Mother told me the tale of the two eyes. Any colour, she said, but two different. Many fear the arrival of the two eyes, claiming witchery. Others celebrate such a birth, believing the two eyes are great healers. Both are true, Lyra, she said, but that is not the whole of the story.
This is what Damin refers to when he says I will keep survivors alive. It is about healing, but on a massive scale, using methods no one will name as traditional.
A long time ago, mother said, there was another with two eyes and she came when death was a spectre no one could ignore. Drought and famine would soon take the last. She stood on a rock in the desert and summoned rain. More than that, she summoned flakes of sustenance to feed everyone until the new harvest, and thus was civilisation saved.
How, I asked. I cannot say, Lyra, but you will know. It is inside you.
I do not yet know. All I have are legends, and they give no details. Damin became my betrothed, the only man in Grenmassin who would have me. We are childhood friends, we know each other well, and yet most were surprised when Damin approached my mother. My father died a year before, and I believe he would have said no to Damin. My mother said yes.
Now I understand why the elders of Grenmassin sent me to find Damin. He lends my words credence. He allays their fears simply by choosing to bond himself with me. The Mur name carries weight inland. They also sent me, I now realise, to test my latent gift somewhere else first.
If I fail in either gift or returning Damin to the fold, they will remain in Grenmassin. They will all die.