UPON waking at first light, when the priestess had finished her salutation to the Sun, they made to the doors at the western end of the dome and saw that, like in the other halls, they were left slightly ajar enough to allow Hvesykhi? to pass through.
Past the sliver, they once more came into darkness. Slowly did the walls alight, and they beheld the large murals, inscriptions, pillars and statues beside each of the pillars from what they saw were kneeling. Yet it was strange, for the walls continued to brighten: lit to great effulgence, as if the Sun was basking all corners in its glow. In time, they revealed forms of beige and dark brown from floor to ceiling.
The pillars stood high and wide, as tall if not taller than the ones they saw in other palaces and structures, sculpted on all ends with celestials above and below, as if they were welcoming them into the chambers. It seemed the further the group proceeded into the ruins, the more massive things became, as if to herald their meeting with the soon to be reached giant.
They walked by the equally tall statues that went from kneeling to upright. They could see inscriptions lining the walls on the right side, written in the script of the Gazhigam. And on the left, a great long mural depicting vast cities of gold and white, spread across the stars that seemed to slowly one by one fall to the darkness. Further down was shown a great blue star turned red and the subsequent death and flight of its people from what looked to be its destruction. These people fled toward another blue planet. A great darkness covered the Star and its siblings to the far end of the universe, as the Gods staved this darkness, seeming to succumb to it and thereafter arise, and welcome the fleeing people upon the blue planet. The attire of the exiles looked little different from what the people of ārhmanha? wore.
The group, while enamored by its awe, could not help but feel unease.
“Hey Yūrmat?tha, what’s this painting showing, and why is the Gazhigam script written on the walls?” asked Tūmb?ār. “Didn’t you say your ancestors took great care of the ruins? Well, I guess it’s not much of a problem if that side was empty and they wanted to write what they thought of this place.”
Yūrmat?tha laughed and said, “I am sorry, but we had adopted this script for our own use. Unfortunately, we could not decipher it, using the symbols as is to write the words of Ahas???ha?r. The inscriptions you saw before, including the ones in Gazhigashrahthya, were all written in Ahas???ha?r, though of course I do not fault you for not knowing of it.
“As for the painting, I am afraid I myself am unsure of what it depicts,” to which Tūmb?ār knew he was partially truthful of, though Yūrmat?tha himself did seem unsure of what he had related the night before, “but if the stars and planets within the mural are anything to go by, these people of the likeness of the Mānuzhha? do not seem to have hailed from ārhmanha?, and have come from where this red star inhabits. Perhaps there is more to the story of our beginnings than what the stories of old relate. It is not hard to imagine that just as the Daivha?hō took to the stars, the Mānuzhha? themselves could have done the same. But it is strange.”
He looked to Ai?thyavā and I?ēha?, and said, “You two would surely be the most well-versed in our shared history. Tell us, is there anything in our records that mentions this? I and even Hvesykhi? are at a loss to what is shown here.”
Hvesykhi? nodded, remaining silent, all while avoiding their gaze. Hard it was to tell if she meant to hide details concerning the ruins or if she, in truth, knew nothing of it.
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Ai?thyavā spoke, “Unfortunate as it is, I know nothing of this. In the many scrolls and records we have, the earliest account, that we know of, is the creation of the universe by Ishvha??ār and the other gods, then the birth of the Celestials, then the birth of the lesser Daivha?hō—such as your kin, Yūrmat?tha—then the birth of the Mānuzhha?, then the search for the Vaisvyamha? in the ocean of the cosmic nectar from where it is said that Vshepha? had taken the form of a celestial boar and lifted ārhmanha? to its present position of where the other planets had also thence come, and finally, the fall of the Mānuzhha? and the fall of those who would become the Yavha??ār.
“While it is certainly much, I am sure there is no recollection of the Mānuzhha?—or even the ?ārha?n for that matter—fleeing from the stars to ārhmanha? and combating some great darkness in their midst.”
I?ēha?, after looking at the mural for some time, said, “Not even I know of what it recounts. ’Tis otherworldly. Perhaps it could have very well occurred in another universe. As I am sure you all know, there are many stories recounting of other places in separate dimensions, of which the Gods used to travel through back and forth. My forefathers related such stories to me, as did the Zūryashha? who dwelt in the higher realms, yet never have I heard of a story as depicted on this mural. And yet as I gaze on it, it feels somehow familiar, as if I have forgotten some events that had occurred in ages past.”
“Perhaps it’s one of your past lives speaking to you,” said Feyūnha?, as she laughed.
“I am being serious here, princess!” said I?ēha? with a stern look.
Then Feyūnha? recalled what she had said to her and Tūmb?ār in Si?hreh?ūr. With hesitation she said, “I?ēha?, you told us some time ago that one of your own had died. While I would not like to suggest this, seeing as how the Gods themselves searched for the immortal ambrosia within the ocean of cosmic nectar, could it be that the one you spoke of died in whatever conflict we see occurring here?”
“Wait, the death of a god!” shouted Ai?thyavā. “That cannot be! It is said the Gods are immortal. Many of the stories related in the histories we, the Servants, have surmised to be tall tales, for how else can the role of Daryurha?, who himself rules over death, be explained. But you say that one of the Deha??ār has fallen! Tell me, goddess, is this true?”
I?ēha? remained silent and bit her lips. Ai?thyavā immediately put her hand over the mouth of her mask and apologized profusely.
“The sage did tell us there’s some inconsistency with our history,” said Sanyha?mān, “though this seems far from any revision or corruption. When we see him again, you can ask him as such, Ai?thyavā.”
She thanked Sanyha?mān, and remained silent after, not wishing to incite controversy. But she mulled over his words. Unlike the others, her interest in matters of religious history was more vested, though even she could not be stubborn enough to dismiss the words of the sage if they proved counter to what she knew.
I?ēha? said solemnly, “I had spoken too much at that time. I will speak no further on the veracity of my words and leave you to decide. ’Tis yet another matter that I cannot relate.”
“Why do you wish to keep hiding things from us?” said Feyūnha?, now angered. “Speak your mind! What should the Deha??ār care, aren’t you one of them?”
“And do you not do the same, princess!” retorted I?ēha?. “Do you not hide things from us yourself?” Feyūnha? could not respond. I?ēha?, calming herself, continued, “While it does concern the other Deha??ār, never did I say I was of their order, but I shall speak no more of it. Think as you will.”
Silence came between them. Feyūnha? sighed, knowing she would not get a direct answer from her. It proved especially troubling for Ai?thyavā, for she wished to know more of the Deha??ār and the Daivha?hō and of much more of the higher realms; things of which the texts themselves did not contain. And owing to what Sanyha?mān had said, she now held doubts and wondered whether the priests and priestesses of higher rank knew of this. But she and the rest knew they could get no further information and so continued onward into the long hall, holding their silence about each other. Tūmb?ār took glances at I?ēha? to his side, who did not weep, but silently shed tears, and he felt at that moment as helpless as he was in months past.
