Chapter Thirty-three
Date unknown
Time unknown
Kel-Calizer, Kalar
SVETLANA SUCKED IN a breath. Eyes shooting open, she found herself staring up at a white ceiling. Instinct kicked in, and she lifted her head.
A sharp pain stopped her cold.
Groaning, she laid her head back down on the cushion behind it. Trying to reach up, she found her hands restrained. Panic struck, until she saw the frightened, yellow eyes of a Kalarael looking at her.
The Kalarael spoke—words Svetlana couldn’t understand in the absence of a connection. Then, a bit frantically, she said the word, “Itsukae!” She hurried out of the room a second later, leaving Svetlana to try and figure out what was going on.
She was in a stark, white chamber, not dissimilar to the one she’d inhabited on the Kalarael space station. Looking at her hands, which were at her sides, she found that she was unable to move them despite no visible restraints. Something—maybe force shields—were holding them in place.
Looking around the room, Svetlana saw a myriad of consoles and devices. There were control panels on the walls, machines with lights, tubes, and holograms. A familiarity hit. These devices, these alien machines. She was in a hospital.
Closing her eyes, she groaned and leaned her head back. What had happened? How had she ended up here? She struggled to think of the last thing she could remember. Winduster. She’d been at Winduster. There’d been a fight, the Bakma had arrived. They’d arrived to…
She thought hard to recollect.
They’d arrived to free Caragbuul.
And it was right then, at the thought of the Khuladi, that the fog slowly lifted. Caragbuul. He had escaped imprisonment somehow. She had fought him—she and…
…she and Kraash-nagun.
The memories rushed back. Every detail, as if she was right there fighting Caragbuul again. As if she was getting impaled a second time.
“Oh my God,” she whispered. Pressing her chin to her neck, she looked at her chest. She could see nothing, her body covered by a silver sheet. But she felt something there. Something different, something tender. Something that hurt terribly.
A gentle prodding came to her mind. A small, cautious prick.
Ed.
The Ithini wasn’t in the room, but his presence was unmistakable—even to such a subtle degree. In the second that followed, Ed’s familiar voice emerged. Hello, master.
In spite of her state, there came a sigh of relief. Turning her head in one direction, as if that would possibly provide any context, she thought back with genuine relief, Ei`dorinthal. Where are you?
I am in the room next to yours. How are you feeling?
How was she feeling? Completely confused and in dull, aching pain. Afraid.
The Ithini must have sensed it. That is understandable, he relayed, given your condition.
“What is my condition?” she asked aloud.
Yigôzien is approaching your room. She will discuss all that has transpired in the days since your injury.
The days? Before she could ponder the thought further, the teal-streaked invoker stepped through the door. Her eyes, always an indicator as to the extent of her adoration for Svetlana, were not so blue as they once had been. There was a hesitance to her demeanor—an emotional caution. She stared at Svetlana for some time before finally speaking. “Good evening, Svetlana.”
Evening. As if she needed her internal clock to be thrown off further. “What happened?” Svetlana asked, even as she was remembering more and more.
Yigôzien dipped her head, eyes trailing to the floor. “There is much we must discuss.” Her words had an ominous sound to them. She lifted her eyes again. “You were badly injured at the Fall of Winduster.”
The Fall of Winduster? How purposeful those words sounded, like the Battle of Chicago or the Assault on Novosibirsk. Was Winduster now the equivalent of such impactful events?
“A shock staff wielded by Kraash-nagun penetrated your chest,” Yigôzien said. “You are fortunate to be alive. There was a puncture to your lungs, but that area has been reconstructed—as were several of your ribs, which were broken.”
“Reconstructed?” Svetlana asked. “How did you…?”
“We have had quite some time to process your anatomy in the time you have been with us. The data from our initial scan of you proved invaluable in understanding how your body functions. It is the reason we were able to save your life.”
It seemed impossible—that an alien civilization could so quickly understand the biology of what was, to them, an extraterrestrial species. But there was a time, too, when humans thought flight impossible—and here Svetlana was, halfway across the galaxy.
“You were also the recipient of a xenotransfusion in order to replace blood that was lost.”
At that, Svetlana raised an eyebrow. “Xenotransfusion?”
“It is when blood from one species is used to replace the blood of another. In your case, blood from one of your Bakma companions was used.”
“Wait, wait, wait.” Closing her eyes, she angled her head away to try and process what she was hearing. When she couldn’t, she opened them and looked at Yigôzien again. “Even Earthae require a certain blood type from their own kind. Earthae and Bakma blood are not compatible at all.”
Approaching Svetlana’s bedside, the invoker looked down upon her. “As a natural occurrence, no, but there are biochemical procedures that allow such xenotransfusions to take place. I do not understand them, as I am not trained in the arts of science and healing, but I can attest that the brightest minds of Kalar were consulted in order to engineer Bakmanese blood to be compatible with the Earthae body, even if on a temporary basis. You must understand, with no other Earthae present on this world, we had no other choice. If you wish to know additional details, you must consult the healers who treated you.”
There was no if she wished to know additional details. She had to know. This level of technology was beyond anything she could comprehend. Bakma blood is in my veins. To what extent it was still “Bakma blood” was unknown. It was entirely possible that it had been transformed into some synthetic, all-purpose substance. Whatever the process, the result was miraculous. Blood from an extraterrestrial had been pumped into her. It had kept her alive. After having trailed off amidst her thoughts, her focus returned to Yigôzien. She had to ask. “Who was my donor?” There was only one Bakma she could imagine that would have signed up for that.
“Kraash-nagun.”
And it wasn’t him. Blinking in surprise, she asked, “Kraash-nagun?”
“He would not allow another Bakma to be considered.”
Resting her head back, Svetlana stared at the white ceiling above her. Kraash-nagun. Of all the Bakma she could have imagined would have lent her his lifeblood, she would have imagined it from him the least. Even Wuteel would have been more likely.
“Much has happened since Winduster,” Yigôzien said. “Some say it was judgment from Kukira for sins against her. Others believe that Ophareim has set out to destroy the faithful. All agree that whatever the reason, it was a turning point.” The blue in her eyes faded further. “I do not know how to feel.” For several seconds, she fell silent. When her irises shifted red, she quietly asked, “How long did you know that Akàziendi was a Kalareim, Svetlana?”
She found it striking that such a collected tone could be maintained despite the obvious emotions stirring within Yigôzien. Of equal interest was that she hadn’t referred to Svetlana as a deity. It was both relieving and sad. “Where is she?” Svetlana asked, deflecting a question with a question.
“She has returned to her people.”
At least she’d made it out of there alive.
“How long did you know?” the invoker asked again.
There was no reason to hide the truth—not when so much of it had already been revealed. “When the Kalareim visited Ban-Hezikal. When I met Tributurian. I know you are angry that I chose to keep my knowledge of her secret, but to reveal her would have been to betray her.”
“So instead, you betrayed me.”
“Your people would have killed her, Yigôzien.”
Eyes shifting between red and yellow, the invoker looked at Svetlana in silence. For almost ten seconds, nothing was said between them. At long last, drawing in a breath, Yigôzien continued. “I must tell you of the things that have transpired since your hospitalization.”
She and I will never be the same, Svetlana thought. She will never call me her goddess again. It was an end—a revelation—she’d always hoped for. She just didn’t like the way it’d occurred. Nodding her head silently, she prompted the invoker to continue.
Yigôzien’s down feathers stood on end. “The Kalareim have mustered at the gates of Sélestere. Tributurian has requested a meeting with the king.” Her interest piqued, Svetlana narrowed her eyes with curiosity. “We believe they wish to propose an armistice.”
“Do it,” Svetlana said with urgency. “Yigôzien, if Tributurian wishes to end hostilities, you must do it!”
“So lustily do you implore us to abandon our religion. I wonder how you reacted when you were implored by the Bakma to abandon yours.”
Her answer stung. Perhaps as it should’ve.
“The king will hear their proposal. The events of Winduster earned the Kalareim that much. What more they are given, I suppose we shall see together.”
“The events of Winduster?” Svetlana asked. “What did the Kalareim have to do with Winduster?”
“It was their forces that secured the victory. They arrived just as you and Kraash-nagun slayed Caragbuul.”
She remembered—vaguely—the arrival of forces before she lost consciousness. She assumed they must have been Kalarael. That assumption had been wrong.
The invoker closed her eyes solemnly. “There is a truth that must be faced by our people. Were it not for the arrival of the Kalareim, every Kalarael at Winduster would have been slain. Were it not for Akàziendi, who mustered a force of her own at battle’s end despite being injured, what few darishu remained would have been slaughtered. Instead of being destroyed, those few, scattered darishu followed her lead on the battlefield. They did not know she was Kalareim, but their awareness is not what matters. The point is that Akàziendi could have abandoned Winduster but chose not to for reasons few here can comprehend. She and your friend, Tauthinilaas, led this final defense effort together.”
The opportunity arose, and Svetlana grabbed it. Leaning her head up as much as she could, Svetlana bored deeply into her friend’s eyes. “Yigôzien, this conflict between your people must end. There is no better time than now. You are all of the same blood—you and the Kalareim. I know that you know this. You call yourselves different names, but you are all sons and daughters of Kalar. You are all Kalarians.”
“You imagine this situation to be far simpler than it is.”
“It is a medical condition,” Svetlana said. “Their eyes, the lack of the Purities within them. You are the most medically advanced species I have ever seen, I know this is not a mystery to you.”
Yigôzien’s expression remained stoic. “But who causes the condition? Kukira causes all things. If she has chosen them for exile, we are not to argue. She has given the Kalareim to Ophareim, be it a medical condition or not. Why would we fight to repossess such a thing?”
“Kukira is a myth, Yigôzien. She is not real.”
Eyes steadfast in yellowness, the invoker asked, “And your god is?”
And it was that sentiment, right there, that would forever be the impasse. That would forever divide her soul and Yigôzien’s. That she could not fairly rebut.
Entering the room behind Yigôzien was the same Kalarael who’d been there when Svetlana had awoken. Yigôzien turned her head, and the two engaged in a brief discussion, its meaning hidden from Svetlana in the connection. When the conversation was finished, Yigôzien turned to Svetlana again. “Your friends are on their way here. They have been eager to see you. More so than I have.”
At this stage, Svetlana knew better than to allow Kalarael honesty to sting—but in this instance, it was hard not to feel her words had intent. As Yigôzien turned to depart, Svetlana reached out her hand, wincing as she did, though the gesture served its purpose. Yigôzien paused and faced her fully. “I am sorry, Yigôzien. I am. At no point in all of this did I set out to deceive you.”
“And yet, it is precisely what you have done.”
“I would be heartbroken to think that we have come all this way only to become enemies.”
One of Yigôzien’s whiskers twitched. Her red orbs remained locked on Svetlana as she took her time to reply. “I thought you a gift from Shanras. I still believe you are a gift. I am just not so certain from whom.” She paused. “You, Akàziendi, and I were declared to be sisters. Such a ritual is among our most rare and revered—and you know well my reverence for such things.” Slowly, she stepped to the bed. “It is my opinion that Tributurian will be granted the armistice he seeks. One does not muster such a force and leave them in such a vulnerable position if they are unwilling to extend trust. The Khuladi represent a far greater threat to our world than the Kalareim. Only a fool would think otherwise. I believe that very soon, Kalarael and Kalareim will take up arms together out of necessity. If that belief holds true, then Akàziendi and I will be reunited. I do not know how I will feel that day. I do not wish to think of it. But my feelings do not change the fact that you are both now and forever my sisters. To believe otherwise would be to deny what Kukira has brought to fruition. I will do, as any invoker of custom would, as custom dictates. I just may not particularly enjoy it.”
The corners of Svetlana’s lips turned downward. That ritual of bonding sisterhood was a moment she would take with her for the rest of her life. She would now also take the sadness of that memory being sullied. But it was what it was. If ends justified means at all, then the fact that the Kalarael and Kalareim were on the verge of a truce meant something significant. How tragic that she felt only anguish. For a second time, Yigôzien turned to leave the room, and for a second time, Svetlana called on her to pause. “How do the Kalarael now view me, considering I knew Akàziendi’s secret and said nothing?”
Yigôzien remained facing away from her, her feathered head angled just enough to see Svetlana in her peripherals. Seconds passed in silence before she finally responded. “They do not know what you did.” Her head lowered; her eyes trailed to the floor. “I did not tell them.”
As the weight of Yigôzien’s words sank in, the hair on the back of Svetlana’s neck stood. She had seen many Kalarael fall at Winduster. Already, this conflict with the Khuladi and their forces had caused many casualties. But she would never forget the casualty she saw standing before her now. She would never forget that loss of innocence. That this was her fault was a bitter pill to swallow.
Yigôzien left without saying another word.
Svetlana stared at the ceiling in the minutes that passed, the totality of her journey running through her head. From her last memory on Earth—being with Max as Novosibirsk was attacked—to being Nagogg’s prisoner, to the rebellion, to all that’d transpired on Kalar, they flipped through her mind like images in a slide show. Like entirely different lives. In silence, she closed her eyes.
I do not know why You have taken me here. I do not know all the plans You have for me. But I trust You. I trust You, even in the midst of all of this. I do not understand the things that surround me. I do not understand what the Khuladi and Kukira have to do with You. If You are the God of all things, then you must also be the God of the Khuladi and the Kalarael. They must also be Your children, as are we. I have spent so much time on this world trying to validate the position to which I have been elevated. With whatever time I have left here, let me spend it validating You.
Footsteps emerged from beyond the doorway. She opened her eyes. At the very edge of the door, she could make out someone’s shoulder. Whoever was there had paused by the door’s precipice—as if something was keeping them from stepping inside. Lifting her head up just a bit, she asked, “Who is there?”
A strange silence arose—one she could hear, like the holding of a breath. When it ended, it did with solemn inflection. “It is Kraash-nagun.”
Kraash-nagun. Never had she heard the blinded elite’s voice in such a manner. For the first time she could recall, his tone was one of deference. The silence lingered until she finally spoke again. “You may come in if you wish.”
“I will,” he answered, “in a moment.”
With so few words, he’d captured her attention. Upon shifting her shoulders to try and sit up a little more, she ceased when the pain became intolerable. Gaze returning to the doorway, she dipped her head to listen.
He gently inhaled. “I have fought in many battles. I have taken many lives, from insubordinate slaves to members of your own species. I have yet to find an adversary who can match my skill—yourself included. Yet in all of my years of existence, I have never seen one of the god-chosen slain by one of their slaves. I have never seen one killed in defiance. I had imagined that if that day ever came, it would come at the hands of a superior specimen. Never did I imagine it would come in an act of self-sacrifice to save another. To save one considered an enemy.”
Deep within Svetlana, butterflies stirred.
“Tauthinilaas has told me many times that your strength lies not in your physiology, but in your spirit. I have never understood that until now. There is a truth that cannot be denied: though it was I who plunged the spear through Caragbuul’s chest, it was you who killed him. That you willfully took the blow of that same spear to save my life is something I cannot comprehend. But I wish to comprehend it. I wish to comprehend the strength required to make such a sacrifice to save the life of an enemy. It is a strength I do not possess. It is one capable of defeating a god-chosen.”
At the edge of the door, the blinded elite fidgeted. “I, too, have been in recovery here,” he said, “but it is a recovery very unlike yours. I have longed to visit you in the days that have passed, but I did not wish to do so until your eyes were opened. Though I have seen you through the eyes of others, in the distance, in fleeting glances at ever-changing angles, I have never looked into your eyes. I have never looked into the eyes that first lent me their sight. This moment is one I wish to remember forever.”
Slowly rounding the corner of the doorway, Kraash-nagun appeared. When he came into her view, she gasped. Plainly visible on his face, where there were once vacant sockets, there were now two small, metallic orbs. At the center of each, artificial pupils reflected blue from the light around them. Amazed, Svetlana exclaimed, “Kraash-nagun!”
“I was told you requested these be created for me the first time we visited Winduster,” he said as he slowly approached her. “You made the request despite my hostility toward you. At the height of our hatred, you sought to give me back what was taken from me. You sought to return me to form. I have returned, Setana. I have been given eyes like no Bakma before me. I have them because of you.” He paused. “My species knows little of beauty. We have few words for it. But I do know this—in this moment, you are the most beautiful creature I have ever beheld.”
For the first time, as he positioned his hands in front of his body, she noticed the Khuladi battle gauntlets attached to his wrists. They were the same ones worn by Caragbuul at Winduster. With the faintest of flicks, Kraash-nagun fully extended their blades. Crossing them like an X in front of his face, he bowed his head and dipped to one knee.
“I am unworthy to be called your master—for to be a master, one must be superior. But if you will have me, I will be your champion. I will stand at your side; I will not allow one hair on your head to be harmed. I will sacrifice my life for yours, as you sacrificed yours for mine. I ask only that you forgive me, my lady, for not seeing in you what Tauthinilaas did so long ago.”
Svetlana’s eyes shimmered. She couldn’t help it. This warrior—this being of power and strength—was giving itself to her. Pledging its allegiance. Unable to wipe her tears, they distorted her vision even as they trailed down her cheeks. Slowly, she shook her head. “Kraash-nagun, I cannot be your master.” The once-blinded elite—the one who could now see—lifted his head to regard her. “I am not superior to you. Or to Tauthin. Or to Ed. Instead of calling me master, I wish to be called your friend.”
Friendship. It was another concept the Bakma knew little of. Svetlana knew this because of her time spent with Tauthin. But it was friendship, not subservience, that had drawn her and Tauthin so close. It was a lesson the merit of which she was only recently beginning to recognize. Better late than never.
Kraash-nagun’s cybernetic eyes flitted and focused like real pupils. He remained on the floor. “It is only through that mindset that we have found victory—it is precisely for that mindset that our master must be you.”
I am in agreement. The emergent voice in her head was from Ed. She felt the Ithini’s reverence swell from whatever room he was in. We can call you both master and friend. There is no other master I wish to serve.
She listened to the words with solemnness—and for the first time, considered her role as leader with genuine humility, without emphasis on stature, power, or personal validation. Without a focus on enforcing her will in retribution for life’s perceived past misgivings. Being a leader wasn’t about that. It was about acting selflessly in the face of overwhelming odds. It was about not allowing pride to sit in the driver’s seat. Could she do that? Could she resist the urge to overcompensate? To make up for lost pride? No. She couldn’t. At least, not by herself.
I tried this once my way, and I failed. I do not want to fail again. Be with me, my God, as I set out on this journey a second time.
Returning her gaze to Kraash-nagun, she said, “If you wish to call me master—if you wish to call me lady of the Zone Runner—there is something you must understand.” She slowly shook her head. “I am not perfect, Kraash-nagun. I am not all-powerful. I am not incapable of fallacy. I must have your loyalty. I will need it—for those times when I stumble. For those times when I fall short of where I need to be. For those times when I am drowning, I will need my friends to reach beneath the waves to pull me up.” All the while she spoke, Kraash-nagun’s stare never wavered. “This experience on Kalar—on the Zone Runner, under Nagogg—has shown me both what I can and cannot do. I am afraid there is much more of the latter.”
“What you lack,” said Kraash-nagun, “the rest of us will provide. What we lack can only be provided by you. I have already seen it accomplish the impossible. It struck down a god-chosen. It made the blind to see. I wonder what else can it do?”
Her composure cracked—just a single, broken breath to accompany the tears. Sucking in through her nasal cavities, she allowed herself to smile. For so long, she had sought Kraash-nagun’s loyalty. She’d sought his belief in her. Never had she imagined she’d find it only when her belief in herself fell. What a massive weight from her shoulders it was. “Thank you, my friend. I will not let you down.”
“Of that, my lady,” he said, “I am now certain.”
How long had it been since Svetlana could declare herself certain? Of her future? Of her safety? Of herself? In the time since she’d been taken captive on the Zone Runner, she had only been certain of one thing: that she was not in control. How turbulent that battle for control had been. It’d been a battle fought in vain. But perhaps that was the way it was meant to be. Perhaps its unattainability was the point. She’d thought herself so steadfast in her faith back when Nagogg demanded she abandon it and submit. She’d thought herself so sure. It had taken everything since then to bring her to the place she was at now. A place of true realization. True acceptance. True submission. A place where she understood that she could never be strong enough on her own. That even the desire for strength itself was rooted in pride. That pride always came before a fall—but a prodigal daughter could always return home.
It was good to be home.
For the next hour, Svetlana received from Kraash-nagun the full update of what’d transpired between Winduster and that day. It was a full-fledged, bona fide status report. Something felt so wonderfully routine about that.
Injuries were at the top of the report. Though everyone in Svetlana’s party had endured a battle wound—ranging from Kraash-nagun’s minor lacerations to Ed having sustained a back injury—all were expected to fully recover, Mishka included. It was a combination of both the Kalarael’s advanced medical technology and old-fashioned luck. None were so lucky as Svetlana, considering the manner in which she’d been injured. Few who were impaled lived to tell the tale. Had the tip of the shock staff not entered her body at exactly the point that it had, she might have been killed instantly. So far as impalements were concerned, it was a rare, best-case scenario. She’d take one for a change.
Inevitably, the question arose as to how the Zone Runners had found Winduster in the first place—and it was that answer that proved the most shocking of all revelations. They’d found it because they’d been called to it. Because someone inside the Zone Runner had been sending out hidden signals. That someone was Wuteel.
There had been several instances where Wuteel had gone to Winduster to work on the Zone Runner alone. What no one knew was that he was using that opportunity to put a big, shiny beacon right on top of the facility. He must have wagered—correctly—that the Khuladi would send out a search party to try and locate their vessel that disappeared. To recover one of the god-chosen. With each signal, they must have homed in closer. It was their last visit that finally put the pin on the map.
Upon his capture after the attack, Wuteel was quickly identified by some of the Bakma prisoners as the one who’d freed Caragbuul. Svetlana listened to the story with fire in her veins. She wanted nothing more than to finally address Wuteel as the traitor that he was. But she’d never get that chance. The engineer was executed by the Kalarael shortly after his confession. It was an end result that left Svetlana both unsatisfied and brokenhearted. Why couldn’t he have just trusted her? Why couldn’t he have broken away from the vice grip of the Khuladi religion as Tauthin and Kraash-nagun had? She wondered if he begged for his life before his execution. She wondered if she would have spared him again. In the end, she could not argue with the Kalaraels’ decision. Because of him, hundreds of lives had been lost at Winduster. This, purely and simply, was justice.
It didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.
The silver lining to all of this was that the loss of Wuteel would be countered by a bolstering of the ranks, courtesy of Tauthin. As it turned out, unlikely allies had assisted the Kalarael forces at the tail end of the battle: some of the formerly imprisoned Bakma that Tauthin had been trying to recruit, among which was an engineer. Six Bakma in all from the cells at Winduster had disavowed Uladek, officially defecting from the Khuladi slave army to become part of Tauthin’s newly formed resistance faction. They were all currently at Ban-Hezikal with Tauthin discussing the formulation of a free Bakma nation. Tauthin was apparently being sent word of Svetlana’s awakening, and the staff at the medical facility—which was in a small town roughly a dozen miles out of Sélestere—was awaiting his response. Svetlana was quick to insist they send a follow-up message instructing Tauthin to remain where he was—that the work he was doing was far more important and that she would be fine. When word finally did arrive from him, she was almost surprised to hear that he was going to listen to her. It told her that he understood the vast significance of what he was doing. That he recognized it was bigger than the welfare of a single Earthae. She was proud of him for that, and she eagerly awaited a reunion with him at Ban-Hezikal. At least, when she was cleared to leave the hospital.
That, unfortunately, would not be a fast process. Advanced medical technology or not, an injury the magnitude of Svetlana’s would not heal in a matter of days. There would be weeks—possibly over a month—to her recovery, and that was with thirty-three-hour days. At the very least, she would be aided by the development of a new serum that the Kalarael had discovered: unique natural antibodies with the remarkable ability to prevent infection and speed along healing. They were in Mishka’s saliva.
It was a small validation, but one just the same. It was a nice little freebie from Above—like a nod and a wink. She would take it.
And so the hours became days, the days became weeks, and the weeks came one after the other. Svetlana’s recovery progressed in similar fashion to any on Earth. She gradually worked herself from being on a floating medical cot, to slowly walking about the medical facility, to resuming light physical activity with the intent of returning to her prior form. It was never lost to her in all of that time just how close she’d come to death. She’d avoided it by mere inches in any direction.
That, of course, didn’t mean her recovery would be a cakewalk. In the first days since she’d awoken, her entire body ached with a strange, dull sensation. It was explained to her by the healers at the medical facility that this was a side effect of a processed xenotransfusion. Her blood had been momentarily replaced by an alien substance. Despite being synthesized to suit her, it was still not human blood. Until it was phased out of her system by the reproduction of her own red blood cells, there would be a slight rejection at play. It was normal, they assured her, and would pass.
So far as the actual entry and exit wounds in her chest and back, they healed with remarkable speed. Boosted by the antibodies from Mishka’s saliva, it was almost no time at all until all she had were scars to indicate where the staff had gone through her. By any human standard, her recovery process was impossibly fast. It was almost miraculous. It was a testament to the advanced science of the Kalarian species.
It was not the only miracle to take place.
Of all the turnarounds that Svetlana had experienced in her journey, none were so significant as that which transpired between the Kalarael and Kalareim. Tributurian’s bold decision to muster at the gates of Sélestere and request an audience with King Xi`qirian paid off. For the first time in as long as any could remember, the leaders of the two empires sat across from one another to discuss terms of an armistice. Svetlana herself was brought to the negotiation, even in her state of recovery, to serve as mediator. Thankfully, and perhaps surprisingly, she was scarcely needed at all.
There was a simple truth that could not be denied: the Khuladi posed an infinitely greater threat to Kalar than either supposed “species” inhabiting the planet. Though neither party was willing to sacrifice their identities as Kalarael or Kalareim, they agreed to unite under the singular banner of the name Kalarians. It was a name for which Svetlana was solely responsible. There was no question that, though her status had been diminished in the eyes of High Priestess Linjan and Darishukan Korlustus, the Kalarael at large still gazed upon her with yellow-eyed reverence. After the Kalareims’ actions at Winduster, there was simply no way the Kalarael citizens would buy into a state-sponsored genocide—especially if the Incarnate was staunchly against it. To her credit, Svetlana insisted to those present at the negotiation that she was merely an Earthae and not Kukira’s chosen vessel on Kalar. In doing so, she felt she’d washed her hands of any moral wrongdoing. She wasn’t to blame if most of them chose not to believe it.
The end result of the negotiation came to be called the Winduster Accords, and it clearly established—at Svetlana’s insistence—the Kalareims’ right to exist. There would always be a level of animosity between the Kalarael and Kalareim. Such was destined to be the case when one side believed the other to be children of the devil. But the arrival of a bigger devil in the form of the Khuladis’ forces at least gave the Kalarael pause to contemplate how correct they were in their predispositions. In fact, so great was the spiritual turmoil the Khuladi had caused, many Kalarael began to openly question their faith and religion. Svetlana demanded that they be given the right to do so, resulting in possibly the most significant aspect of the accords: the doubting of one’s faith would no longer be punished by governing authorities. It opened the gate for the Kalarael to freely question without fear of repercussion.
As would be expected, High Priestess Linjan was staunchly against this. Svetlana understood why. Such a statement would wrest power from her hands. But it was necessary. In Svetlana’s own words, if doubts are to be punished, then all Kalarael must be punished—for who would not be filled with doubts at such a time as this? Svetlana’s efforts were aided by an open admission from Queen Chechera that she herself had questioned the existence and will of Kukira after Winduster. It was this courageous confession that ultimately led King Xi`qirian to approve of that aspect of the accords. Svetlana knew that such a statement would pave the way for a rise of atheism. She also knew that without the freedom to not believe, true belief would never be attainable. While she herself did not ascribe to a belief in Kukira, she also knew how little she knew in the grand scheme of the universe. The faith of the Kalarael ultimately had little to do with her religion. Her God had been faithful to her, and that was all that mattered. Whatever path He had put the Kalarael on was between Him and them. Their journey of faith was their own.
The Winduster Accords were heralded as one of the most significant written documents in Kalar’s history. Not only did they unify a divided species, but they paved the way for true freedom of belief. They also became an alternative for the Kalareim seeking safe haven on Earth, as the accords would protect them on their home world. In fact, Winduster itself was declared to be the first joint rebuilding project between the two “species,” where it would serve as an embassy for both the Kalarael and Kalareim. Every year, leaders and representatives from both parties would meet for the “Winduster Summit,” whereupon they would discuss issues that affected both civilizations and seek amicable resolutions.
Svetlana was well aware, of course, that all of this could be pie in the sky. The Kalarael and Kalareim could scrap the accords the second Svetlana left for Earth. But she chose to believe that they wouldn’t. She chose to believe that they’d work out their differences, however hard a task that might be. She chose hope over fear.
She hoped she’d chosen correctly.
In addition to the honor of being part of the accords, Svetlana’s attendance also afforded her the opportunity to see Akàziendi again. It was fascinating to see the tasharin’s mannerisms now that no guises had to be maintained. She carried herself with an edge that reminded Svetlana of Esther—quick to speak her mind and quicker to disagree. The dark-eyed Kalareim viewed Svetlana not as an object of admiration, but as an equal in every sense of the word. No worse, and certainly no better.
Svetlana had been eagerly awaiting the reunion of Yigôzien and Akàziendi there, anxious to see if their proverbial hatchets could be buried. Unfortunately, the fantasy in Svetlana’s head was far more impactful than what actually transpired. Yigôzien and Akàziendi barely acknowledged each other. It was ironic, Svetlana thought, that of the two, it was Yigôzien who would feel a greater obligation to custom and therefore refuse to disavow Akàziendi as her sister, even though it was her that felt the greater degree of animosity. Akàziendi, quite simply, couldn’t have cared less what Yigôzien thought or felt. It was an interesting dynamic between the two that Svetlana wished she could have seen play out further. But the Winduster Accords eventually ended, and all parties returned home—Yigôzien to the medical facility to serve Svetlana for the remainder of her stay on Kalar, and Akàziendi to whatever part of the Kalareim territories Tributurian sent her. Perhaps one day, the sisterhood between them would reform. Or perhaps, it wouldn’t. Ultimately, she supposed it was up to them.
Eventually, Svetlana was allowed to leave the medical facility to finish her recovery at Ban-Hezikal—the alien luxury spa that had become her home away from home. It amazed her how familiar the sight of endless runa legras had become. Even its smell had begun to trigger a sense of reminiscence. That strange reminiscence only grew when she met Tauthin’s new Bakma defectors. When she addressed them for the first time in Bakmanese, their opaque eyes widened in wonder. In meeting them, it felt like Svetlana had a front row seat to a moment that future Bakma would read and hear about. There was an energy to what Tauthin was doing in seeking to create a free Bakma nation—even if sustainability was a long way off. It was hard to found a new nation without females with which to reproduce. But even in that, there was a glimmer of hope. As it turned out, Tauthin and his brethren were not so barren as they’d been led to believe. Long ago, in a conversation in Novosibirsk Confinement, Tauthin had explained to Svetlana how the Khuladi removed all eggs from the male Bakma ovary. But the Kalarael had uncovered something in their scans that Tauthin didn’t know—something in the Bakma species that was distinctly different from the reproductive cycle of humans.
The male Bakma ovary could produce new eggs.
It was a startling and game-changing revelation for all parties involved. It meant that each one of the now eight free Bakma had a small number of eggs within them. Each one of them had Bakma waiting to be born—Bakma who would know nothing of enslavement or the Khuladi god, Uladek. Bakma that could be born…
…free.
But a key component of that freedom was still absent. A necessary part of the process. An entire gender that the Khuladi kept under lock and key solely to avoid what Tauthin and his brethren were now considering. There was no viable plan of action to retrieve them. There was no clear path to that particular victory. But there was something the Bakma at Ban-Hezikal had now that they’d never had before.
Hope.
Svetlana pondered that hope deep in her heart. She put a bookmark on it. If there was a time when that hope could feasibly be realized, she wanted to be ready. For them. For their future. For unrealized potential that the universe had taken away.
Until the time came for that plan to be developed, Svetlana set herself to prepare for a return to Earth. A return to Room 14 at Novosibirsk. To Scott, and Yuri, and David, and Max. To Varvara, and Becan, and Jayden. To Travis and Boris. To even Esther. As her impending departure from Kalar drew nearer, her heart beat with more fervency for the life she’d once had. The life that felt like a lifetime ago.
She was more ready for it than ever.