by Beth Wangler
“On such a large scale…” the poufy-pant royal whispers dubiously to his neighbor, but the words travel.
The sultan glares at him and continues. “Let us waste no more time. There are how many signs left?”
“Four,” Savi answers.
Before I can speak, two new people run up to the courtyard. Colored clothing, clean except for the dust of travel, marks them as trusted servants—slave or free—of high position. “A message from the royal Kaflak’s wife and overseer, for our great sultan and honored royals,” one of them says.
A young man lifts a finger. “I am the royal Kaflak.”
The messenger bows. “Our city is despised by the divinities, O my royal. A great wall of fire surrounded us. No sooner did it disappear than our water filled with death beyond the power of our magicians and physicians to heal. I was sent to beg the great magicians to intercede for us.”
The other servant steps forward and bows. “So also is the story of my royal’s wife and quarter.”
A few of the royals exclaim. I catch whispers— “So widespread!” “All of our families affected?”
The sultan raps the horned viper armrests of his throne. “Say no more of this,” he orders. He looks at the messengers, but he clearly is addressing the royals, too.
“Cousin, why do you silence these reports?” one of his companions asks. “Our tradition has ever allowed the royals information about our families, and the sultan has ever been our great defender from all of the Devourer’s works.”
Just loud enough for their words to carry, someone says, “See how far the Maraian Champions’ power reaches—to distant cities!”
I can’t fight back a smile. Savi whispers in my ear, “This is a good time, I think.”
Before the sultan can respond to the royals, I take a deep breath, relax, and say the words that come to my mouth.
“This is what Aia says: ‘Now justice has come on every person who has lifted a hand against Maraiah. When you are marked like the sand by a scourge, when you writhe like the ground itself, which feasted on my people’s blood, then you will know that I am greater than Zyphor Groundshaper.’”
There is no wait this time, no room for the Izyphorns to change their minds and free our people. The sultan jerks forward with a scream. His hands fumble as far back as he can reach, then he tips and falls on the ground. Dark red stripes cut across his long royal-yellow vest. Any slave would instantly recognize them as lashes from a whip. I saw them first on my father’s back when he tripped and dropped his load. I felt them first when I gave my only meal of the day to a friend in the stocks.
They are what he deserves.
The other royals stare at the sultan for a moment before they flinch and groan in surprise and pain. Lash marks stripe their backs, too, along with bruises.
The sultan moans, whines, and groans out, “Have mercy, great Zyphor, have mercy! I am your grandson. By the horned viper—ah!—it hurts! Father Rezik, pity! Pity us!”
“Let’s go,” I tell Savi, Forziel, and Yori.
The four of us turn away. “Wait,” one of the writhing royals cries, but we ignore them. They refused Aia’s last offer of leniency; now we will see all seven signs.
Everywhere, Izyphorns cry and groan on the ground. The slaves we pass watch them with fascination and disgust.
A small, diverse crowd huddles close to our camp, watching for us. The few Izyphorns among them sport the smallest array of bruises I’ve seen result from this sign. Are they going to give us trouble? I’m instantly more alert, and if Savi guiding us around the crowd instead of through them is any indication, he is, too. Luemikaroeth taps against my thigh, but I shy away from the idea of using it against humans, just as we avoided with the bandits. Please, Aia, don’t let them mob us.
As we skirt them, a few step toward us. My pulse quickens. I nudge Yori so that I’m walking between her and the crowd.
“Wait,” a sturdy woman with a black eye and hair piled on top of her head calls.
You are a Champion, I remind myself. How can I be afraid of these people after facing the aivenkaites?
We slow. “What do you want?” Savi asks carefully.
“We want to know about your divinity.”
I trip. “You do?”
“Yes. He is becoming troublesome to our lives, and we want to know why.”
I stifle a laugh. “Then I’ll tell you a story. It’s a very long story, though. Is there somewhere we can sit down?”
In the time we were at the palace, the Feasters have started packing up their temporary stalls. Half the tents are half torn down. “The Feast isn’t over yet, is it?” I check with Forziel. If it is, if our period of immunity from execution is over, then we need to proceed more cautiously.
“No, we’ve still got days,” Forziel answers. “The Feast is always celebrated for a full week.”
“No one’s in much of a Feasting mood,” one of the Izyphorns says, scratching a red welt.
We settle in a newly-cleared gap between tents, and I begin telling these Izyphorns of our true history. Some listen with rapt attention, as eager as Pitka used to be. Some listen with their eyes half-closed and their heads tilted, trying to make sense of what I’m saying where it contradicts what they’ve been told their whole lives. Some outright scoff and turn away in short order.
I ignore the latter and speak on. Changing the words at the Lake of Living Water raises bumps on my arms. “‘Through your legacy I will redeem creation.’” Can even these Izyphorns be part of Nhardah’s legacy?
For a moment, it seems impossible. Izyphor is the enemy of Aia, right? But maybe this is just how He finally restores what was Rent at the Pond of Separation. Maybe I will live to see the day when every person on Orrock decides to love and follow their Maker.
I tell of the Rending and of humans being scattered over Orrock, of the first plague and the first murder.
Around the time that I reach the story of Vander-turned-Maraiah, there is new movement around the edges of the tent clearing. I ignore it until Savi grips my elbow. Then I notice spear tips glinting among the newcomers.
“Rai, we need to go,” Savi hisses.
“Let me just finish this story,” I whisper back.
I open my mouth, and someone shouts a command. There is movement—I can’t quite track it, through the collapsing tents. Then guards surround us, spears leveled.
I jump to my feet. A quick glance shows we’re surrounded.
Forziel. Yori! Maybe they were far enough to avoid capture.
But no. Forziel flinches away from a spearpoint. “Hey, watch it with that thing,” he grouses.
I raise my chin and scowl at the guards. “What is the meaning of this?”
“We have the sultan and royals’ permission to go free,” Savi reminds them, voice calm but grip on my arm tight.
“We’re under orders to arrest you for inciting the populace,” a guard drones. “Take their swords.”
Savi and I jerk away from the guards who advance. I angle myself between Luemikaroeth and the Izyphorn. “No.”
“We will go with you, but we won’t give up our swords.” Savi reaches for Elgarnoseth at his side.
Confusion washes over the guards where I expect frustration. Then their leader says, “They don’t have their swords. Grab them and take them to the dungeon.”
That confuses me enough that the guards grab hold of me and shove me back toward the palace. Savi and I look at each other but don’t say anything.
“Hey, let go!” Yori grunts. She bends her knees and drops toward the ground, yanking her guard along. The guard curses, Yori twists, and she lurches to her feet.
“Run!” I shout to her when she hesitates.
Yori meets my eyes and obeys. Her guard dives after her but misses.
“Hey!” Forziel shouts, struggling against his captor without avail. “Let go of me!” We’re dragged up the street, and the palace courtyard comes into view.
We’re jerked past the faces of the
dead. “The Feast of Wheat,” I remind our guards. “You can’t do this. You’re not allowed to kill us.”
The guard holding me snorts. “Look around. Feast’s over, or it may as well be.”
“Be quiet, all of you,” their leader orders.
I glare at him.
No matter what I try—dragging my feet, yanking against the hands holding me, sticking my good ankle out to trip the guards—I can’t get free, and they keep prodding us toward the dungeons. At least I still have Luemikaroeth, and Savi has Elgarnoseth, but how do we still have them? What happened back there?
Light fades, and filth increasingly discolors the halls. We’re forced through heavily-barred doors into a hall I recognize from our last time in prison, though I can’t remember which cell we were in.
Unlike before, a man dressed in Feast clothes and flanked by two bodyguards stands in the middle of the prison hall. “What are you doing here?” the leader of our guards asks.
The stranger tisks and crosses his arms. “Is that the way you talk to nobles? I won’t be surprised to hear you’ve lost your rank and become one of your wards. Show some respect to your betters.”
Forziel snorts. All traces of levity are gone from his face. Forziel glowers at the strange noble. “That explains why he’s not respecting you, Amkal. You’re hardly anyone’s better.”
The noble’s lips press into a thin, sarcastic smile. “Forziel. I hoped you’d be happier to see me, considering the circumstances. After all, I’m your best hope of freedom now.”
“You see, a lifetime of slavery has taught me not to trust you. Maybe you should have thought of that before you killed my mom and brother. Or was that too inconvenient for you, Father?”
What?
Amkal’s smirk hardens. “Listen, boy—”
“I will never listen to you.” And Forziel spits at him.
Amkal’s eyes narrow to slits, and his bare shoulders tense. “Then you’ll rot in prison until your execution,” he says.
Savi moves between the two men as much as he can, disgust lining his face as he scowls at Amkal—at this noble, Forziel’s father. Before Savi can say anything, the guard leader drawls, “So we’re all in agreement. Into the cell you go.”
Light from the hall creeps into the cell when the guard leader unbolts the door. These aren’t the same cellmates as before, but hopefully these ones will also fear Aia. Maybe they’ll fear Him even more, if they’ve heard about the signs. If not, we’re aware that we have our swords this time, but I still don’t want to use them against humans.
We’re shoved through the low doorway. “Forziel, you’ve got a lot to explain,” I warn our guide.
The door bangs shut, extinguishing every hint of light. The hair on my arms stands up. “I know,” Forziel sighs.
My heart goes cold, but not because of the blackness. “Savi, draw Elgarnoseth,” I order. I fumble Luemikaroeth free of my belt.
A bare foot slaps the sodden cell floor. Another footstep comes from the opposite direction.
“Hae-Aia,” I breathe. “Forziel, stay behind me.” I grab his arm and shove him against the door.
An unfamiliar voice chuckles.
Another footfall, this one from the left.
“Stay back,” I order. My arm shakes. “I am Raiballeon and this is Saviayr. We are Aia’s Champions.”
Snickers bounce around the room. “We know who you are. Do you think you two children frighten us? Poor, sad Savi. Think of your dead father.”
“Shut up,” Savi chokes.
“You’ll be joining him soon,” the voice scratches on.
Another footfall.
I have to pray. That’s what the kaites always said. But fear drinks my words and weighs my tongue.
I squeeze my eyes shut. Pray. Come on, Raiballeon.
Aia, help us. We’re lost without You.
Another footfall. Hot breath bathes my face.
My eyes fly open. Luemikaroeth glows. A hand’s breadth away is the parchment-white face of a Larien.
An aivenkaite stares out of his eyes. “Hello, Raiballeon,” it taunts. “Or should I call you by your real name: Mailoua.”
Chapter 38
Luemikaroeth’s light flickers. The demon’s grin widens.
I shove the blade under his nose. “That is no longer my name,” I declare. “I have a name. I am blessed. I am the leader of Aia’s people, and you’re going back to the Void where you belong.”
The aivenkaite’s face twitches, and very human fear covers his features. “Please,” a voice with a Larien accent begs in the Common Tongue, “I didn’t realize what I was agreeing to. Don’t let it kill me.”
Then the face twitches back into a smirk. “Are you so sure about that, Mailoua?”
“Rai, what’s happening?” Savi asks. He holds Elgarnoseth out on his other side, one hand back toward Forziel behind us.
“The bodies they’re in are still alive,” I grunt out, teeth clenched.
“Can they even do that?” Forziel asks.
The aivenkaites chortle. “Oh, sure,” one says.
“We can dwell in anybody,” another says.
I touch Luemikaroeth to the Larien’s chest, watching him flinch back and lose his smirk. “Only if they give you permission first,” I remind them. Elesekk they killed from outside his body; Savi they whispered to; in order to fully possess someone, aivenkaites need a willing host.
“Watch it with that thing,” the Larien-aivenkaite hisses.
“Oh, does it hurt?” I inch it closer.
“Watch it—” and he calls me a name in the aivenkaite tongue that I’m fairly certain is too insulting to translate.
The insult gives me confidence. I take a half-step forward, herding the aivenkaites back with my glowing sword. “With this blade, I can hurt you far more than I’ll hurt your host.”
All eight of them snarl. “That’s why the guards were to relieve you of your weapons. But it’s no matter: If you nick us, if you send us back to the Void, you can be sure we’ll rip the souls out of these bodies on our way,” they promise. “You’ll be killing them, and we all know you don’t kill humans, little slave.”
I halt. Aivenkaites never make idle threats.
There goes our upper hand.
“But Rai, they agreed to it,” Savi whispers. “These people are evil, right? It’s different than with the bandits.”
“They deserve to die,” Forziel adds.
The aivenkaites sneer. “They’re right, and you know it. Go on. Rid the world of both our evils.”
Anger builds in me, searing hot, at their taunting. It goads me to act, but I have to think. How anyone could invite an aivenkaite into them is too grotesque for me to comprehend. These beings of pure evil, whose only desire is to cause suffering to the humans that Aia favored equally with them—what could prompt someone to let that into themselves? Surely the person who welcomes an aivenkaite must be equally as evil as an aivenkaite itself.
But they are still human. The kaites always said it is Aia who judges and decides the fate of humans—those who spread death shall drink its violence themselves. I’ve never wanted to kill. Can life, can freedom, come through murder? History shows otherwise. After the plague wiped out Nhardah, Neemech, and Sain’s families without touching Nhardah, Neemech was so enraged that he tried to kill his brother. Sain threw herself between them—they hadn’t yet realized that Nhardah was immortal—and died instead. Even though her death was unintended, Neemech’s descendants have still been cursed to isolation and wandering through all history.
Surely it will not end better for me if I kill these people, even if they are evil. It might lengthen Maraiah’s enslavement, too, even longer than if Savi and I die in this cell.
The torment of the decision makes my hand wobble. I can’t kill them—but thinking that I might keeps these aivenkaites at bay. When they realize they aren’t in danger, they’ll attack.
What will happen then? We’re in a tight space, hardly wide enough to st
retch both arms out. There’s a chance that the noble—Forziel’s father—might hear our struggle and let us out, but he stalked out of the dungeon as the guards threw us in here. The sultan and royals won’t look for us, not until they can’t stand this sign any longer.
When I say no, am I consigning Savi, Forziel, and myself to death?
Aia, our lives are in Your hands.
The Larien aivenkaite starts to chuckle, quiet at first, but growing in volume. His peers join in, a cackling chorus. “Ah, Mailoua, your thoughts are transparent. Siblings, do your worst.”
“Rai?” Savi asks.
In the heartbeat before an aivenkaite lunges, my awareness of the room sharpens. Luemikaroeth’s light wavers in my shaking hand, but I see the dark, empty corners of the cell.
Then an aivenkaite in a man dives for me; the rest pounce. While the sword gave me knowledge of swordplay, no brilliant instincts come over me for how to fight hand-to-hand. I try to dodge—his fist catches my shoulder. Pain hits, and things go fuzzy.
I know I’m striking back as best as I can.
I know I have to keep hold of Luemikaroeth but keep her blade away from the aivenkaites.
I know I may die.
“Keep your thumb out of your fist when you punch,” Forziel calls.
I duck. Where are my thumbs? A foot flies at my face. Spin to the side, throw Luemikaroeth into my left hand, clench fingers into a fist. Thumb out? An aivenkaite lurches at me, and I can’t check my form, I just shove my fist at her.
I hit her, but another aivenkaite’s coming for my side, and I skip out of the way, and my weak ankle twists. I scream.
“Rai!” Savi shouts, then he roars. I don’t have time to think, because two aivenkaites come at me at once. My ankle will have to wait; first I must survive.
The aivenkaites’ fists fly at me, but midway I realize their aim is wrong. One arm flies past my ear, one skims just the side of my arm. I elbow one and hit the other with the metallic dollop at the end of Luemikaroeth’s grip.
They fall, giving me a heartbeat to glance around the cell. The same thing is happening to Savi and Forziel: The aivenkaites’ attacks miss them. Forziel throws a punch that sends the Larien leader flying backward then kicks another square in the chest.
