“Who are you?” Lyrin demanded harshly. He standed before them like a mountain, bodysuit covered in layers of other fabrics that hung loosely in an ill-defined pattern. They looked like fragments torn from previous suits thrown together to cover the great surface of his body. The long beard and scraggly hair completed the picture of a wild countryside capped by white peaks.
“We are Sifuti,” responded Avin.
Lyrin turned to look at the five of them before them. “I can see that,” he said. “Yet you bring a Kevutian here with you.”
“He helped us get here,” said Avin.
“No doubt,” said Lyrin with a hint of sarcasm. “What do you want?”
Avin looked at the big man with curiosity. Was he playing with us? “We want to to help you leave here and escape the siege you are under.”
Once again Lyrin looked over the faces of the people before him then turned in one grand motion that set the fabrics on his body in a swirling motion. Maybe those shards had been added just for this effect. He walked to the door of the temple, opened it, and started to step inside. “We don’t need your help,” he boomed.
“Oyn’a?” whispered Lagos to his sister.
The big man went to step through the door of the temple. Oyn’a was about to whisper her response but then picked up her head and looked directed toward Lyrin. She answered in full voice: “Anger, mistrust… emptiness!”
Fok Lyrin stopped in mid-stride. His hand held the latch that opened the door to the temple and had it not been for that fact the great mountain may have toppled on the floor. As it was, he maintained his position for a moment’s hesitation, regained his balance, and turned around. He walked directly toward Ony’a. As he stepped, the others parted the way for him the same way the bow of a ship parts the seas. He came to stand directly in front of her, took her face in his hands, and studied it. Such a move may have cost a limb to any other man but not this one. There was something overwhelming and captivating about him. She chose to remain still.
“What is your name?” Lyrin asked, but his voice made it sound as if he already knew the answer.
“I am Ny Oyn’a.”
“Daughter of Sizo?”
“Yes,” said Oyn’a.
Lyrin lowered his hand and looked away. “No,” he said to no one. “It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.” He turned to look at the young man standing next to Oyn’a. “And you? You are Lagos?”
“Yes,” said Lagos. “But how....”
“I knew your mother,” said Lyrin.