Avin, Erut, and Omin make their way east.
Omin explains how explosives are derived from the elements used during the ritual. Along the way they discover Riahn performing a ritual for other Kevutians, not Myshkans.
Omin protests, saying the ritual
is only for Myshkans but the others decide to just leave
Riahn alone since he is causing no harm.
An excerpt.
Avin stood first and walked boldly into the circle, leaving her sacks behind. The other two followed. She looked at the people surrounding her and at a small table set in the middle. On it were several cups, some with oil, others with dirt. The Kevutian in the middle of the circle still held one cup while the fingers of one hand were topped with the dirt. The person he had been facing had a spot on her forehead glistening with oil.
“What are you doing?” Avin asked with a hint of anger in her voice.
With great calm and without reservation the Kevutian answered her. “I am anointing others into the Fellowship of the Free Yocugu.”
“You’re what?” Omin howled stepping forward with great annoyance. His motion was stopped by Avin’s outstretched arm landing squarely on his chest. He moaned as he hit the solid arm, then looked at its owner, but made no further movement.
“Yocu is the spiritual inspiration of the Myshkans, not the Kevutians,” said Avin.
“The truth knows no race, no class, no distinction. It does not belong to one people and not to another. If it is not true for all, it is not true. It does not exist in only one corner of the universe. Its light shines on all, for all times, and in all places,” said the man.
Avin wrinkled her brow in confusion. She took the end of her torch and lit it using the light from one of the standing torches. “Who are you?” she said, looking into his face. He said nothing in return but looked at her with a calm serenity she had rarely seen before, especially from a Kevutian.
After a moment, the man said, “I am no one.”
Avin stepped closer to him. No one else moved. She studied the face of the man before her more intently. She noticed a long shadow on his left cheek: a scar. The man saw her interest in the deformity.
“An unfortunate gift from Pa’Crolas,” he said.
Avin stepped back from him in horror. “You are Riahn, the Tormentor, Commander of the Detention Center.”
The man only smiled. “Not anymore,” he whispered. “I am no one.”
