dust and rain out, just a scrap of curtain that billowed in the breeze.

As the man led her by the hand through the village, Kyra realised she knew this place. Barefooted, dirty-faced children in frayed clothing played in the dusty street, running back and forth, shouting and laughing as if their poverty bothered them not. They did not see Kyra or the dark man. There were women visible, too, here and there, one washing laundry in a big wooden tub beside her house, another beating a worn carpet with a stout stick, though it would just be dusty again by tomorrow. It was always dusty in Carrigen, except for when the rains turned it all to mud. The women did not notice Kyra and the man any more than the children did.

This place was exactly how she remembered it from so many lifetimes ago; a flyspeck Human village on a continent where Humans barely had any presence at all. Orcs, Mor’elda and Tar’elda fighting bloody wars over whatever territory they could grasp, and Humans often getting caught in the middle. It was amazing Kyra’s parents had survived long enough to have her at all. Still, they had done it, and raised her here in Carrigen. Her mother had been arohim, too, one of the very few to escape Ekistair, and she had trained Kyra as a Paladin.

The man stopped at a stone well where two streets intersected. Kyra’s heart skipped a beat when she saw her mother approaching from the other side, barefoot in a cotton dress with a frayed hem, wooden pail in one hand. Her hair - so light it was almost pure white - was pulled away from her face into a bun at the nape of her neck, the way she always wore it when working. Even in that old dress and with the soot streaking her face from whatever she’d been doing earlier, Kiara Millen - Kiara Silverstar to Kyra - was a beauty, slender and fair with stunning silver-blue eyes. To Kyra, she glowed softly with the light of the vala as she reached the well and tied the pail’s handle to a rope that lay coiled on the ground.

“Mother?” Kyra said softly, but Kiara did not appear to hear her. Kyra repeated herself, louder this time, but received no response.

“She cannot hear you,” the dark man rumbled, looking down at Kyra. “This is a memory only.”

“Why did you bring me here?” Kyra demanded, trying to pull her hand free. She felt like a little girl trying to pull a stick from a mastiff’s mouth; he was very strong.

“How did your mother die?” He asked, again ignoring her question. Kyra gave up trying to pull free and glanced at her mother lowering the pail into the well. Sadness bound her chest as she remember that night, so long ago. Orcs had raided Carrigen, butchering the men and dragging off the women. They would have succeeded except for Kiara and Kyra. Between them, they slayed dozens of Gor’dur that night, even as the village burned around them.

“She took an arrow for my father,” Kyra said in almost a whisper. “He was trying to help us, but against Orc warriors...” she trailed off. She still remembered the smile on her mother’s face as she lay there in her father’s arms, arrowhead jutting from between her breasts. “She loved him more than her own life. She was happy to die for him.” Cruelly, her father had been killed less than a year later by a roaming band of Ogres. Kyra had only found out when returning to the village after some time away. It had taken her long years to forgive herself for leaving him.

“And how will you die?” The man asked her, pinning her to the spot with eyes that seemed to contain the entire universe.

What kind of question was that? How could Kyra possibly know when or how she would die? Kyra stared back, trying to understand. “How in the grace of Aros am I supposed to know that?” She shot back. She was considering punching him in the stomach, or perhaps the stones, in order to get her hand back.

“Perhaps,” the man said slowly. “It would be more poignant to ask: Who will you die for, Kyra Lightwing? What will you die for?” That brought her up short. She had never really considered it. The man continued. “Will you die of hunger, bound to a post as a prisoner? Or will you die at a place and time of meaning and purpose?”

Kyra frowned up at him, momentarily forgetting her mother, so close she could touch her. “Who are you?” She asked again.

“I am called the Keeper,” he replied.

“Aros’tirith,” Kyra breathed in wonder. “But you are just a legend!”

For the first time, an expression crossed his face; a slight curving of the lips, a creasing at the corners of his eyes. “Even myths and legends often have roots in truth, young one.”

Kyra dropped her eyes in shame. “I humbly apologise for my rudeness, Great One,” she said, her voice trembling. Gods! She’d considered hitting Aros’ Hand! “And I gladly will accept any penance you see fit to exact.”

She was surprised to hear a deep, rich laugh from the Keeper. “Such will not be necessary, child. It is not forbidden to question your faith. You are still Human, after all, grace of Aros or no.”

“I’m afraid I am dying,” she told him honestly. “My body weakens. I have lost my strength, and my weapons.”

The Keeper studied her for long moments. “There are some things I am permitted to do,” he said finally. “And some things I am not. I think, however, that this is allowed.” He moved, then, scooping her up into his arms and holding her close as the world shifted again, this time becoming a grand chamber with gleaming white marble walls and fluted columns. A huge bed rested in the centre of the room, big enough for ten people, cornered by elegant golden posts and hung about with silken drapes. Water splashed somewhere in the distance, as if from a fountain.

Kyra looked around in wonder from the warm confines of his embrace. “What is this place?”

“This is a small part of what the world used to be, before the car’mori,” the Keeper replied. “And it will be again, as long as you live to make it true.” Kyra met his gaze and felt a strong current of desire flood through her. She felt ... safe, in his big arms. Protected. She’d lain with many men and women in her long life, yet none had ever offered her more safety than she could provide herself, through no fault of their own. Nor was she looking for such. What ordinary being could offer more protection than her own power?

But in the Keeper’s embrace, she felt herself surrendering to his greater strength, his love. She surprised herself by kissing him on the mouth, and was pleased when he returned it. Of their own will, her legs came up around his waist and she pressed herself against his strong body as tightly as she could. Her weakness began to drain away, and she felt renewed power slowly trickling back into her body.

Between one moment and the next she was being laid down gently on the bed and covered by his massive frame. Slowly, but with determined passion, he entered her, and she felt her body adjusting to his huge size, helped along by her vala, giving her the space to take him in. She cried out as hot pleasure filled her, and she felt his weight atop her, pressing her into the soft mattress. The capacity to think abandoned her, and she let herself be swept away.

Kyra’s eyes opened slowly. She was back in the hut, her hands tied behind her back. Her body still sung with the ecstasy of the Keeper’s love. The whole experience had been ... transcendental. She didn’t know how long she’d been in amathani, but Aros’tirith had made love to her many times, and each time, some more of her power had come back to her.

Berten was there, also awake. He shifted uncomfortably, wincing as he did, as if the motion caused him pain. “Some dream you were having,” he said with a grin that seemed to require some effort to produce. “I hope it was about me.”

Kyra eyed him for a moment, then laughed aloud. “Do not ever change, Berten Longhand,” she told him with a warm smile. “It would be a crime, in a strange manner.”

The Gorn’elda cocked his head. “What’s happened here, then?” He asked. “It’s as if you’ve had a week’s rest all of a sudden.”

With a quick twist of her wrists, she snapped her bonds and waggled her free hands at Berten. “You have no idea.” She laughed again as his good eye widened. The bruised one stayed shut.

“Well face me north while you fuck me in the south!” He exclaimed happily as his face split into a wide grin. Fresh blood seeped from the cracks in his lips, but he didn’t appear to notice. “We’re getting out of here!”

Kyra moved quickly to where Berten’s hands were tied, snapping his bonds as easily as her own. At full strength, the task required little effort. “Stay here, for now,” she told him quietly. “I’ll go and see what we’re up against.” He nodded, and she made for the doorway, the opening covered by long grasses that hung from the outside. Daylight shone through from the other side. Standing to one side, she slowly parted the grass and got her first good look at where she was.

The hut she was in looked to be one of many in a village, though the others she could see in her narrow line of vision were of differing shapes and sizes. All had the same roof made of a thick blanket of fronds, however, angled so the rain wouldn’t collect in pools. People moved about here and there, all as dark as the woman from earlier, though she couldn’t tell much more than that from here. Taking a risk, she opened her vala out wide until she could sense the entire village, and almost the whole island.

The information flooded her mind and arranged itself into a picture. The village was a series of concentric rings of buildings surrounding a wide open circle of sandy earth in its centre. Unpaved pathways of the same sandy ground ran between each ring. Hundreds of spirits glowed within the village, and Kyra felt no more evil than she would have in any other place. Less than some, she thought as she quickly retracted her vala; she could not overcome so many, not and get Berten, Lissi and Tessa free. The latter two women were in a hut not far from where she was now, tied up in much the same manner. Thinking quickly, she went back to Berten. “Can you move?” She asked him quietly.