Outside, the village has quieted. Juba steps out and smiles at me.
“Shall we go for a walk?” she asks.
We wind through the village’s center until we arrive at a four-floor mud-and-stone building. It sounds like a war is happening inside, all shouting and loud bangings and what I realize are curses, but Juba chuckles warmly.
“This is where you and Aliya will be staying.” She points to the top floor. “The family has cleared space for you.”
“Wait. This is all one family?” It sounds like two armies dueling in there.
“The village is small,” she replies by way of explanation. “We have no choice but to keep our family close.” She turns. “Walk with me.” And we head toward what looks like the edge of the village.
I make my way up to the bowl’s edge, tripping and scrabbling, while Juba walks with the same grace as before. Maybe, with time, I’ll figure out the proper pathways. Right now, it’s like climbing a very, very steep hill, and I’m slipping all over the place, trying to find footholds and handholds. But eventually, I make it to the top and dust myself off.
To our left and right are the Sentinels. The arashi-watchers. Their eyes are white like the aki, like the tastahlik, but they don’t have any sin-spots. Maybe that’s why they’re able to grow so old. Who can live a long life doing what we do? That doesn’t explain the Elders, though.
“I come here sometimes as well,” she tells me. “The air is different up here. And it reminds us of the vastness of the world beyond our own.” She looks to me. “Even our Onija are lulled into peaceful contemplation when they set foot here.”
“Onija?”
“Fighters.” She turns her gaze out over the expanse. “The women who welcomed you when you first arrived in our village, they are Larada. Our Healers. We are born with a remarkable gift. What you in Kos call Balance. It is the same for us. We pull blemish from the soul and wear it on our own when no one else can. We round the Circle. Our custom dictates that we tastahlik are to be either Onija or Larada. I believe Olurun made us to be Larada. Others in my village believe otherwise.” She looks at her hands, clenches one into a fist, then unclenches it. “I would prefer us all to be Larada—Healers.”
Quiet hangs in the air around us.
“Can I ask you something?” I pause. “You and Arzu . . .”
Juba lets out a soft chuckle, a smirk twisting her lips. She bows her head, like she’s calling up memories, like she’s jumping into a lake and fishing them out with her own hands. “I’ve known Arzu since we were children,” Juba says at last. “Being the chief’s daughter came with certain perks. And certain drawbacks. I used to hate our visits to all these foreign parts of the Kingdom of Odo. All these other cities with all these other rulers with whom we had to exchange gifts and keep up relations. Sometimes, when no real gift was appropriate, they would give me as their gift.”
“What?”
She smiles at me wryly. “I was a hostage.” She shrugs. “I was treated with the utmost respect, of course. But, yes, I was a hostage. If relations soured between my family and another’s, I was to be the sacrifice. A way of repaying debts.”
“How could your father do that to you?” I try to imagine Mama and Baba doing the same with me. I remember how Mama cried when she saw my eyes had changed and they realized I was aki. I remember how stone-faced Baba got when he realized what this meant for my future. It broke their hearts to have to give me up. Yet that’s exactly what Juba’s parents did to her.
“Another of our customs that I’m sure is very odd to you.” She looks to me, scrutinizing me for my reaction, then focuses her gaze back on the night-black horizon. “I was often held a hostage of the Kaya family. They treated me wonderfully, and the food in Kos is almost without peer. It is perhaps why you will recognize some of it here.”
“You stole our recipes?”
“Borrowed.” She winks. “Anyway, that is where I met Arzu and her mother.”
“And became friends?”
Juba seems lost in contemplation. “More than that.”
“More?”
“For Arzu and her mother, my visits to the Palace were their only remaining connection to their homeland. I would bring news with me. News of births. News of weddings. News of deaths.”
“I see.”
“They made sure that the Palace knew all of our customs so that nothing the Kaya family did would offend me or my father. And, in return, Arzu would teach me of Kos.” Juba looks to the sky, and her brow furrows like she is searching for memories or stories in the stars. “We would sneak out and spend whole days wandering the Palace grounds before guards would find us and scoop us up. We upset our handlers so much. She would show me the Forum, and she would show me Gemtown. One day, she showed me gemstones she had jewelers make for me. I would wear them in my ears, and whenever I would return home, the rest of the tribe would marvel at what I’d brought with me from Kos.” Tears start to form in Juba’s eyes.
“You were in love.”
“Yes.” She nods, and it is the saddest thing I’ve ever seen. Like watching her get her heart broken all over again. “Even as children, we knew we were meant for each other. There was no one else I wanted to spend time with. I would detest visiting other royal families. But I would look forward to every visit to Kos and to the Kayas. Every visit meant that I would get to see my Arzu once again.”
“But what happened? You no longer wear the earstones she gave you.”
Juba touches her earlobes. “No, I do not.” Her hand falls to her side. “I am a Healer. And what we Healers do taxes us immensely. It is a severe drain on the body. As you know, few people who Eat sins last into old age.” She looks at her hands. “Long ago, it was decreed that tastahlik were forbidden from forming attachments of the nature that Arzu and I wanted. We could never marry. Never form a family. All tastahlik are made to live this way. When my eyes turned, it was the end of me and Arzu. My father died soon after, and the visits to Kos ended. Because I was his only heir, I was obligated to remain behind and send emissaries in my stead.”
“So this was your first time seeing Arzu since . . . since you were both kids?”
She nods, mournful. “Yes. Yes, it was.”
We stand on the ridge for a long time, neither of us speaking, then Juba turns to leave. “I wish you a peaceful night, Taj of Kos.”
“Taj of Kos?” I laugh. Makes me think of the little titles the younger aki who looked up to me used to give me back when we lived in the shanties of Kos. Lightbringer. Sky-Fist. Like I was some sort of hero. It always annoyed me—or, at least, I would pretend it did. Secretly, it made me feel pretty good. Legendary, even. Now it feels like a lie. “Just Taj is fine.”
“Taj, then.”
She turns to leave, but one of the Sentinels stirs. Then they all turn and face the same direction. East. I follow their gaze. There’s movement in the darkness. What looks like a single writhing mass turns out to be people. A lot of them. More refugees.
My heart leaps into my throat.
They’re from Kos. I don’t know how I know it, but I feel the certainty in my heart just as much as I feel the ground beneath my feet. They’re from Kos.
CHAPTER 13
THE REFUGEES STUMBLE into a run when they see the lights of the village. By now, the tastahlik have gathered to greet them, and some of them rush out to meet them in the desert. But the first of the refugees stops where they are. I can see even from where I stand on the ridge the fear and horror in their eyes.
“Aki!” someone shouts, then everything turns to chaos. A woman carrying a child in a wrap at her chest runs off into the darkness, leading a mass of others where we cannot see. Some of the younger children at the front pull out stones and slings and knives from their packs. They jump to the front of the group to protect the others. Some of the refugees collapse where they stand, weeping. That’s when I reali
ze what is happening.
They’ve just fled Kos. Where the aki serve as Karima’s soldiers. Maybe some survived Bo’s rampages. Every time they have seen sin-spots, it has meant death and destruction.
Before I know what I’m doing, I break away from the tastahlik and wave my arms. “We are not aki!” I shout. It sounds strange to say it. It’s true, but I have been aki all my life. Spit on because of it, stepped over because of it, used by Mages because of it. I pray that none of these Kosians recognize me for who I really am—or who I once was. “We are not aki!” I shout again.
Three of the young refugees charge toward me, their weapons raised high. Their clothes are tatters on their ashen skin. I skid to a stop. “No, no! We are here to help you. We have water! We have food!”
“It is a trick!” someone shouts from the crowd. “They are Queen Karima’s soldiers.”
A little girl with makeshift knives carved out of stone in each hand charges to the front of the group, ready to cut whoever comes closer. Her shoulders shiver with anger.
Suddenly, Juba is at my side. “We do not serve Karima.” Her voice booms into the night. It does not sound like it’s coming from her throat. It sounds like it’s coming from the sky itself. Like thunder. “We do not serve Karima,” Juba repeats. “We are not aki. We are tastahlik. We are healers.” She unsheathes her sword and lays it at her feet. The kids charging toward me stop. Juba takes a single step forward. Then Aliya joins her, and Arzu. They look healthy and rested and determined. They both carry baskets of puff puff and bread. Someone from the village arrives with a massive jug of water in his arms. Juba leads them forward, and they meet the children, the other refugees cowering behind.
I cannot hear what Juba says to the children, but they speak for a long time. Quietly. Then one of the boys slips his knife back into his torn shoes and dips his hands into the jug of water, cups it in his palms, and brings it to his mouth to drink. At first, he is shy about it, unsure. It leaks down his arms. But then he gulps it down and falls to his knees. The two girls with him each grab a piece of puff puff and turn it over into their hands before biting into it. They smile.
When the other refugees see the children walk past Juba and Aliya and Arzu and toward the rest of us, they begin to make their way. They walk slowly, haltingly. But then I see them stop worrying. Some of them start to run. Many of them weep with thanks. Those who collapse are pulled up by others and carried in their arms or on their backs. We hurry to the front of the group and lead them toward the village.
In the chaos of arriving here and meeting these new people and being welcomed, I hadn’t been thinking about Kos. Guilt spreads through my chest. I hadn’t been thinking about Mama and Baba, the Aunties, the aki who were once as siblings to me. If they’re somewhere in this crowd, I don’t know that I’d even have the courage to show them my face.
* * *
• • •
One of the women—a Larada—with braids tied and twisted in a zigzag pattern behind her head, leads some of us to a nearby stream. As soon as I crest the hill, I can see the line of villagers filling pots. They dip them into the water, then, when they are full, they make the return climb up the hill to where the refugees are camping. I’ve been given a jug of my own, and so has Aliya. The air is chilly now, so it no longer looks strange for me to wear this sand-colored cloak that covers the skin of my arms and legs. I thought I’d never be ashamed of my sin-spots again, but then I remember the looks on the faces of those first refugees who saw me, and my cheeks burn. My mind flashes to what they must’ve gone through back in Kos. What others are still going through. Mama, Baba, the Aunties . . . None of them were among the new arrivals.
“I’m sure they are safe,” Aliya says next to me, and I know she’s talking about my parents.
I try to smile like I believe her, but we both know that I do not. We arrive at the river and walk into it so that our robes float around us. All around us, people talk in whispers. The more I listen to the stories the refugees tell—of the arashi that hover over the city, of the way Karima indiscriminately demolishes the dahia with dynamite and rearranges the very streets of Kos, of the way aki patrol the Forum with armored inisisa—the more difficult it is not to worry. It feels as though I have left them behind—abandoned them.
Villagers glance at me and Aliya when they think we’re not looking. I see the suspicion in their eyes. We’re not familiar merchants in caravans they’re used to seeing. We’re something different. We’re strangers. And we’ve brought our problems with us.
Aliya silently finishes filling her pot, and I wonder what she’s thinking about. With the pot on her shoulder, she walks ahead, and I follow. She slows down like she’s adjusting her balance. Her body sways a little. Her left arm goes slack, and without warning, she collapses, her water pot shattering on the rocks at her feet, spilling water everywhere.
“Aliya!” I rush to her, dropping my own pot as she scrabbles in the dirt, trying to recover the water. Her left arm no longer works. She falls onto her back, and I try to bring her head into my lap as her body seizes. “Aliya, are you OK?”
She shakes so violently that several times I worry she’ll bloody my nose. But I hold her as tightly to me as possible. Beads of sweat dot her upper lip. Her eyes bulge. A film glazes over them.
Her shaking grows more violent, then I notice it. The wetness in the ground around us moves. Then, slowly, streams of water, like string, rise from the dirt. They form fingers that arc like sins ready to be Eaten. My mouth hangs open at the sight.
Aliya stills in my lap. The thin columns of water collapse. I look around, but no one else seems to have noticed it. Was this real? Did I just imagine it?
When I look down, Aliya’s eyes return to normal.
This time, when she shakes, I know it’s from fear and not from whatever had overtaken her. I want to ask what happened, where she went to when she was possessed, but I know the best thing for me to do is to hold her like this and let her believe—let her know—that whatever difficulty she must walk through, I am here to walk through it with her.
CHAPTER 14
AFTER HER EPISODE at the river, I’d wanted to get help for Aliya, but she insisted on walking on her own. “It was a fainting spell—I’m just dehydrated,” she said.
Inside the building, we walk up the winding stone stairs that lead up to the little attic door in the ceiling. Aliya climbs through first, and I follow.
The dwelling Aliya and I occupy is never quiet. There’s always a party going on underneath us: singing, glasses clinking together, bowls landing on wooden tables, kids giggling. The happy noises are pleasant, and we’re grateful Juba was able to arrange for us to stay here, but our quarters do feel a little cramped—more like an attic than anything else.
A single family lives in this building, but the family’s large enough to occupy three whole floors. It seems like there’s one floor for every generation. I can’t imagine what it must be like to have everybody you’re related to practically living on top of you.
They’ve given Aliya a desk here, and parchment and half-rolled books litter it. The discards form a graveyard of sorts at the feet of her chair. But now she lies in bed, resting. Her breathing starts to slow, and I can tell she’s fallen asleep.
I sit on the floor looking through the pieces of parchment. It’s all equations and proofs and all sorts of lahala. It boggles my mind how she’s been able to make such a mess in so short a time. I hear Aliya stir in her sleep and turn around. Her eyes are still closed, and her hair falls in strands over her face. Her cheeks are flushed a light ruby red. My heart trip-hammers in my chest, and my throat tightens.
The way my stomach dropped when I thought she was hurt terrifies me. Back in Kos, Eating sins for a living, watching others die from the work, I learned that caring about what happened to others always led to heartbreak. And, anyway, warming my heart for Aliya? It would complicate everything. Besi
des, with what she’s going through, Aliya needs a friend right now. Not a heart-mate.
Aliya’s eyes flutter open, and I look away quickly, pretending to be busy cleaning up the papers.
“You’re awake,” I say, my back turned to her.
“Barely,” she says.
She props herself up in her bed and rests her cheek in the palm of one hand and looks at me, her head cocked to the side like a bird.
“Do you remember that boar from the forest?” she asks sleepily. When I don’t respond, she continues: “When you called forth your own sin and the inisisa came out, it came out as a wild boar. You put your hand to its head, and its shadows melted away, and it became a beast made of light.”
“Yes, I remember.” In all honesty, I only have flashes from that time in the forest. I remember running away from Kos, leaving it behind. I remember my lungs getting ready to burst. I remember vomiting my sin onto the forest floor, and I remember the intense mix of pain and guilt and sadness that I felt when the sin came bubbling up in me. Then bits and pieces of the animal. But I must have passed out right after. “A little bit.”
“Well.” She slowly gets out of bed and stumbles. I rush to her side, but she waves me away. Dark spots, like copper ramzi, dot her pillow. She takes a staff from the wall. Minutely detailed carvings of sin-beasts run up and down its length. “It looked very interesting when I first saw it in the village. The carpenter gave it to me as a gift. Who knew it would be so useful?” She uses it to get to her desk, then shuffles some curled papers around. She pulls one sheet out from under a stack of parchment slips, rolls it into a cylinder, then hands it to me. “Read that.”
It’s been so long since I’ve had a chance to spin a book—to watch the words become images before my eyes. I take it, put it to my eye, and begin to let it slide apart. At first, it’s just a jumble of lines and curves. Black ink on brown parchment. Then, all of a sudden, I freeze. It can’t be. For a long time, I’m staring at the thing my eye takes in. “But . . . how?” My memory of the boar returns. I can see it now, all of it. “That’s . . . you drew the boar.”
Crown of Thunder Page 8
