from Chapter 3

Drek'h sighed at her touch, feeling a strong connection to this Outerland woman lift from some hidden depth of his being. “I know you,” he finally murmured, feeling the herbs she had given him dull his pain but not his thoughts, an other-knowing filling his mind. As his eyes held on her face he was also seeing her in another time and place, dressed in the fine raiment of the eastern courts, her face painted exotically and knowing he was there with her. “We are lovers…you and I…but it’s long ago…another lifetime…. You are Quilamm, a princess…and I am your servant…your slave,” he whispered, his words ponderous, not knowing or caring where the images came from, or took him, only that he must speak what he saw.

Serra’s eyes brightened and she drew a tremulous breath, the hand on her belly tensing. “Laa, I knew it was you,” she moaned softly, her gaze darting away to her sleeping husband, then quickly returning to the man beside her. “I knew you, as soon as you entered our tent, my Sight—the Lady revealed you, and your pain…” She trailed off, her hand on his cheek moving to his chest over his heart. “I saw your pain, from that other life we shared. I can see it in this one, the terrible injustice that was done to you, twice.” She clenched her jaw as her tears appeared, Drek'h watching her and still seeing their other lifetime together, then his inner-sight rose and Serra’s face was swept away into the darkness of his vision.

Her face reappeared before him, but it was her other visage as he had last seen her; her skin milk white, her lips tinted dark blue, her eyes heavily shadowed coral and emerald, while her black hair was drawn into the intricate braids and glossy smooth bands that wove and interlaced with her ornate headpiece. She was wearing the long blue-black gown of her station, the jeweled collar and wrist bands glittering brightly as she sat rigid in a large golden throne in the center of an immense hall. She was Quilamm, first daughter to the Quishrann of Mahritan, a princess and priestess to the Great Goddess, her life given over at birth to the Lady, sworn to Her service. Unattainable to any man but the one chosen by her elders each year to represent the Goddess’s consort for the renewal ceremony at winter solstice. She waited silent on the throne, representing the Goddess, judging the mere hu’mans led before her, though her position was purely for appearances. Her Council of Ministers guided her on all decrees, their decisions made without her presence, and she had learned long ago that she had no real power over the lives of her people, or her own. Because of this she held herself aloof, her emotions untouched by those paraded before her, taking her cues from the five old men who every moment watched her from their places in the Mahritan capitol’s Great Hall of Justice.

All this information rushed through Drek'h’s awareness as he watched her, hovering like an Azerii before her face, then his perspective turned and he saw a young man in chains on his hands and knees before the Quilamm’s throne. He knew it was his form he was seeing, though much different than his current life. His skin was copper-colored, his eyes and hair nearly black, his body badly beaten and racked with fever. He felt a shift take place and his present awareness merged with his past; abruptly he was looking out of those pain-filled eyes as he met the younger woman’s gaze before him. Her face revealed no recognition, but her dark eyes told him otherwise. She was his lover, his Chosen, his life, their love forbidden by her station and her duty. He was the younger son of one of her father’s courtiers from the southern coasts, an outsider who had made the fatal mistake of reaching for one above him. They had met by chance at the midsummer festival, their love kept secret for many months, then chance betrayed them. They were caught together and now he was paying the ultimate price. The Quilamm was unreachable to one not chosen, and now he would forfeit his life for his intolerable act of desecration.

Words spun about him, but in his ill state they had no meaning. All he knew was her eyes, her perfect liquid bronze eyes that had captured his soul along with his heart. He held himself motionless and silent, his pride keeping him from begging for mercy though he knew what waited for him. In her sweet embrace she had told him the lie of her station, and her sadness stood around her like an invisible wall. In defense of her heart she held herself remote from what was placed before her, but with his presence he could see the weight of her pain was too great, her eyes filling with brightness as she looked upon his broken form.

“Shalune of the Da’avinda, you are found guilty of violating the sacred vessel of the Goddess. For this unspeakable act you will surrender your lands, your titles, your properties, and your life.” An old man’s words echoed over him but he wasn't listening, his eyes transfixed on her beautiful face, pain filling his heart at the suffering in her eyes. When they asked him if he would beg forgiveness for his crime and plead for the mercy of the Goddess, he said nothing, his eyes remaining on her face, only desiring to remember her forever.

His judgment announced, rough hands grabbed him, the soldiers dragging him out of the hall to an open courtyard below where the condemned prisoners were executed. He was stripped naked, placed then bound with his limbs spread out on a stone platform in view of the common people that crowded the wall around the perimeter. His last sight of her was as she was forcibly brought to a balcony overlooking the courtyard, her council having ordered her to watch him die. At a signal from one of her ministers, the rough hands grabbed his head, holding him steady as first they pierced his eyes with an iron bar, blinding him. He cried out at the pain, though his vision would not set him free. They cut off his left hand and he screamed until one of the soldiers stuffed a rag into his mouth. His awareness finally leaped from his body and he found himself hovering over the gruesome scene as he watched the merciless soldiers butcher him. They cut off his right hand, followed by his feet, his manhood, then plunged a sword tip up under his ribs. They smiled coldly as his body died while his lover screamed then collapsed, her cries silenced by the hand of one of her ministers.

The vision stilled, shadowing his mind with indescribable pain as waves of sorrow swept through him. He had witnessed, nearly reliving, his horrendous death from a previous life far beyond his present knowing, but why? This was unlike any visioning he had ever experienced and he struggled to be free of it, as well as understand what it was telling him.

You have chosen this beauty, this drama, this suffering. Why do you deny it? Why do you devalue it? a woman’s voice from his past whispered through him and he found himself floating in an endless pool of darkness, all feeling lost but the cold around him.

“I chose this?” he moaned, incredulous of the voice’s words, and struggled to comprehend what it was saying. “I chose all this suffering?”

Yes. And the beauty. All of it. And you have chosen this path more than once and will again until you accept what it has taught you without judgment. The pool about him shifted, revealing another image from his current past, of his father and clan naming him Drun'ng, then turning their backs to him.

He shuddered, pushing the hated image aside with a shout of “No!” then demanded, “If this is true, why did I choose this? Why? And why show me this now?”

The pool twisted around him, changing to the dark open grassland of the Sumarkh night. He was standing alone, his face raised to the sky. Something approached him and he lowered his sight, turning to the sound. Before him was the First Stallion, a Vondarii woman dressed in Hunter’s garb standing at his side, their forms glowing brightly. “You have chosen all, Drek'h of the Star-Gazah Clan, for the experience, and you repeat some experiences for the pleasure of knowing a different outcome,” the Ma’a’zadeen answered him, her gaze compassionate. “Thus, in one life you are killed, your body torn, while in another you are reborn to a new life, a new way of being. All is simply for the experience,” she said, stepping forward with her hand upraised, her palm bright and hot. “It is by all these choices do you create the beauty, drama, joy and suffering of your many lives.” She touched his chest and he felt her energy push through him, warming away his chill.

“But, why show me this other life with Serra? Why must I relive the horror of my death and see the agony in her face? What purpose does this serve, other than to tell me I chose this—this suffering?” he demanded, anger echoing under his pain at the memory of that ancient life and death.

The Dancer smiled mysteriously. “Again, that was a choice your Plea-tah made, along with Serra’s, to bring you together, to heal the wound between you. In your past life she abandoned you to your fate, by choosing her fear before her love for you. Her soul cried out to amend this rift, and so you came to this valley to give her forgiveness, if you choose, and assist her to the next level of her life. To join the Mirii for a time, to learn the truth of her abilities, and of herself.” She paused to gently push against his chest and he felt something shift in his being, an expansion of a sort he could not define.

“Your soul chose for you to relive your past life, and death,” she continued, her hand easing against him, “in order to remind you to be mindful of the path before you as you return to your homeland. Do not let your fears of what has gone before rule your thoughts, for in so doing you will surely experience them as if they were cast in stone, unchangeable, unalterable, immutable,” she ended, her words hard-edged, her hand cooling on his chest.

With her final words his surroundings fell away into darkness, then he felt himself return to his present, opening his eyes to see Serra’s tearing face as she sat beside him, her hand stroking his temple. She froze as he met her sight, then began to tremble and whispered his name from his other lifetime. “Shalune, Shalune,” she cried softly and he struggled to push himself up to sit beside her, Kitteryth returning to her lights above him. He felt weak and shaky, his strength gone but his fever and chill had left him. He  reached for her and she pulled him close, her arms about his neck, her cries soft as she leaned her head on his shoulder. “I saw—I saw your Sight, your death. I'm sorry, Shalune, my Shalune,” she moaned, her words hushed in fear Raff would hear her, but her husband’s light snores still reached their ears.