Page 45 of The Oracle of Dusk

Blood drained from Aurora’s face. Every high priestess of Knowledge left behind their birth name when they ascended to the role, taking on the name of Orithyia, with only a number to differentiate between them. A long line of Orithyias stretched back to the very first high priestess of Knowledge, appointed after the Second Sundering when the intangible deities of Knowledge, Passion and Justice split from their sinister sides to be worshipped alone. The Orithyia who had been like a grandmother to Aurora was the one hundredth and sixty-first to bear her name. If what this woman said were true, then that meant Aurora was thousands of years in the past.

“Merciful Triad,” Aurora whispered, horrified.

The woman put her hand on Aurora’s.

“I don’t know what you’ve been through, or for how long, but whatever happened, the temples in Boreas will welcome you. Knowledge’s medics will heal you, Passion’s initiates will help you find work, and Justice’s paladins will right whatever wrongs you’ve suffered.”

As the pungent odour of the city replaced that of lush fields, Aurora spotted the city gates, but not as she knew them. The designs and architecture were decidedly ancient, as was the uniform for the guards inspecting incoming travellers, labourers, merchants and farmers. Her heart pumped unease to every part of her aching, beaten body. She would have preferred to hide in a small corner of her mind, to focus on some harmless detail, like the construction of the kind woman’s hat, or the exact shade of her brown eyes. But reality had other plans.

“Next!”

The cart lurched to a halt at the front of the gate, the donkeys braying. A guard in Viridian green standing tall with a short sword at his hip approached.

“Who’s that? What kind of young girl wears trousers?” the guard asked. He was truly of a monstrous size. He peered into the cart with naked suspicion, lingering tellingly on her trousers and boots before his eyes widened at the state of her face. No doubt she was mottled with fresh bruises.

“We found her near the outskirts, attacked and left for dead by bandits. We’re taking her to the temple of Knowledge,” the woman answered.

The guard spat.

“Bloody dualist pigs. Attacking innocent travellers now? Let Justice’s temple know about the incident before you leave the city.”

“Thank you. Blessings of the Triad on you.” The woman nodded.

“And you. Next!”

The cart lurched into motion once more, the ride less unpleasant now that they had the benefit of flagstone streets and well-worn ruts for the wheels of the cart to follow. On the sides of the traffic, people walked along the raised walkways, by turns tempted and harassed by shopkeepers and stalls lining the avenue. Spices, silks, animals, jewels, perfumes, devotional objects, food and drink were plied between a mix of potential patrons both high and lowborn. Some things, mercifully, changed very little. Aurora never would have imagined the vibrancy of the ancient city. Nor the staggering height of its denizens!

Everywhere she looked, adults were half a person taller than she at a guess, only their children standing around her height. She’d read tales of the ancients and their giants’ blood, their second growth phases, and how it had lessened in the millennia since the days of myth, but it was altogether another thing to see it in person. The ancient bones she’d seen and excavated simply didn’t do their towering height justice. Even the tallest person she’d ever met, the ones in whom there was a drop of giant’s blood and who experienced a second growth phase, were maybe only as tall as the average youth here. Their ears were oddly small, the points more rounded than sharp, whereas hers had always been a source of pride in how long and beautifully angular they were. Strangely, not one of them wore trousers, preferring gowns, long skirts or knee-length tunics. They looked like they’d stepped out from an ancient fresco.

Captivated by the sights, Aurora almost didn’t notice when they stopped. The ancient temple of Knowledge shared the archaic style of the front gate. The entrance of the temple boasted sky-high fluted columns with minimal decoration, the sides and back made entirely of brick. Atop the columns laid the metope, a band of carved images depicting Knowledge’s role in preserving Trisia during the Great Sundering. They were the only colourful part of the entire temple—the rest was the deepest black, with only the occasional sparkle and vein of silver. There wasn’t a true arch in sight, only post and lintel construction. Except the puzzling part was that she was certain the arch was adopted during Orithyia XI’s tenure.

“This is the temple, little one,” the woman said, interrupting Aurora’s wandering thoughts.

“What is your name?” Aurora asked, feeling sheepish for not asking earlier. She’d been so caught up in her own thoughts that she hadn’t thought to ask.

“Cilla.” She smiled as she helped Aurora down from the cart.

“Thank you, Cilla, for your kindness. My name is Aurora. I don’t think there are many who would have helped a stranger, but I am grateful that you did,” Aurora said as she accepted Cilla’s help from the cart.

“I like to think there are a great many like me. It’s the strangest thing though, I took a detour when I saw a bright light. I discovered you in the field not long after. Maybe it was fate that we met when we did, Aurora.”

Goddesses, she hoped not. If this were fate, then that meant Phaedra was always meant to die. That Drakon was meant to bring absolute, unhindered destruction to her homeland. That she was supposed to find herself broken, bloodied and hobbling into the ancient temple of Knowledge, lost and miserable.

Cilla helped Aurora up steps that were a touch too big for her to comfortably navigate in her current state. From there, she was handed off to a kindly medic, a man with greying hair and a soft smile, wearing the deep grey robes of an initiate of Knowledge. One who was also much too large, just as everyone else she’d seen so far.

The medic sat her on a cot in a long line of them and asked about her wounds and tested her range of motion, his touch gentle and professional. He ordered splints, a sling, a variety of poultices, bandages, crutches and bedrest. As he did so, Aurora swallowed down her anxiety over the question she feared asking. But when he was about to leave, she caught the hem of his tunic. If she didn’t figure this next part out, she might lose her mind.

“How long has Orithyia XI been the high priestess?”

He blinked in surprise.

His reaction was to be expected. Even a peasant of Trisia would know such a thing. New high priestesses had always been installed with a great deal of fanfare after a lengthy, Trisia-wide period of official mourning for the late high priestess.

“Seventeen years. Where have you been that you did not know this?” he asked, full of concern.

Seventeen years! A number of ill-omen, because it was in the seventeenth year of Orithyia XI’s tenure that the very first cycle of calamity occurred. Had she escaped one apocalypse, only to endure another—the first, in fact?

“I have… come from very far away,” she replied woodenly.

---