by Ziv Gray
‘Why did you come for me?’ she asked. ‘You didn’t take anyone else.’
‘When I saw you on the plinth,’ came the reply, ‘I knew there was something special about you—and I do not mean your looks. I think you have a good heart, and that is rare. Plus,’ she added with a rough chuckle, ‘I know what it’s like to be taken by the Althemerians.’
She pulled up the short sleeve of her tunic, her ring catching the light, to reveal a wiry forearm. Part of her olive green armour was scarred with a symbol: two entwined serpents. Emmy winced. It was a brand.
‘When I was taken, they marked our flesh,’ she said. ‘Thankfully, that practice has fallen out of favour. Too much shipbait died of putrid brands.’
The healer let her sleeve fall again. Emmy fingered the hem of her tattered clothing.
‘What’s your name?’ she asked.
‘Rel,’ the healer replied.
Emmy blinked as realisation dawned.
‘Oh!’ she said. ‘So Rel is your name,’ she said. ‘The scribe, he didn’t call you medicine-rel. He said Medicine Rel.’
Rel tilted her head to the side.
‘Was that not clear?’ she asked. ‘Your language is similar to the Althemerian tongue. I thought it was the same, in fact.’ She chuckled. ‘Medicine is what all healers are called—yata in my language. You will be Medicine-Emena.’
‘Call me Emmy,’ Emmy replied. ‘Emmy is my own name. Emena was given to me by someone I despise.’ She caught the word, and swallowed. ‘Despised,’ she said. ‘Someone I despised.’
Rel didn’t probe for meaning. Instead, she gestured to the rear of the tent.
‘Very well, Medicine-Emmy,’ she said. ‘If you would like to wash, I will bring you a cloth and a clean uniform. There’s a barrel of rainwater outside.’
Rel disappeared for a moment, returning with clothing and a rag. Emmy accepted the items with a grateful nod and stepped into the clear night.
With the starlight pouring, she peeled off what remained of her Middlemerish clothing. The garments fell on the ground in a tattered pool. Emmy was glad to shed them for more than just their filth. They were a reminder of the happiness of Middlemerish, when she had friends at her side, and was free from Krodge’s heavy yoke for one blissful day. Emmy stopped. Her hands trembled. A twinge of guilt pulled at her as the Masvam sailor’s words returned again.
Finished her off, I did.
Trying not to think, Emmy scrubbed herself, the cold water and scratchy cloth a welcome distraction. Why should I feel sorrow for someone who made my life a misery? Emmy thought. Krodge isn’t worth grieving for. Neither is Bose. I’m free from them for good. She stilled her hands. It’ll be a decate before I’m free. Unless I die, of course. She snorted. Some freedom.
As clean as she could get, Emmy pulled on the uniform. The red heart and eye settled on her chest. She traced the outline with her talons.
Across the compound, groups of shipbait were herded away. The podium was bare again, the scribes trundling off, toting their thick scrolls. The one who dealt with Emmy wasn’t among them. After wringing out the cloth and gathering what remained of her old clothes, Emmy returned to the tent. But she lingered before entering. There were raised voices inside.
Growing brave, she peeled back the flap. Rel stood with her arms folded. A group of Althemerians faced her. One was the scribe, still frowning. Another was Commander Pama. The others were guards.
‘Medicine Rel,’ Pama said, ‘you cannot simply take a prisoner for yourself. There are rules to follow, as you know well.’
‘I know the rules,’ Rel said. She sounded immovable. ‘I have lived by them for a long time.’
‘You mean, you’ve flouted them for a long time,’ the female said. ‘You learned bad habits from your predecessor. You are no true citizen.’ Pama snarled. ‘You’re just another slave.’
Rel lowered her arms, the movement controlled. She took the tiniest step forward.
‘Commander,’ she said quietly, ‘you forget that I earned my freedom many cycles ago.’ She took another step, forcing the commander back. ‘I serve the Althemerians the way Bomsoi served before me. I am a true citizen, and I am no slave to a bully like you.’
‘Still,’ the commander spluttered, stepping back again, ‘you know it is not your place to decide the fate of our new arrivals.’
‘This one,’ Rel said, jerking a talon at the scribe, ‘would have sent her to fight. A waste, since we have so few good medicine-folk.’
The commander’s head snapped to the scribe. She threw him a filthy look.
‘You failed to mention that part when you came crying in my ear, Nila,’ she said.
Nila half-hid behind his scroll and trembled. Recoiling from Rel, Pama channelled her rage at the subordinate.
‘You would send her to fight?’ she bellowed. ‘Osos! We have precious few medicine-folk already! We do not need to send them to early graves.’
Emmy winced. She thought of Charo. And graves. We don’t bury our dead. We burn them.
Pama grabbed Nila’s shoulder and propelled him from the tent.
‘Get out,’ Pama snapped. Then she turned to Rel. She jabbed a talon in her face. ‘Remember, free as you are, while you’re under my command, your head belongs to me. Bomsoi had free reign, but remember, you are not her. I could have you killed for your insolence.’
Rel bowed.
‘As would be your right,’ she said. ‘But you won’t, and we both know it.’
The commander stared with eyes like stone, before turning on her heel.
As she stalked off, Emmy slipped back into the tent.
‘I’m causing you trouble,’ she said.
Rel shrugged her broad shoulders.
‘Commander Pama doesn’t frighten me,’ she said.
Emmy studied Rel’s face. It was well lined, though Emmy couldn’t place her age. Sensing the studious glance, Rel turned to Zecha.
‘Your friend will be well again,’ she said.
Attention diverted, Emmy swallowed.
‘What will happen to him?’ she asked. ‘What will the Althemerians do with him?’
‘That depends on his skill,’ Rel said. ‘Did he have a profession?’
‘He was—is—a hunter,’ Emmy said. ‘An archer.’
‘A male hunter?’ Rel asked, eyes wide. ‘I like him already.’ She chuckled. ‘He’ll train as a soldier-slave, as once I did.’ At Emmy’s grimace, she smiled again. ‘Do not fret. Good archers are used for defence from the rear, even male archers. Althemerians don’t care what’s between your legs, as long as you have a skill they need.’
Another question burned on Emmy’s tongue.
‘I had another companion,’ she said. ‘Where could she be?’
‘If she was sent to be a soldier, she’ll remain in this camp,’ Rel said. ‘You will find her.’
Sighing, Emmy turned back to Zecha. He looked settled, and was certainly cleaner. The rise and fall of his chest was shallow. Emmy knelt and took his talons once more.
‘You can’t go, Zecha,’ she said. ‘Someone needs to look after Charo.’
Rel settled her hand on Emmy’s head for a moment. There was another flash of cold. Emmy looked up. The compassion in Rel’s bright eyes brought fresh tears, but Emmy gulped them back. She stayed silent, and stared at Zecha’s pale face.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Dorai
Johrann Maa kissed the floor in front of the Great Shrine. The black marble sparkled in the scant torchlight. Now is the time, she thought. The Lunar Awakening is upon us. We must do that which must be done... With that thought, she prayed.
‘Great Goddess of the Dark, the Unparallelled Dorai, please bestow upon me your grace and mercy as I humbly supplicate myself before your Divine Presence. Help me as I carry out your bidding and put your great plan into motion, so that we may destroy those who defame your magnificence.’
Johrann kissed the floor again, then sat back on her bare heels. Her robe fanned out,
and her fronds pooled around her as she leaned forward. Lighting another stick of incense, she placed it in a holder amongst the others. Her eyes slid upward to the glittering effigy of Dorai before her.
The five-armed statue stood proud and condemning. In four of the god’s hands were the tenants of belief in Dorai: a spade for work, a book for knowledge, a shield for protection, and a sword for battle. The final arm was outstretched, one long claw pointing at the onlooker. Beneath the figure’s bare feet was the dead body of the False Goddess Nunako, elaborately finished with red jewelled blood that trickled into a pool at the foot of the statue.
Dorai’s polished eyes stared, unwavering. Johrann turned her face from the powerful gaze. It burned her. Regardless, she couldn’t tame her grin. The joy in her heart was too pure.
The Lunar Awakening is upon us, she thought. Soon, Bandim will fulfil Dorai’s truth, and all followers of Nunako and the so-called Light will supplicate themselves to the rule of the True God. They might steal the body of their dead emperor. They may free his mother. But they will not succeed. They will obey. A slow grin spread across Johrann’s face. If they don’t, they will die.
As she stood, her robes fell like tongues of flame. She slipped into her leather shoes and strode out of the high-ceilinged chamber, into the depths of the underground temple. The disappearance of Mantos Tiboli’s body was unfortunate, but was of little consequence. I cannot feel his presence, she thought. He is dead, and the dead cannot interfere in our affairs. As for his mother? Ha! She chuckled aloud, the noise echoing through the cavernous and pillared corridor. Phen can do nothing. Phen is a waste. A fool.
She strode on silent feet. The only light was scant shimmer from a wall torch or candelabra. But Johrann needed none. I do not need light to obscure my vision, she thought. Darkness is clear, if only your eyes are open to it. They are all blind to the truth. They cling to desperation. It is folly.
The polished gemstones of her horn jewellery cast colourful streaks along the smooth walls. She sped towards the sunken central hall. Two temple novices wrenched the door open, bowing as she passed into her realm.
Striding straight-backed down the rows of the amphitheatre, Johrann raised her arms. It is time to show them who I really am, she thought. Only Bandim has seen my true colours. Now it is time to show them all.
As she walked, she closed her eyes, kindling the great flame of power within her. Her skin burned, smoke rising, and she changed.
Gasps echoed from the circles of masked worshippers. No longer did she wear a false shroud of Masvam colours. Instead, Johrann stood proud, showing her blue and purple to them all. This is who I am, she thought. I am not afraid.
She schooled her face with demure respect, willing the worshippers to calm. They were from all ranks of society. Those at the front, the rich and influential, resplendent in faith and wealth. The poorer folk sat further back, their eyes shining with fervour for the True God.
With a queen’s poise, Johrann stood at their centre. The round altar bore another statue of Dorai. Beside it was an elaborate throne, hewn from a solid block of black stone. Johrann did not sit. She stood to its side, awaiting the herald.
‘Emperor Bandim Tiboli!’
Cocooned by guards, the emperor strode forth. Resplendent in his orange and red state robes, Bandim descended. His subjects bowed as he passed. The mask on his face was darkest black, his red and white makeup shining bright underneath.
Johrann fell to her knees as he approached. She bowed, her horns scraping the floor.
‘Your Grace,’ she said. ‘We are humbled by your presence.’
Bandim’s response echoed in the silence.
‘Rise,’ he said. ‘You are the vessel of the goddess. You do not bow to me.’
Johrann tilted her head upwards, but remained on her knees.
‘No, Your Grace,’ she said. ‘You are the vessel. You are the Hand. I am merely the Heart.’
Chuckling, Bandim held out an arm. His yellow eyes glinted.
‘And what is a Hand without a Heart to guide it?’ he asked. ‘What is a Hand without a Heart to keep it alive?’
Accepting the offered claws, Johrann rose.
‘You honour me,’ she said. ‘I am but your humble servant.’
‘Humble you may be,’ Bandim said, touching her cheek, ‘but you are most important to me.’ He looked to the gathered crowd. ‘To all of us.’
He released her and gestured to the row upon rose of waiting faces.
‘Today is a great day for our empire—indeed, in our history,’ he said. ‘In spite of what the followers of the wretched Light have done, in spite of how far they degrade themselves in a false attempt to stir their cause by stealing my brother’s body, we will prevail.’
A round of applause sounded, accompanied by a low rumble of approval. Bandim raised his hands for silence.
‘Today, I will not be crowned with paltry gems and so-called precious metal. Today, High Priestess Johrann Maa will crown me with the greatest glory: the mantle of the goddess herself! You bear witness to a moment that will change our world forever. No longer will we be persecuted. No longer will we be vilified. Now, we will show the fools of the Light what true power is!’
The crowd erupted in cacophonous cheers, chanting for their emperor. The sound heralded the conclusion of Johrann’s life’s work. She bowed as Bandim sat on his throne, in the shadow of the statue, revelling in the elation.
Then she turned to the congregation. She closed her eyes. Breathed in. Breathed out. She waited for silence. When she opened her eyes again, she began, a player on her self-made stage.
‘My pious companions,’ she called, ‘the time has come for us to excise the poison of the false god Nunako, and all those who refuse to acknowledge the True God, Dorai.’ There was a rumble of agreement. ‘We are here for a great moment. For many decates, I have studied our scriptures and watched the movements of the heavenly bodies. The cursed moons nestle together, their voices distracted by each other. The power of the Light is diminished, and now is the time to act. Now is the time to end this madness and return our Great God to us!’
The room erupted with cacophonous cheers, ringing from all positions, front and rear. After a moment, Johrann held up her claws.
‘My brothers and sisters, I implore you for your help. We must ask our beloved Dorai for that which was promised to us. For does it not say in the holy scripture that “when the moons lie equal and the sun is at its closest, if the True Believers ask for my return, it will be granted”? We must ask The Great One to crown our emperor in her true glory!’
The jubilation of before was replaced by a roar of elation.
And then it was cut short by one word:
‘Blasphemy!’
Every set of eyes swung from Johrann to a gnarled figure. He stood near the front of the amphitheatre, one talon pointing at Johrann.
Unfazed, she walked towards him with deliberate slowness, pursing her lips. The old male’s arm trembled, but he kept his chin high.
‘Do you not know of the dangers of summoning the Goddess?’ he asked, his voice wavering. ‘Do you not know that conjuring the Great Spirit in her true and pure form is nigh on impossible? It has been tried, and it has never worked. It has only brought great pain. You…you seek to kill us all!’
Johrann stopped before him and stared with level eyes. She let the silence that followed his words draw on. She looked to Bandim. He nodded.
Thrusting an arm out like a whiplash, she seized the male’s throat. The room stayed silent as stone as Johrann clamped her hand tight, dragging him to the circular altar and its statue of Dorai. The male clawed at his neck. Johrann tightened her grip. Bandim, seated on his throne, watched it all.
‘Oh, my dear,’ Johrann purred. ‘How foolish you are.’ She thrust the male to the floor, and bore down on him until their flat faces nearly touched. The silence was broken, filled with harried whispers. Johrann’s nose slits flared as she spoke through gritted teeth.
&nb
sp; ‘How dare you speak to me of blasphemy? Me? How dare you have such little respect!’
Johrann pulled back. Then, with no warning, she stamped her heel onto the male’s throat. He squeaked and spluttered and clawed at his neck, his face growing purple. His eyes bulged. Johrann did not relent.
His dark eyes rolled back. Blood trickled from the corners of his mouth. Johrann lifted her foot and jammed her toes under his shoulder, sending the body thudding down the stone steps. It landed in a mangled heap. Once it was still, Johrann tilted her chin and glowered at the gathering of masked faces.
‘Does anyone else wish to cry blasphemy?’
Silence reigned. Johrann smiled.
‘Good. Let that fool’s impudence be a lesson to you all.’
She looked at Bandim, who nodded his blessing, caressing the arm of the elaborate throne. Johrann continued.
‘Blasphemy?’ she asked. ‘How is it blasphemy to fulfil the duty that has been handed down by the word of Goddess? The only blasphemy that has been spoken in this chamber has been the words of this traitor,’ she said, motioning to the crumpled body at the foot of the altar. ‘My words come directly from Dorai and must not be questioned. Anyone who thinks that is blasphemy will share his fate.’
Washing herself of the stink of death, Johrann turned her attention to the altar and the effigy of Dorai.
‘Brothers and sisters,’ she said, ‘it is time to bring about our destiny.’
Every set of eyes focused on the five-armed statue that loomed over them. It was a chilling tableau of triumph over the false believers, and every jewel glimmered in the darkness. Johrann’s body tingled as power flowed through her. The unwavering obedience of the followers of the Dark made her heart sing. It is all that I deserve.
She had always known she was bound for greatness. Cast aside, unwanted, she found solace in the Dark love of Dorai. Now, everyone who mocked me, tormented me, will regret the day they were hatched... Johrann, once more, bowed low.
‘Your Grace,’ she said, ‘I am honoured that you have come to be with us on this blessed day, even with your armies decimating the Metakalans.’
