6

“You must pray, priestess.”

Lyra wrinkled her nose. She couldn’t remember the last time she prayed. It would have been one of those times her grandparents had taken her to church when she was younger, probably almost a decade ago.

“Why? Can’t we just agree on it and be done with it?”

“There is weight to ritual. Kneel before me. Speak to me of your need, hold your sacrifice in your heart. You must be genuine, priestess.”

She swallowed. Her mouth was still dry, and she was hungry, and she kind of had to pee, but more than anything, she was scared. Scared, and very, very alone.

I don’t want to do this, she thought. She could go to bed and hope that maybe, somehow, things looked better in the morning. Messing with this sort of thing seemed like it could be dangerous. She had no idea how things worked here, but there were certainly plenty of stories warning about the dangers of inhuman beings offering magical boons. Djinn and faeries and the Monkey’s Paw. None of them ever had good endings for people like her.

But there was a twisting, clawing pressure in her chest. She was more terrified than she had ever been in her life. She had always chased anxiety away with a plan. Right now, this was the only plan she could think of.

She needed to be able to speak the local language to ask for help, and she needed to ask for help if she wanted to get home.

Rising to her feet, she looked at the woman. The self-proclaimed god. The grey woman’s head was tilted to look the few inches down at her. Her featureless face gave nothing away. If she was eager, she didn’t show it. She was how she had been this entire time; placid. Peaceful.

Her skin crawled as she slowly dropped to one knee, genuflecting to her. She wasn’t religious. Not quite an atheist, either, but, well, she had never thought it mattered if God existed. She didn’t like lowering herself before this woman, but her fear and desperate need to shortcut a way to ask for help was stronger than her pride. Despite that, she couldn’t help but feel as if she was giving something up as her knee touched the stone floor.

Her mind blanked as for a moment, the only words that popped into her mind were, Our Father, who art in heaven... the words drilled into her by her disappointed Catholic grandmother.

But that wasn’t right, not for this. She was asking for something specific and promising something in return. It was a... a transaction. Nothing more.

“Please,” she said, bowing her head. It wasn’t hard to be genuine, not when she really needed this. “I’m lost. I’ve never been further from home, and all I want is to get back. I need help, and I need to be able to ask for help. So, please teach me the local language. I don’t have time to learn it the regular way. In exchange, you can learn English from me.”

She didn’t know if she was supposed to say something else. It felt a little silly to end the request with “Amen,” so she kept her mouth shut, waiting. She hadn’t thought to ask if it would hurt, but she supposed it was too late now.

“Rise, priestess,” the woman said. “Your prayers have been heard, and your request granted.”

Lyra looked up, blinked, then shakily rose to her feet. Was she imagining things, or did the grey woman look less translucent now? It was hard to tell in the dark.

“That’s it?” she said. “I can speak a different language now?”

“Yes, priestess.”

Lyra frowned. She didn’t feel any different. She tried to think of the word for cat Marid had tried to teach her, but she couldn’t bring it to mind. Cat was just... cat -- or Katze or gato -- but her mental dictionary had nothing new.

“I don’t feel any different. I think it might not have worked.”

“Perhaps you could try speaking to the paladin, priestess. He lingers outside.”

Her eyes snapped toward the door, which was still open a few inches to let the cat back in when she returned. “The pala-- are you talking about that guy with the sword? He’s out there.”

“He has been since you returned, priestess. I would be most grateful if you would ask him to leave. His presence is an irritation.”

“There’s no way I’m going out there and asking him to leave,” Lyra hissed. “He’ll kill me!”

“He would not harm you, priestess. I have known him long. He would not commit so grave a sin.”

“Both times I’ve seen him, he reached for that sword of his!”

“Perhaps he wishes to know why you are here. The people have noted your presence. Did you not wish to learn this tongue to converse with those who may help you, priestess? It is his duty to help your kind.”

Lyra stared at the temple door, wondering if he was just outside it, listening, or further back, waiting for her to leave before he pounced. She wondered why he didn’t come inside. She wondered why the grey woman -- the god, damn it. She had prayed to her, she could call her what she claimed to be -- described his presence as irritating, even though she seemed to think he was harmless.

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But mostly, she just wondered if she would survive long enough to explain herself when she stepped out of the temple, because she knew the woman was right. She had asked for this, and if he was some sort of authority figure like she suspected when she first saw him, then he was probably the best person to help her.

And the worst person to have as an enemy.

It seemed clear she would have to talk to him eventually, and the thought of retiring in the chamber underneath the temple for the night, knowing he was just outside, was absurd.

With a deep sigh, Lyra turned toward the door. The only sound was the soft burble and splash of water overflowing the stone basin’s sides.

There was nothing else she could do. Filled with apprehension, she strode quietly across the temple and pushed the door open. It swing on silent hinges, revealing the moonlit street outside. This world’s moon momentarily caught her attention where it hovered, fat and full, just over the trees far down the street to her left. It was darker than the moon she was used to, a dull grey that didn’t give off as much light. It also looked larger, though that might have been because it was so low in the sky.

Even though it was undeniably beautiful in its own way, the alien sight of it disturbed her, and she looked away from it after just a few seconds.

That was when she saw the swordsman. He was sitting on a stool across the street from the temple -- the washer woman’s stool, she thought -- watching her silently. His posture was loose, relaxed, but one hand was resting on the pommel of the sheathed sword that was leaning against the stool. The moonlight made his weathered face look craggy and shadowed, and made his dark blond hair look washed out.

In his stillness, he looked almost as much like an apparition as the grey woman did, but then he shifted and the illusion was broken. Lyra took half a step back, ready to duck into the doorway and slam the temple door shut if he made a move toward her, but he just gave a tired sounding sigh.

“I apologize for frightening you, priestess. Marid explained to me that you don’t speak Moldaran. I don’t know what happened to you, or why you are here, but our temple accepts you, so at the very least, it is clear you are not a charlatan.”

She could understand him. She stared at him, numb with disbelief at first, then felt an almost violent surge of hope. Whatever the grey woman had done had worked! Relief at the thought of being able to communicate with these people almost brought her to her knees. Even the swordsman didn’t seem so frightening anymore, especially since the first thing he said was an apology and he sounded tired more than anything else.

“Can you understand me?” she asked, still unsure. The words didn’t feel any different in her mouth, or sound any different to her ears.

But the swordsman tensed in surprise and after a moment’s silence said, “Ah, perhaps Marid was wrong. You speak our language as if it was your native tongue. Tell me, were you pretending you could not even say the word for ‘cat’?”‘

Despite the fact that he was still sitting on the stool and had barely shifted, something dangerous seemed to radiate from him. She licked her dry lips nervously.

“I wasn’t. I swear, I didn’t speak this language until just a couple of minutes ago. The, um, god offered to teach it to me, and I prayed...”

She winced, guessing at how crazy she sounded, and struggled to think of what to say to convince him she was a perfectly normal, harmless woman who just needed some help.

But the explanation seemed to make sense to him. His lips narrowed into a hard line of disapproval and he said, “Never will I stop being surprised at how foolish some people can be. Tell me, what are you doing here? What is your name?”

“I’m Lyra,” she said. “Lyra Starling. And… that’s a long story.” Now that she was faced with the prospect of actually telling another human being what had happened to her, her words faltered. Gods might be normal here, but she doubted the same could be said for travelers who came from from another world entirely. Instead of plunging into an explanation, she cleared her throat and said, “What’s your name?”

“Kel,” he said shortly. “I will not leave until I know what your purpose is here. Priestess you may be, but to appear from nowhere as I have been told you did would take the intercession of a powerful god. Tell me, Lyra, do you have blood on your hands?”

She actually glanced down to look at her hands before she realized he was speaking metaphorically.

“No?” she hedged. “I haven’t hurt anyone, if that’s what you’re asking. Not that I know of, anyway.”

His gaze seemed to shift from her to the dark entrance to the temple behind her. He waited a moment, but nothing happened. He seemed to relax slightly, though he frowned.

“Towr has accepted you, and unless much has changed, I do not think she would tolerate one who worships a blood god in her temple. Why are you here, priestess? This is a quiet village, with quiet people. What have they done to draw your attention?”

“Nothing! You’re acting like this is all my fault, somehow. I was walking home and then I was here. I just want to get back.” Horrified, she felt tears prick at her eyes and wiped them away angrily. Hoping he didn’t notice — which he clearly had — she tried to change the subject. “Is Towr her name, then?”

He ignored her question. “You did not come to Kyokami on purpose?”

“Definitely not.”

“Where did you come from?”

“I know this is going to sound completely fucking insane, but I’m from another world called—” Her mouth opened, but the word didn’t come out. She tried again, but she couldn’t remember it. She couldn’t remember what the world she had come from was called.

She couldn’t remember her hometown.

She couldn’t remember the name of the street she lived on.

She could remember what it all looked like — a blue-green planet as seen from a metal ship in space, the shape of the eastern coastline of her country, the tall, grey-brown buildings of the city she was from, so different from here, the familiar locked glass doors of the building that held her apartment on the eighth floor.

But she couldn’t remember what any of it was called. She knew her planet, her country, her city had a name, but the space in her mind where those words should be was just — blank.

“What?” Ever since she finished her prayer, she thought she had been speaking her own language but now it occurred to her that she was speaking Moldaran instead. She turned her head, looking over her shoulder at the grey god who lingered near the basin of water. “What did you do to me?”

“I have answered your prayer, priestess.”

“I can’t remember my own language!” Forgetting about the swordsman, she turned on the grey woman. “I can’t even remember what it’s called! I can’t remember my own mother’s name!”

From behind her, Kel said, “They always take more than they give, priestess. You should know that.”

Lyra could remember her mother and how she looked before she got sick, and she remembered the way her mother’s voice sounded, but her memory of the last time her mother said she loved her was gibberish. Slowly, feeling like everything was crumbling around her, she turned to face the swordsman.

“I don’t know anything,” she said, her voice cracking. “I’m not from here. I just want to go home.”