The Last Goddess

by C.E. Stalbaum

  Chapter Nine

   

  Selaste stared into the eyes of a stranger. Just like the hands cupped gently against her cheeks, they could have easily belonged to someone else.

  I am still me, she told herself. Except she didn’t know who “me” was. Was she the prophet of a long dead goddess come to save the world, or was she just some fool who had lost her memories? Maybe she wasn’t even real at all, and this was a type of lucid dream…

  Stop! You’ll drive yourself mad.

  She had been shouting that same warning for the better part of an hour now, but her mind had yet to listen. She needed to focus on the flickering memories at the edges of her thoughts. They were like ghosts, intangible and fleeting, but at times she could almost pin them down. Most names and places held little meaning, but there were exceptions, like Edeh—that name she knew. The others said it was the name of her patron goddess, the creator of all life, but she couldn’t remember anything specific. The name was familiar, but it had no feelings attached to it, no sensory impressions to tether it to reality. Just empty words and letters…

  Selaste sighed and closed her eyes. The water in the tub was growing cold again, and she reached her fingers down into it. Almost instinctively she heated the liquid until it was almost steaming once again.

  That power—that magic—was real. And with only the smallest ounce of concentration she could weave it into virtually any form she wanted. She just didn’t understand how or why. It was almost as natural as breathing, but somehow she recognized that it shouldn’t be, even before the others had commented on it. It wasn’t normal. The thought that immediately followed was that it also wasn’t natural.

  But what did that even mean?

  A few minutes later she heard soft footfalls approaching and decided it was time to get out of the tub. She stood and wrapped herself in a towel just before the dark-haired woman, Rynne, knocked at the door and then slipped inside carrying a bundle of clothing.

  “I had to tip the shopkeeper ten drakes to open up early, but I grabbed a few different things that are a bit more…modern,” the woman said. “I figure you’ve been wearing the same outfit for about a thousand years—it’s probably time for a makeover.”

  Selaste cocked an eyebrow at the variety of outfits as the other woman laid them out on a table on the other side of the room. “I…see. Thank you. I’m not really sure what to say.”

  “Don’t say anything until you actually try them on,” Rynne warned. “He’s not exactly the best tailor in town; he just happened to be across the street.”

  “I’m sure they’ll be fine.”

  “Well, I also had to guess at your size, and he didn’t have much of a selection. Not many of the local women are six feet tall.”

  Selaste glanced down to her long legs. She hadn’t been able to stretch out all the way in the tub, but it hadn’t occurred to her how abnormal that might have been. She certainly towered over Rynne.

  “Hey, that’s not a slight,” Rynne added quickly. “I’d be happy just coming up to your chin. Do you know how much more intimidating I’d look in my Vakari merc outfit?”

  “I don’t know what that is.”

  “I’ll have to show you sometime; you won’t see many around the city.” The woman glanced down to the tub. “I hope you weren’t freezing in there by now.”

  Selaste leaned down and placed a finger on the water. A spark of flame danced across its surface before vanishing with a hiss of steam. “I don’t like cold water.”

  “And people say magic isn’t practical,” Rynne murmured. “I can’t do anything nearly that useful.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m just a dabbler, not a real mage. It’s probably for the best. I can’t imagine the fun I would have tormenting people, especially Van.”

  Selaste frowned. “I’m not sure I understand the difference.”

  “The magi call us krata, which to them is just a step up from the torbos—all the normal folk—but that’s mostly their egos talking,” Rynne explained. “To weave at all you have to put in some serious study, typically years just to learn a few spells. Since you destroyed Faceless with a flick of your finger, though, I’m reasonably sure you’re an actual mage. Weaving must be as easy as breathing to the Kirshal.”

  “I am not the Kirshal.”

  Rynne shrugged. “Maybe not, but you do have at least one man downstairs convinced otherwise. Of course, men are dumb sometimes, so take that as you will.”

  Selaste smiled despite herself and studied the other woman. Short and slender, with shoulder-length brown hair, tan skin, and amber-colored eyes, she was quite pretty. She also seemed uniquely capable of taking all of this absurdity in stride.

  “Anyway, you can try these on whenever you’re ready. And I wasn’t trying to rush you, by the way. I’ve always found that a long bath makes everything better.”

  “No, it was time,” she said, stepping over to the table. Rynne had prepared an eclectic selection ranging from functional to ostentatious, and Selaste wondered if this might be a test of sorts.

  “I really have no idea what fashion you are used to,” Rynne admitted. “Darenthi women tend to be very functional—cool colors and not many frills. Pretty boring, if you ask me.”

  Selaste shrugged, grabbing onto a pair of soft red leather pants and a matching linen shirt. “I don’t know; whatever is comfortable.”

  “One of those girls, huh? Fair enough. I guess it’s probably not a good idea to walk around with those markings showing, anyway.”

  Selaste remembered the tattoos stretching from her breasts down to her waist. While bathing she had discovered another set running down the length of her spine. “I don’t know what they mean.”

  “Well, I think they’re gorgeous. It makes me a little jealous, actually. Sunoans appreciate all forms of body art.”

  “Sunoa is a country, I take it?” Selaste asked as she stepped behind a curtain and got dressed.

   “Greatest in the world,” Rynne said proudly. “I hope to go back sooner or later, but some days I don’t think Rook would survive without me.”

  “The two of you are…?”

  Rynne snorted. “He wishes. Actually, not really. Sometimes I think he’s a Faceless beneath that leather jacket.”

  Selaste peered over the curtain and cocked an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”

  “He’s just…reserved, probably to a fault. His wife died about five years ago, and Van says it changed him a lot. I guess he used to be quite the firebrand.”

  “Ah.” She finished pulling on the shirt and turned to the few pairs of boots on the floor.

  “You can see what fits. Well, except this pair,” Rynne added hastily, reaching down and snatching up a set of black leather ones. “He gave me a discount; I couldn’t resist.”

  One of the other sets fit comfortably, and Selaste glanced over to the mirror again. As hard as it was to believe, she looked even more foreign to herself than before. Was she used to dressing differently in a past life? Her body seemed to be sending her conflicting signals. On one hand, it felt like she was missing weight on her shoulders—a suit of armor, possibly? But on the other, even this relatively loose shirt and pants felt restrictive. It didn’t make any sense at all, and she decided to ignore it. She just needed to focus on one thing at a time. For now, it was asking questions and trying to get her bearings. Maybe Rook was right and the memories would return in time. 

  “Whenever you’re ready we can head down to the others,” Rynne told her. “I’m sure Van is doing his best to eat everything before we get there.”

  “The monk…Tiel, mentioned something about a place called Jehalai.”

  “He says that’s where the other Kirshane are, and he thinks that’s where you’re supposed to go.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  Rynne shrugged. “I don’t think he’s lying. Whether it’s the right decision or not, I don’t know. But the bottom line is that whoever sent p
eople to find you will do so again—you aren’t going to be able to stay in this city forever.”

  “And it’s placing all of you at risk,” Selaste murmured.

  “I wouldn’t worry about that,” Rynne dismissed. “We’re big boys and girls and can take care of ourselves. I just wonder if the Kirshane might have magic that can restore your memory. I mean, they are supposed to be the caretakers of the Kirshal. They’ve spent about a thousand years waiting for you to show up.”

  “That seems very foolish.”

  “Only if they’re wrong.”

  Selaste locked eyes with her. “What do you think?”

  “I believe in the gods, if that’s what you’re asking,” Rynne told her. “Almost all Sunoans revere Shakissa, the goddess of beauty, love, mercy, pleasure—basically anything worth caring about.”

  “But what do you think of me? Or of this Kirshal thing?”

  Rynne glanced away. “I’ve always believed in the legend. I just…I don’t know, never expected it to be real. I know that sounds crazy, but sometimes it’s actually easier to believe in something that’s just a legend. Once it’s real it…loses its luster, I guess.”

  “So you don’t think I’m her?”

  “I don’t know,” Rynne admitted. “And to be honest, I’m not sure if I want to. Right now I think you’re someone who’s in trouble and needs our help. That’s good enough for me, and I know it’s good enough for Rook, too.”

  “You trust him, then?”

  “Unless we’re playing vintock, then yes,” she said, an impish grin forming at her lips. “He’s a good man, and he’ll try to help you.”

  Selaste nodded. “I’d like to believe that, but…”

  Rynne placed an arm on hers and squeezed. “I can’t even imagine what you’re going through. I realize you don’t know any of us or have any reason to trust us, but I really do want to help.” Her smile widened. “Besides, even if you aren’t a Messiah, Rook is always trying to hire new people.”

  Selaste grunted but grinned despite herself. “I don’t even know what he does.”

  “Most people don’t,” Rynne said coyly. “Now come on, let’s go get something to eat.”