Page 63 of The Eye of the Fifth
As Kyra had entered adulthood, she’d barely noticed the absence of those spiritual buildings. But now, as she stepped through the threshold of Gallena’s temple, she found herself condemning those who had ripped Roheia’s houses of worship from existence back in Avaldale.
Fucking self-righteous, faithless humans.
She was subdued to say the least, to witness the Nythanorians' reverence of the Air Mother just through the beautiful intricacy of the temple’s creation. It was incredible that the ceilings could be so high, that the space could be so vast. Every inch of it was delicately decorated with swirls and fine lines that all seemed to link together like an unsolvable puzzle.
There were people in the atrium, praying and meditating at the altar of another statue of the Air Goddess. Some presented offerings ofsome sort in the brass bowls at her feet, some lit candles and sat in silent contemplation. And when they saw the Air Warden, every single one of their faces broke into smiles of utter reverence.
Naal had fallen quiet since entering the temple, lips pursed together as she returned tight smiles, the veins in her neck strained as she walked side by side with Zuriel. Only when they had cleared the atrium and begun down a passageway did Naal ask, ‘This cannot be everyone?’
‘No,’ replied Zuriel, kindly acknowledging a young man who walked past with a nod. ‘Those are the healthy. The unafflicted. We have given them the freedom of the entire temple, to use at their leisure. The rest are in the crypts. It was the largest space for… you will see.’
Deeper they twisted down an open central staircase, into the heart of the mountain, and soon the peace of the atrium shifted into a conflicting chorus of animated conversation and moans of pain. Before they reached the end of the staircase, Kyra knew what she and Naal were about to witness.
What should have been a place of quiet rest for the dead long since passed had been turned into an infirmary. The slabbed stone floor was strewn with makeshift beds of skins and woollen blankets, laid out in lines of formation with clear paths of access in between. Healers bustled down those pathways, the smells of their pungent ointments a slight reprieve from the scent of blood, death and decaying flesh.
Alongside the fumes was a feeling of hopelessness. Of bound despair.
Overlooking them all, a beacon of strength and protection, was yetanothermammoth statue of the Air Mother like the one outside the temple, though this one was carved from stone. Her palms were skyward in an eternal prayer, and her black beady eyes surveyed the crypt of her people below.
That depthless gaze was somewhat unnerving.
Kyra took a glance at Naal. She was rooted to the spot at the bottom of the stairway, her eyes flickering around the scene before her, and though her expression was that usual perfect mask of control, Kyra had a feeling her strong heart was shattering in her chest.
This was all that was left of Naal’s people. And still they were hurting, still feeling the repercussions of the attack on their home. Families ripped apart, children alone and orphaned, lovers grieving their mates.
Too few of them had escaped the blaze unscathed. Visibly exhausted and in mourning, but free from the melted skin of those who had not been so lucky.
Kyra met the eyes of some of them, attempting a smile to offer some comfort, though she was sure it was more of a pained, pitying grimace.
None of them were concerned with her anyway. Not when they realised that Naal had returned to them. Whispers dashed through the stagnant air, and many stood to get a better look, as if to be sure that it was really her.
Then one word was on all of their lips like a prayer of relief, one word repeated over and over and over again.
‘What are they saying?’ Kyra asked Zuriel quietly.
‘Pramah,’she said, her chest swelling with pride. ‘It meanssaviourin the old language of Nythanor. The title was bestowed upon the first Air Warden and has carried through to the next. Naal is their protector.’
Though even as the whispers increased, Kyra caught sight of a handful of citizens, still sitting with their mouths sewn tightly shut, refusing to say the word and glaring at Naal with betrayed, accusing eyes.
Kyra was sure Naal noticed, for her tight smile had a devastating edge to it as she turned her back on her people and said in a low voice to Zuriel, ‘Gather the others. We shall meet in the small Council Room without delay.’
Chapter Eighteen
The Eternal Order
???
The Floating Mountains, Nythanor.
Naal.
The Council Room had not been made use of for over a hundred years. A different war, a different time, a different bloodshed. Naal sat at the head of the stone table, its four legs blossoming like tree trunks from the floor beneath, and could not keep her mind from hurtling down pathways that led her back to the burned city.
Had she not been on the other side of Droria, had she been more vigilant in protecting her people in her absence, perhaps more would have survived. Perhaps the city would not have fallen at all.
Had she stayed, had she not saved Kyra in Avaldale, her people would still live.
Dangerous, to think that way. Regret and doubt was for the nonsensical. It had no place in the heart of a Warden.
