“So, what appears to be the problem?”

The priestess of Anat knelt down to examine the girl, who hid between the folds of her mother’s woolen dress. She was a girl of no more than six or seven years, peering out from behind the cloth with curious eyes.

“At first we thought nothing of it,” her mother began. “She was quiet, but never sullen or impatient, never cried or caused much of a fuss. My husband and I thought we were blessed to have such an agreeable daughter! But then...the seasons passed and she refused to speak. We talk to her constantly but she never replies.”

“Can she understand you?” the priestess asked.

“We think so. She is usually obedient and will help with tasks around the household. Though sometimes she gets...forgetful. Wandering off all of a sudden and simply stands there staring into space. I call her but she does nothing, doesn’t turn around or respond to my voice, it’s like I’m not there.” Her voice grew into a fretful whisper. “One morning my husband was up early and saw her at the threshold, eyes half-lidded as if she were sleepwalking. My husband swears on it—but I don’t believe him, he must've imagined it—that he heard her, speaking...whispering in some indecipherable tongue…! Oh, stop it...Narina...Narina!”

As Fatima’s anxiety rose she began to tightly grasp at her daughter’s shoulders, who in return squirmed with discomfort. Still refusing to speak, Narina hummed in frustration before breaking out of her mother’s clutches. She looked up at Fatima with a stubborn expression, her mother on the verge of tears.

“It’s alright, it’s alright,” the priestess tried to comfort the young mother with a gentle embrace. “What do you have to fear? You have come to the right place, have you not? In this temple, Anat smiles upon your concerns, for she knows it is in a woman’s nature to fret upon her child. That is what the creator intended. And if it is intended, why fear it? The will of the gods is vast and unknown, the best we can do is meet it with faith and dignity.”

Fatima nodded faintly as the priestess stepped back. Her chest still heaved and her head slanted down in shame. “Forgive me, great daughter,” she whispered.

“Forgiveness granted!” the priestess replied cheerfully. “Now, let’s examine the child. What was her name? Narina? Alright, Narina!”

During this exchange, Narina had wandered off further into the temple, drawn to the tablets at the back of the small room. Upon one was the figure of a woman, her graceful legs full of motion, the feathered wings of an eagle stretched across her back. At her side was a lion with a human face tucked into its mane, a leash at its nape clutched firmly by the goddess. With her other hand she held a battleaxe, yet on her back (and tucked neatly between her wings) all manner of weapons and swords were sheathed.

“Fearsome isn’t she?” the priestess said as walked up and stood by Narina. “Anat, the great daughter of El, goddess of love and war. A strange combination until one remembers that both stem from the passions of the heart. It reminds me of that old story of two brothers, whose bond of love soured and stewed hatred until one fell at the hand of the other. How terrifying, that love may breed such violent feeling! Yet it is by Anat that kingdoms rise and fall, for though rulers may rule, they are still ruled by emotion—just like you and I. No wonder the eastern empires regard her as the Queen of Heaven, seated alongside her father in the pantheon.

“Enough talk!” The priestess spun Narina around, the mute girl giving her a blank look. “Why speak of the passions of men, when in this sacred place Anat blesses the gentle love of motherhood?” She knelt down and parted the waves of Narina’s black hair, placing her thumb on the girl's forehead before closing her eyes.

For a moment, the scene was perfectly still. As the silence stretched on, Fatima again grew nervous, wringing her hands as she often did.

“Well…?” she probed. “Any luck?”

The priestess of Anat opened her eyes, lifting her heavy lashes and gazing upon Narina with a sudden spark in her eye. “Blessed child!” she exclaimed, “Oh what a curious, blessed child!” She turned toward Fatima with enthusiasm painted across her face.

Fatima relaxed at the priest’s joy but was still confused. “Great daughter, what of the heavens do you mean?”

The daughter of Anat smiled but did not speak. With a wave of her hand she summoned a blue screen that flashed before Fatima’s face. The writing wasn’t cuneiform, but Fatima could read it easily—yet if she tried to examine the script more closely it grew vague and indistinct.

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Abilities

Seer's Eye

See what lies beyond the world, into the realm of spirits.

Passive ability, no mana cost.

“This is Narina’s...System?” It took Fatima a moment to remember this rather ordinary fact of life. She of course had her own System—not that she had ever bothered looking at it much, for it served her no use. It was a tool of gods and priests, heroes and warriors. Yet somehow, Narina had an ability. “How did she get that?” she wondered.

“She was likely born with it. A gift from the gods!” The priest’s expression was rapturous. “And it explains everything! The silence! The distractedness and dream-like trances!”

Fatima looked down at her daughter, her precious Narina, suddenly regarding her in a new light.

“...all this time she has been hearing things, sensing things from the beyond,” the priestess continued. “Spirits of nature and its beasts, ancestral ghosts, maybe even the presence of the gods!”

“But will she learn to speak?” Fatima drew her daughter close and stroked her hair. She could scarcely imagine the strange world that danced before Narina’s eyes. How terrifying, she thought, to inhabit two worlds at once and struggle to make sense of it all.

Sensing her worry, the priestess placed a reassuring hand on Fatima’s shoulder. “She will be alright, she just needs more time to figure things out. Your daughter is intelligent, but more importantly, she is stubborn. The gods have given her a gift, and gifts are not given without reason. I suspect great things lie in store for your daughter.”

With those words, Fatima’s figure melted into the form of the priestess, years of worry and concern dissipating in a sigh of relief and exhaustion. For a second time she wept, but this time they were tears of joy rather than fear. A great burden had been lifted from the young mother’s soul, the terrifying mysteries of her world finally shifting into place as the grace of the gods was revealed. Narina was safe and healthy, more blessed and divine than her mother could ever have guessed.

Fatima embraced her now, the wetness of the mother’s cheeks condensing into droplets that fell upon Narina’s black hair. She caressed her daughter, overwhelmed by emotion so that her speech was reduced to platitudes of motherliness, reassuring words that were meant for herself as much as she now spoke them to Narina:

“You poor thing! My little bundle of joy, more precious than all the world’s gold and treasures! How you frightened me, for I am but full of love for you, and were something to happen to you, I fear my life would shrivel and drain of all its vibrant color. Child of gods! How could I have known? As your humble mother, I wish only that Fate does not pull you cruelly from my embrace, that I may hold you for countless years to come and bask in the divine light of your eyes.”

Narina didn’t react much to this precious outpouring of words, but on instinct pulled herself close to her mother, grasping at Fatima’s dress with her tiny hands. Nestling her head into space between Fatima’s neck and bosom, she closed her eyes, perfectly content within the protective embrace of her mother.

—

And so Fatima and Narina left the temple of Anat, which was in reality a rather humble complex of low clay buildings, the mother goddess’ abode and place of refuge for her daughters. Mother and daughter rode together on an old dromedary with gray bushy eyebrows—the same beast who had carried Teshat across Sinai so many years before—heading home with the day’s startling revelations.

Teshat was waiting for them when they returned, tending to the nearby pastures from which he could anticipate their arrival. Turning from his mottled herd of goats, he ran up to meet them.

Looking up from the ground, Teshat admired the figure of his wife. The sun was low behind her, turning the edges of her cloak a gossamer gold. From beneath her hood the sharp features of Fatima’s face peaked out, her discerning eyes softening as she met his gaze. With one arm she held Narina to her chest, the girl fast asleep.

“What news do you bring? What did the daughters of Anat tell you?” His eyes burned with an urgent need for answers.

Fatima passed him the sleeping child, getting off the back of the old camel before telling him what the priestess had said.

Teshat took in her words, his diligent mind slowly working its way through this newfound knowledge. Unlike his wife, Teshat was not awash with relief but his demeanor subtly shifted as he loosened the tense grip on his daughter.

“Well,” he murmured, looking down at Narina’s sleeping form. “A gift of the gods, a child of fate? Then we must only hope that we may live fruitfully beside her, as divine purpose blooms.”

The foreboding of Teshat’s words was tempered by the mirth in his voice, full of love and happy release after sleepless nights of worry. Speaking of divine purpose, he imagined Narina’s future as that of a priestess, healer or sooth-sayer, or yet some other profession within the realm of those mystic arts. To convene with the gods was an honored profession, for on some level it meant that the gods had chosen you to spread their knowledge and magic. Teshat wasn’t one to tempt fate. He often looked back on the strange path of his own life, marveling at how lucky he was to end up here, despite his years of soldiering and travel. Fate had treated him well, so in return he had little to fear.

What Teshat didn’t know was that Fate is a two-sided coin: it may bless, bringing fortune and luck. Then, without warning, the coin flips and everything we thought we knew comes tumbling down.