Page 69 of Daughter of the Dark Sun
The short stranger who named themself the Guide disappeared as they spoke. Green flashed across Therat’s vision as the Guide stepped out from behind a tree to his left. Their voice reverberated around him, almost as if the trees spoke with them.
Mireithren tensed at Therat’s side, the whisper of her Shadow-weave running through his thoughts. She was terrified, anxiety rising, fearful they had walked into some trap of her father’s contriving. Therat squeezed her hand still grasping his, and her anxieties cooled. His thoughts floated across her mind.
I have you, Little Siren.
“Speak plainly,” Therat demanded, stepping in front of Mireithren. The Shadow-weave hummed to life, hovering beneath his skin. Shivers of anticipation crawled down his arms,muscles tensing, ready to pounce. Mireithren’s soft touch on his shoulder kept him from losing all control.
“You do not frighten me, Child of Shadow and Night.” The strange person stepped forward and, in one swift motion, pulled Therat’s hands into theirs, thick with calluses, before speaking in a strange language. “Aem. Rinbrel. Oirith ithé athnea, venaem ithé lira. Cinn buil á anais.”
A stillness settled over Therat. A cool mist of rain calmed the tangled Shadow-weave; it retreated into its cage. Therat dimly recognized the language: the Elder Tongue, once taught by the gods to the Eldest Children. A shiver ran across his mind. The language died long ago, lost after the Discordance, only fragmented pieces and names remaining. The person standing in front of him revealed themself as much more than a mere small, doe-eyed guide.
Mireithren stepped out from behind him. “You know of my Lady Eithranren?” she asked breathlessly.
Therat sensed a different conversation happening between the two he could not hear. The fawn-colored person stared at Mireithren, eyes now bright and glowing. He looked to Mireithren beside him, her mesmerizing muddy brown eyes deep, endless pools of black. With another breath the void faded and she stood as herself again.
Mireithren took a step forward toward the stranger. Therat grabbed her hand but did not pull his raven-haired lover back.
What is happening?
He grew to trust Mireithren—as best as he could—as they journeyed north, but did not believe she heard the voice of a dead Goddess. It was something else, it had to be. He needed it to be. How many times had he cursed the gods, laid his heart bare in the empty desert begging for redemption, only to be left in the cold night? He tried desperately to ignore the obviousreality in front of him. A thousand questions burned in Therat’s mind, but words refused to form on his tongue.
“Sera Aesiri, you knew her,” Mireithren whispered at last. Dim recognition of the name floated across Therat’s mind, but no memory surfaced.
“Yes, in a way. Long has it been since any have uttered that name here. But you did not come to seek me. I see it, in your heart.Evraneniththey call you. I know you aslyneithra,a Daughter of the Shadows. And you,” the Guide said, turning to Therat. “Shadewalker, with the blood of the Shadow Siren herself. You, who come to my forest, who seek my aid in crossing to the West.”
A shock of energy sizzled across Therat’s mind at the words.
Blood of the Dark Goddess? That is impossible. I’m cursed, tainted by my own stupidity!
“Wh-what did you say?” he whispered. The world faded to shades of gray.
“You have been sundered for too long from your kin, child. You will remember yourself in time. It is only my task to spark a light in the dark, I cannot lift the veil. The answers you seek hide in the West, in the city of white towers. I will take you as far as I can.”
“No, speak plainly!” he barked back. “I have wasted too many years on riddles and vague notions.”
“There is much about the world you do not understand. I cannot offer more than a way and a place. My role here is… constrained.”
The Guide paused for a moment and looked up to the sky, tears filling their faded green eyes. The strange person said something, the sound more akin to music than speech.
As the Guide spoke, the birds fell silent. A soft dirge filled their stead. Death seemed to crawl toward Therat, an aching grief growing in the man’s heart. Loss mixed with regret and athousand wishes to undo the past. Therat could not tell if it was his regret or the Guide’s. He tried to speak, but the words did not come. Every thought slipped through his fingers like water.
They stood in silence for what felt like an eternity. Somewhere inside the black writhing mass shuttered away with his heart, a scream formed. Hot anger seared through every muscle until it faded back into oblivion.
The sound of Mireithren’s voice tried to pull him back from the void. “Therat? Therat breath, listen to my voice. Come back to me, please! No, shh, I have you, I will not let you go.”
His thoughts still refused to take hold.
The world was spinning, fading to black.
“Mama, who is she?”
“Amaren. The Silver Maiden. Listen to her well, Little Cub. She will guide you true. Our ancestor, who saw many thousands of years pass by the fair world, before the coming of Death.”
“Do you hear her too, Mama?”
“She talks to all of her children who will listen. Amaren is Shadow and Night itself. The Silver Maiden lives on in the Shadow-weave, even after death.”
“Does that mean the gods did not curse us?”
