by Rena Barron
“Are the Uthurans your children?” I ask, hiding from the truth in their words.
Fram falls still, their voices silent for a long pause. “My children are too dangerous for the mortal world, so I keep them inside me.”
The Uthurans in the city below perform a ceremony to honor twelve people who died in an accident. They place their dead in a circle on a platform. Their heads form the inner ring of the circle, and their appendages form the outer. Twelve Uthurans lean to touch the deceased. They close their eyes, and energy begins to hum around the people on the platforms. Soon the dead Uthurans’ bodies start to flake away, like burned leaves careening on a breeze. They fade until there is nothing left but their souls. Gray mists rise from the platforms and float to the living. They open their mouths, their jaws stretching, and they eat the souls.
I startle beside Fram—surprised and confused. “This is death for the Uthurans?”
“Death and an extension of life,” Fram says, indifferent, as if the act isn’t extraordinary. “When someone dies an unnatural death, their soul holds their unused years. The Uthurans have found a way to absorb those years and add to their own life by eating souls.”
Excitement buzzes through my body. This is the closest thing that I’ve seen to immortality in any mortal world. It isn’t a cure for death, but it could extend Daho’s life until I find one.
“I wouldn’t do that,” Fram says, reading my thoughts. “The results may not be what you expect.”
I close my mind to them, the way Iben had always closed his mind to me. He had his secrets, and I will have my own. My brethren won’t approve of my plan. They are too complacent in the way things have always been, but I can change them. I can give Daho a chance.
“It’s only a thought,” I say, pretending to let it pass.
“Cherish your love for Daho while you can and hold your memories of him close when he’s gone,” Fram advises.
I peer into every city, town, and village of Uthura, learning about their death. “Yes,” I say, letting go of my physical body as I prepare to travel through the gate. “I hope that we have many more conversations throughout our long, stagnant lives.”
Fram laughs at that, the sounds like stars colliding. “I have a feeling that we will.”
When I am back with Daho in our little cabin, he holds me tight against his chest. I’m lost in a kiss when we receive visitors. I pull away from him, breathless. The two souls taste of day and night, summer and winter, and chaos.
“Is anyone home?” Re’Mec asks in kociti, the demon language. His voice is playful, but there is something dangerous underneath the surface. Daho tenses at my side, and his apprehension is a reminder of how small he is, how very fragile, very mortal.
“It’s okay,” I reassure him.
I cross the room and open the door, coming face-to-face with my brother Re’Mec for the first time. He and Koré wear human vessels.
“Hello, Dimma.” Re’Mec grins as he steps into the cabin, eyes roaming until they land on Daho. “You’ve found a little plaything, I see. One of Koré’s children, no less.” My brother sniffs the air. “Ah, he’s seen a few more sunrises than you, but he is still a babe.”
“You have learned much in such a short time,” Koré says, circling me. She pays no mind to Daho. “Emulating mortal kind and limiting yourself to their rules of life. I am impressed.”
Re’Mec pokes his finger into a bowl of half-eaten stew. “Tell me, Dimma, have you discovered your nature? What is your purpose in life?”
“I don’t know,” I whisper.
Re’Mec shrugs. “It took me two millennia to find mine.”
“Why have you come here?” I ask as Re’Mec licks the stew from his finger.
To give you some advice, he says, his voice projecting in my mind so Daho won’t hear. Fram told us about your mission to find a cure for mortality.
Be careful, little sister, Koré says, joining Re’Mec. A god’s love is a dangerous thing. There is a warning in her voice and regret. I once made the mistake of loving a mortal too much, and they paid the price.
I won’t let Daho die, I say.
You will try to save him and fail, Koré says.
Re’Mec pats the top of my head. You’ll find another lover after he’s gone, then another and another. That’s the way of our kind.
Take care, Dimma, Koré says as they disappear into the space between time.
My brethren thought their warning would be enough to stop me, but it only fueled my desire to prove them wrong.
Twenty-One
Arrah
Heavy fog creeps across the tribal lands as we head south toward Tribe Zu. The fog is usual for this time of the year, but it’s still frustrating that we can’t see more than a few steps ahead of us. I reach for the chieftains’ magic despite their disapproval after I turned the assassin into a ndzumbi. I’m afraid they will reject me, but, like an old friend, the magic comes at once. I can still do some good, but now I worry that I will make another mistake, or the Demon King will use it against me.
I need Grandmother’s gift to see across the threads of time to find out what happened to the survivors. Of the five chieftains, she is still disappointed in me. I’ve dishonored her memory, and for that, I am even more ashamed. She doesn’t speak, but I imagine her sitting in her tent, an eyebrow raised in expectation. Do better.
In her memories, I see a new way to peer into the past. It isn’t like when my ka traveled through time to Rudjek’s death in the Dark Forest. My heart aches, remembering him, broken and alone. He’d cracked a joke even on the edge of death. Here lies Rudjek Omari, he’d said. The one to put an end to the Omari legacy. I miss his humor. I miss him.
My mind homes in on the threads of time, invisible to all but the most talented witchdoctors. Thousands of faint white lines fill the air and weave through my friends and me like we are of no consequence. I catch echoes of memories trapped in the land. Impressions take shape in the early morning haze—the curve of a bloody mouth, an arm dangling from its socket, a mangled leg. I’m witnessing the remnants of a battle.
Essnai touches my arm, and I jump, my skin crawling. “You okay?”
I grip the strap of my burlap sack harder. My gaze roams from one apparition to another, each one more gruesome than the last. The question is so simple, but I have a mind to tell her all the ways I’m not okay. I failed to save the edam and the tribal people. I’ve killed, and I’ve stolen a man’s soul like a thief in the night. The Demon King thinks I’m his long-dead ama, and maybe I’ve lost Rudjek’s trust.
“Yes,” I say, not meaning to sound so feeble.
A Litho woman melts out of the fog, her face painted white, a rawhide cloak upon her shoulders. We’re not going to make it, she mouths, looking straight through me. A boy sucking his thumb clings to her side. Run. The word aches inside me. Run. It threatens to break free, and I clutch the strap until my hands burn. Run.
“You’re a horrible liar.” Essnai pats my shoulder. “You’re not okay.”
I shrug. “If you know that, then why ask?”
“To remind you that you’re not alone.” Her staff crunches against the ground as she walks alongside me. “We worry about you.”
I press my hand to my heart, counting myself lucky and feeling undeserving of such loyal friends. I’m relieved that neither she nor Sukar has asked about the Demon King. It’s like we’re kids again, racing through the Hall of Orishas, pretending to be gods. That was when Sukar let the older attendants braid his hair in cornrows, before he took to shaving his head. Essnai had already been a head taller and taking staff lessons in one of the makeshift rings in the East Market. The hall was our haven, a place we could laugh until our bellies hurt and talk about our dreams.
We’re pretending now—pretending that one day the world will be safe again, that we’ll get our old lives back. I’m pretending that I’m not a little broken inside, a little hollow, carved out, a lot jaded. That I’m going to keep the Demon King away, that
I can crush my curiosity about him. But I can’t pretend that I don’t see the final moments of people fleeing for their lives all around me. I let go of the memories from the battle, and the faces melt back into the fog.
“Something’s wrong here.” Sukar scratches his shoulder, then the side of his face. “My tattoos won’t stop itching.”
“You mean something’s wrong aside from the assassins on our trail who want to take our heads back to the Kingdom?” Tyrek interjects in his lazy drawl.
“They’re looking for your head, Prince,” Sukar says. “I’m obliged to let them take it, too.”
Tyrek wrinkles his nose and pokes out his tongue at Sukar like an insolent child. Essnai laughs, and even Sukar gives him a grudging smile.
So much magic has gathered across the foothills that along with the fog it blocks out the sunlight. Everything beyond the fog takes on a dangerous edge—the rustling of leaves, the crunch of grass underfoot, the low growls. I don’t sense anything wrong, but I trust Sukar’s instincts.
“It’s eerie that so many people died here, and there’s no sign left of them,” Tyrek says.
“Re’Mec and Koré burned the bodies after the battle,” Essnai tells him, her voice stricken. “I have no love for the orishas, but I respect them for putting the tribes to rest.”
“Rest?” Sukar scoffs. “I doubt that the orishas sang their burial songs or properly prepared them for ascension. I hardly call that rest.”
“Strange that Heka did not come to the tribal people’s aid,” Tyrek muses. Essnai and Sukar both go rigid, tension threading through their bodies. I hold my breath. “That he would abandon them shows how little the gods—any of them—care about us.”
I don’t say it aloud, but I agree with him. I’ll never forgive Heka for giving Efiya the full gift of his powers, nor for standing by while she destroyed the tribes. As my anger rises, the Demon King stirs at the edges of my mind, almost like he’s waiting for an invitation. His hesitation ebbs in the silence between breaths.
Tyrek stops on the trail up ahead and lets out a slew of curses that makes the three of us flinch. He stands still, his shoulders stiff, looking down. “The gods missed this one.” He nods at something half-covered on the ground.
We gather around it, and Essnai pushes back the grass with her staff. Tyrek buries his nose in the crook of his elbow, and Sukar gags. It’s a withered hand, leathered by the sun, plucked at by birds. “This can’t be from the battle,” I say, blood rushing in my ears. “The wounds look only days old.” I wonder if it’s from one of the people who had left the Kingdom to search for survivors.
“It looks like someone put it here on purpose,” Tyrek mumbles against his arm.
Sukar steps back and quietly retrieves his sickles. Their scrivener magic keeps them from making a sound as he does. He turns in a slow circle, his eyes sharp, his legs poised to spring into action.
“Let’s keep moving,” I say, on edge, too. The hand is a warning.
No one questions me as we push forward, picking up the pace to Tribe Zu. It takes all day, but we reach the foothills leading up another stretch of mountains without incident. A scatter of forts imbued with scrivener magic still stands on the outskirts of the tribe. Discarded staffs and darts and blades, broken masks, fire-scarred shields. We start our ascent on a winding path with Sukar leading the way, humming a burial chant, until he cuts off midsong. I follow his gaze to a head hanging from a tree branch, dangling from its hair.
I can’t stop staring at the holes where eyes should be and the light pouring through the back of the skull. I squeeze my hands into fists, my magic aching to let loose on anyone who could be so heartless and cruel.
“The blood is fresh,” Sukar says, his voice hollow.
“Does anyone else get the feeling that we’re walking into an obvious trap?” Tyrek pulls his shotels, the sound echoing in the mountains. “I’m quite sure that we are.”
“Shut it, Tyrek.” Essnai lifts her gaze to the treetops. Her shoulders shudder as she counts the heads, each with their eyes missing. “One for each tribe.” Her voice cracks. “Zu, Litho, Aatiri, Kes, Mulani.”
I drag my hands against my trousers as if I can wipe away the anger rotting my insides. Tyrek’s right—it’s a trap, and I can’t help but think it’s one especially for me. “Sukar, do you still have the mask?”
“It’s in my sack,” he says, peering into the surrounding woods.
Sukar stops so I can fish out the mask. I lean in close to him and loosen the drawstring. “You might just lead us to our deaths, Arrah N’yar.”
Beneath his sweat, he smells like sunshine and cloves. “No one can live forever,” I whisper in his ear. He lets out a little huff of disappointment.
I take the mask and peer into the Zu warrior’s last memory, scanning the horizon to find the ridge where the refugees fled before the battle. I start up the trail again with the others falling in line behind me. I gather the magic from the ground, the trees, the sky, pulling it around us, into a shimmering net. The shield is not so different from the one my mother had made to protect the villa. That her protection still stands so long after her death is another testament to her gift with magic.
“I thought I was ready to die,” Tyrek says, winded, “but I’ve changed my mind. The world would be lost without my company.”
I stop at the head of a pass leading up to a ridge that curves around the mountain. The last of the sunlight washes over the forest, shifting the sky to the first signs of night. “There.”
It’s dark when we reach the ridge underneath the stars and full moon. I turn in circles as Tyrek leans against a tree to rest. Sukar and Essnai keep their eyes open for trouble. “I can feel something here,” I murmur.
I let go of the shield and tap into the chieftains’ magic again to get a clearer picture. White light stretches out in every direction from the spot where I stand, a mess of confusing trails. There isn’t enough time, says a man hauling two children and a baby in his arms. Which path? cries another. It’s too late, someone else screams.
The memory is of the group the Zu warrior had seen fleeing before the demons attacked. They’re the last to come here. “It’s a crossroads.” My heart drums against my chest. “The Zu created a maze of roads to trick the demons and give the survivors time to escape.” I don’t tell them that it’s like the maze that Efiya used to trick me. “You have to walk the right path, or else the other paths will lead you in circles.”
“You’ve found them,” Essnai says, her eyes wide.
“Not yet.” I inhale, and the tightness in my chest loosens a bit. “I need to figure out which path to take.”
“But we’re close,” adds Sukar. “I count that as a win.”
It’s hard to temper my growing excitement, too, after two hard weeks between the assassins and the Demon King. A part of me had been afraid that we would come here and find nothing, but this is so much more than I could ever hope for. With the crossroads, we have a clear path to finding the tribal people. “Should we go tonight or wait until morning—”
“Watch out!” Tyrek pushes me aside.
Something lands with a heavy thump and rolls across the ground. I stare down in horror at the severed head at our feet—the mud-caked hair, the bloody face, the dead hazel eyes. It’s the man who I turned into a ndzumbi. I hear it at once: the rustle of footfalls in the leaves and swords drawing from scabbards. The assassins haven’t fallen for my trick, and they’ve come to take their revenge.
Twenty-Two
Arrah
Thirty black-clad assassins slink across the mountain brush wielding straight swords and shotels. They spread out, cutting off any possible escape route. Essnai and Sukar have their weapons ready before I even think to call my magic. I don’t want to hurt these people, but from the determined looks in their eyes, we may not have a choice.
Tyrek nudges my side as the assassins draw close. “Now would be the time to do something fancy with your magic.”
“Cleve
r,” Sukar says, the symbols on his sickles glowing. “Let’s taunt the person who’s likely going to save your butt tonight.”
“I’m sure you’d rather she not,” Tyrek retorts. “One more person out of your way.”
“Can you both stop,” I snap. “This isn’t the time for petty bickering. I need to think.”
“There’s always time for petty bickering,” Tyrek says as I fling out my arm to deflect a dagger headed for his heart. He stumbles back, shaking. “I guess I see your point.”
The assassins race for us, headlong, their swords raised. More daggers slice through the air, and Essnai and Sukar take turns knocking them back one by one. “Think faster!” Essnai says as one clips her staff.
Frantic, I snatch magic from the night sky. It rushes forward and burns through my skin. Angry welts rise on my hands and arms, and I can feel them on my face and neck. With the draw of magic, the Demon King surges forward into my mind, his rage and frustration mixing with my own.
I put up another shield, and the three closest assassins run straight through it. I grimace as they drop to their knees, their shotels hitting the ground. It takes all my strength not to look away. Smoke wafts up from the assassins’ elaras and their skin. In mere moments they ignite in flame and fall in a heap of ashes. The other assassins slow their approach and stay well beyond the shield.
“No more have to die today,” I shout to the assassins. “Leave, and we’ll spare your lives.”
“You’ll spare our lives?” spits a man with a scar on his right cheek. He points to what’s left of the assassin I turned into a ndzumbi. “Did you think about his life when you made him do your bidding?”
“As best I recall, you and your thugs are the ones who cut his head off,” I shoot back.
“The Almighty One was right about you and your kind.” The man looks down his nose at me. “You’ll enslave us all if we don’t put an end to you now.”
“Don’t say she didn’t give you fair warning.” Sukar lets out a deep sigh. “You had a chance to walk away.”
