Dunhă had always been beautiful to her. Today, it was even more so. The red grass beneath her feet tickled her toes, and the breeze without wind caressed her skin. She always left her shoes behind to better appreciate the genius of it. A goddess had created a whole world from nothing—and Naavah Ora stood inside that marvellous creation.
Faceless shades moved across the fields, not bothered by her presence. She saw the dead as those same beautiful shapes which made up their spirits; not decayed and withered, but bright and unique, each one a little different.
And uncorrupted, thank Ithrean.
The first time she’d entered Dunhă, she was terrified. Now its strangeness was familiar. Ithrean's home was so different to the world she’d grown up in, and yet nothing more true existed in either world. There were mountains, rivers, glades covered in ice, and lakes so deep and clear they made her marvel every time. The red grass and windless breeze seemed more real while she was there than the green grass and soft wind outside.
And at the farthest reaches of the realm shone its city—a haven for the dead, a haven for their souls. No mortal had ever entered its roads, and she didn’t wish to either. It was reserved for the dead; although, she had to admit, she was a little curious. Something compelled her toward it, but such was the danger of Dunhă to mortals. This was why they’d agreed all these centuries ago to observe only. Some things were reserved for the dead.
She'd never dare break the rules of this world. She was a visitor here, and grateful for what little she could see. If her dream had revealed some truth, then the balance of their two worlds was already in danger. She wouldn’t make it worse just to satisfy her own curiosity.
Relieved that everything was as it should be, she stepped back through the fog and into the clearing where her grandmother waited for her.
“Are you all right, Ora? You took longer than I thought you would.”
Naavah Ora nodded, and focused on the familiar face to steady her mind. Her grandmother had been a constant source of comfort and wisdom in her life. Since only her grandmother knew how to open the portal, Naavah Ora had spent a lot of time with her. Hers was the last voice Naavah Ora heard before she stepped through the mists, and she was always there when Naavah Ora returned.
The gift of the Suf’afir had always been strong in her family, but Naavah Ora was an exception nonetheless. Her people’s numbers were dwindling, and she was the only Suf’afir nearby. Usually, elves with her gift entered Ithrean's home to observe in silence while the dead went about their business. Much could be learned this way, and her people had often relied on the knowledge they gained. It wasn’t that they weren’t curious about the realm and chose to observe without wandering. They couldn’t. The spirit realm wasn’t for the living. That they were allowed to enter at all was a great privilege, and it had come with a caveat. Suf’afir couldn’t walk the spirit realm.
Naavah Ora could. She had explored its landscape and found the most miraculous places, but she needed to return to her world all the same. Portals could be opened anywhere, but they couldn’t move from their locations. She had to abide by those rules the same as everybody else, and she couldn't stay for long. Ultimately, she didn't belong there. She dreaded to think what would happen if she got lost and couldn't find her way back home.
Her grandmother had agreed to keep her secret.
If her parents knew that she could walk the spirit realm, they wouldn't be pleased. They'd say her gift was too important for her to dishonour her privilege. Perhaps they’d be right. But her parents weren't the ones training her or the ones who’d choose her grandmother's successor. They didn't need to know.
“Revered Elder!”
One of the young children rushed over to them. Everyone knew not to disturb them when she visited Dunhă; it had to be important for the child to seek them out regardless.
“What is it, child?” her grandmother asked.
“Mihai has returned from his trip to Kuuldam. He’s brought an unconscious traveller with him—Mihai thinks he’s dying!”
Her grandmother nodded, and left with the child. She didn't say any more to Naavah Ora, but words weren’t needed. Naavah Ora understood. One day, she’d be their healer and leader. One day, she’d have to put duty before family.
It couldn’t matter that she wished at times her grandmother could belong only to her, rather than to the whole village.
I was never as creative, perhaps, as some of my brothers and sisters, but I’ve always had a vivid imagination. It’s how I created my sanctuary.
Chapter 7
Doran
His body felt like it had been dipped in flames and left in Kwenjande's streets after a long night of too much mead. It ached, screamed, and resisted every movement he made. But Doran felt the pain, and that meant he wasn’t dead.
He opened his eyes and pain shot through his head. Everything was blurred, hazy shapes of brown and the earthy scent of wood, but he was here—wherever here was—and not dead by the roadside.
Doran moaned. He remembered. The potential sacrifice had been with him. Was he here, too? Doran found it hard to care; he wasn’t going anywhere in his condition. There was no point in worrying about someone who was old enough to look after himself. Not when Doran couldn’t blink without his head splitting in two.
He sighed and closed his eyes to merciful darkness. Old enough he might have been, but the boy hadn’t struck him as someone who could look after himself. Panic and screaming seemed like natural responses to being someone's sacrifice, and the boy had shown none of that. The cultists must have drugged him, made him see things. Made him believe that death was the only option left to him. Most people didn't really want to die, no matter what life made them think sometimes, especially boys as young as him.
Doran should know.
Still, Doran doubted he could get up, never mind go looking for someone when he didn't know where the young man was. He wasn't convinced he could even sit up. He wiggled his fingers. One finger, two… White-hot pain shot up his arm and into his shoulder. It festered in his wrist, where it exploded with torturous heat.
“Don’t move.”
He would have jumped if he could have done. “Who's—” His voice died in a dry coughing fit.
“Sshh. Try not to speak.”
An elven girl with silver hair and bright blue eyes—the same one who’d scared the wits out of him—helped him drink cool water from a wooden cup. It raced down his throat and invigorated him.
“You’ve been here for three days. One of our traders found you by the side of the road. My grandmother looked after you and drained the poison out of you.”
His laugh turned into a deep rumbling inside his chest, where the pain flared up from the effort. He had hoped to find someone, but he hadn’t believed he would. Out here—he still didn’t know where here was—they were on the other end of nowhere. He wouldn’t have come this far west at all if it hadn't been for those artefacts.
He scowled as best as the pain allowed him. The trinkets had better be worth it.
“The boy…?” He fell into another coughing fit. The girl helped him drink and sat back in her chair.
“He’s with my grandmother. He’s badly scarred and he doesn't say much, but he hasn’t been any trouble. Relax, you’re safe here.” He moaned. People always jinxed it when they said that. “I will tell my grandmother you’re awake. She’ll want to examine you.”