In Asterius' eyes, the darkness was splashing and the Scarlet, suddenly becoming timid, fell silent, not daring to utter a word. The tauran, as if in a semi-forgetfulness, began to speak again:

‘Then I heard a voice. I didn't recognise the words and decided it was the language of the dead from the depths of darkness:

Terehoyno

Gerehoyno

Hori Garan

Haragalun

Holuryaba

Hori Garan

Hongorhaltargalun...

The voice led me, but I didn't know where. Further, into the darkness? Or back, to the light? I followed it and found myself in a boat. The boat gently swayed on the waves, and I thought that the voice was leading me through the labyrinths of darkness to the very heart of hell, from where few had managed to return. I opened my eyes and was surprised that the sky in hell was so blue. Khukhe munkhe tengeri.’ ‘What?’ the Scarlet involuntarily asked again.

‘Eternal blue sky,’ repeated the tauran. His gaze turned mocking again, a flicker of gold in his eyes. The darkness almost vanished, I felt as good and calm as never in my life. Light - as if I was not drifting in the boat but floating above it. I liked being dead. Then I saw her. She was very close, yet for some reason, it felt as if I was looking at her from the bottom of a deep well. She leaned over to me and asked: ‘Do you hear me? Understand?’

She wore long silver earrings that they swayed and chimed with every movement. It was mesmerising. I wanted to touch them, but I couldn't lift my hands.

‘Your earrings... they’re beautiful,’ I murmured, ‘Are you a witch? Was it you who bewitched my death?’

3.

She tilted her head to the side with feline grace, her earrings chiming softly once more.

‘Curious,’ she said, ‘that you would ask. Once, I knew a man who could charm death, dance with it and summon the souls of the departed. But he did not live long enough to pass on his craft to me. I can swat death away like a fly and that's all. But death, like flies, is stubborn, it always comes back. A pity. Yes?’ she made a mournful grimace, looking even more like a kitten — not even a cat, but a mischievous little kitten.

‘But wasn't it you who sang that song?’ I asked, ‘Or did I dream it? Teren-heren, halum-galum…’

How she laughed! How her earrings danced beneath the delicate lobes, how the sunlight flashed on the silver!

‘It's just a children's counting rhyme. About geese,’ she said at last, ‘I'll teach you if you liked it so much. Now tell me, olzohubuun, do you shift at will, or is it beyond your control?’

Her smile remained cheerful and cunning, her voice as casual as if she were asking whether I preferred warmed wine or cold tea.

‘I shift when I choose to. And when rage takes hold of me,’ I said, waiting to see how a shadow of fear would darken her beautiful face, ‘So, do you know who I am?’

Her skin was the shade of honey, her eyes black, narrow as a quilon’s blade, her lashes so thick they gave her her gaze a velvety depth. Her hair - also black - was woven into countless braids, gathered in a knot high on the back of her head. She dressed like a boy from the Far East, in a dark blue paper robe with wide sleeves and a high collar. No adornments — no bracelets, no necklaces, only those earrings and an alla Levantina dagger in richly decorated sheaths. I had seen people of silk before. Small, like porcelain dolls, they possessed rare spiritual strength, and, in a fight, they were faster and more dangerous than snakes. But never had I seen one of them venture so far west. And nowhere in the world had I met such extraordinary, captivating eyes.

‘Is that so? Then I shall be careful not to anger you, Wrath of God,’ she said, ‘That's what they call you, isn't it? But you were named Asterius at birth. Asterius means starry. Yes? How curious! Why grant a child a starry, shining name only to lock him away in a dank dungeon?’

‘Well… maybe it was a sort of a joke?’ I admitted. She had caught me off guard. Few knew my childhood name and less than a dozen of those who knew my true nature would dare to speak to me so freely and easily.

‘A joke? Was it funny to you?’ she asked with such seriousness that I laughed. I shouldn't have. Pain flared through me, sharp as if a poisonous flower had rooted deep within my body, splitting my ribs and burst out of my chest.

‘Speaking of which,’ the maiden placed a hand on my chest, ‘I need to examine your wounds, olzohubuun, and change the bandages. It will hurt, but if the pus poisons your blood, you will burn in fever — just like anyone else. So,’ she drew her Levantine dagger and pressed it to the hollow of my throat, ‘endure the pain without anger. Start shape-shifting — and I'll slit your throat.’

‘Will you be fast enough?’

‘Yes!’

When the steel touched my skin, I was finally convinced that I was alive. The dark azure sky was the sky of the South, not the underworld. And I was not drifting in the ferryman’s boat, but lying on a straw-covered cart, trailing in clouds of hot white dust. I heard the clatter of hooves, the rapid Southern speech, bursts of laughter. Each breath caused pain, but I inhaled deeply — the scent of dust, a distant cold river, thyme, flowers crushed by hooves, and the pungent trace of manure. I preferred being alive than dead.

‘Whose convoy is this?’ I asked the one who held a blade to my throat with one hand while, with the other, she unflinchingly tore a strip of cloth from my wound and applied some foul-smelling greenish ointment to it.

‘The good knights of the South are taking their wounded to the fortress on Mount Tabor. I told them that you are the one I have been looking for for so long and that your name is Meister Styler. If you think about it,’ she flashed a quick smile, ‘it's true. And I advise you to accept this truth - at least until you regain your strength. Need I remind you that the knights of the Bull and the Chalice are feared and despised in every corner of the world? But here, in the South, where the massacre you committed in the hamlet on the river Orb is still fresh in memory, fear barely keeps hatred at bay. The good knights of the South will want to tear you apart if they find out who you are and you — you are now too weak to stop them. Yes?’ She gripped a piece of clean cloth between her teeth and began to tear it into strips.

‘Would you like me to hold your dagger for you?’ I offered, ‘It will be easier for you to do this with both hands.’

She just smiled, revealing small, white teeth like those of a little predator. Having finished with the wound on my chest, she deftly turned me onto my side and attended to the one on my back. Her hands were small but strong. She put away the dagger.

Gloria Mu, The Game of Jart, 2022

Translated by YB

Published with author’s permission

Extra definitions you might enjoy:

olzohubuun — An old Steppe word, more on it later in the text

Khukhe munkhe tengeri — Literally “Eternal Blue Sky.” In Tengriism, the ancient faith of the Central Asian steppes, the sky itself — boundless, indifferent, enduring — was divine. It judged and sheltered all beneath it, kings and herdsmen alike.

alla Levantina dagger — “In the Levantine manner.” The eared dagger was a rare and costly weapon of the late Middle Ages, recognised by its distinctive pommel with two rounded lobes, or “ears.” Owned by nobles, traders, and mercenaries of status, it balanced elegance with efficiency — a blade meant as much to be seen as to be used. Its presence here marks its bearer as someone who walks easily between cultures and dangers. (The next lore post will trace the curious travels of these daggers across the Mediterranean.)

Mount Tabor — A solitary hill rising from the plains of Galilee, sanctified and contested in equal measure — prophets, Crusaders, and dreamers all left their footprints there. In The Last Sun, Tabor keeps its historical weight, a crossroads of revelation and exhaustion where belief becomes geography.

river Orb — A real river in southern France, its name derived from orbis, “circle” or “world.” Gentle and unassuming, it has carried both pilgrims and armies.