"I'm so sorry," Gita whispered so not even he could hear it. "I didn't know about the prophecy. I would have come to you and told you. You know that, don't you?"
Of course he didn't know that. He didn't know her…
She had shadowed him like a wraith since the first day he had stepped foot into their village, but Mikhail had hardly noticed her. No one ever did. But he had done something no one else in this village had ever done for her except, perhaps, for Jamin. Mikhail had given her a chance. Given her the dignity of his warrior training class, teaching her that she didn't need to be a victim.
The pale, yellow light of the tallow lantern cast a sickly pallor. Her hand trembled as she touched the high, chiseled cheekbones which had inhabited her dreams ever since the day she had met him. His chest rose and fell, labored, painful, bandaged up and reeking of myrrh sap and chamomile. Firouz shifted behind her, reminding her she was watched … and not trusted.
"Any word about Chief Kiyan?" Gita asked. The Chief was a reasonable man, but ever since he'd allowed the Tribunal to banish his son, he'd all-but vanished from the public eye. Would he banish her, too, if she explained why she hadn't told anyone about the white-winged Angelic?
"Even if it was your concern," Firouz stared out the tiny window. "You would be the last person I would tell."
"He's my Chief, too!"
"Because of you," Firouz spat. "Mikhail didn't have any warning!"
Fresh tears joined the ones which had fallen, soaking the neckline of the red cape which reeked of Shahla's blood. Because of her, Shahla was dead. Because of her, Ninsianna had been taken. Because of her, the Chief of not only this village, but every Ubaid village, was missing and presumed dead. Because of her, the beautiful winged man who had fallen from the stars had been ambushed and might very well die.
That dark gift, the one which showed her where people were weak, whispered which truth which would cut Firouz to the bone.
"Because of you," Gita said softly, "Mikhail has never felt welcome in this village. Even now, after all he has done for us."
She knew her remark hit home by the way Firouz stared, stone-faced, out the tiny window which reflected the light of bonfires. Like herself, Firouz had a checkered past when it came to his dealings with Mikhail.
Gita shut her eyes and focused on the feel of Mikhail's hand in hers. Every ounce of her being hummed with rightness, as though she had held his hand many times before even though it was an illusion. Only twice had Mikhail ever taken her hand … once by mistake, the second the day he had helped her bury the eagles.
"The sun's beginning to come up," Firouz said.
Gita followed his eyes to the tiny window. Dark clouds reminiscent of a sandstorm roiled on the horizon, turned blood-red by the reflecting rays of the soon-to-rise sun. A tattered spiderweb covered the window, the spider long-gone, dead, no doubt, along with the summer heat.
Mikhail stirred. Gita touched his brow.
"Sleep, mo ghrá," she whispered to him. "The village is safe. I am safe. The only thing we need is for you to rest and heal."
"Is féidir liom a bhraitheann tú," Mikhail mumbled. I can feel you.
"Of course you can feel me," Gita said. "I am safe, and until you heal, I will not leave your side. That I promise."
Even though Immanu wanted to kill her…
The fact an A-list warrior such as Firouz had been tasked to guard her spoke volumes about Immanu's intent to carry out his threat. Her uncle had always been a reasonable man, but the Evil One had just abducted his only child. As the second-highest ranking man in the village and one no Assurian wished to cross, she had little hope of making the truth heard. Her only hope was to appeal to Mikhail.
She remembered what her father had done to her mother…
Gita shuddered at the memory of her mother's face as her father had cast the first stone. The Tribunal it would be, and unlike what happened to Jamin, no one would step forward to argue banishment in place of stoning against a village mourning the loss of not only its Chosen One, but also its Champion and its Chief. She would be their sacrificial offering to satiate their anger … whether or not she was guilty. She was the perfect scapegoat.
She should run away…
Mikhail moaned as his movement aggravated the place Needa had stitched him back together. She winced along with him as his feathers rustled in pain.
"Why didn't you tell us," Firouz spoke softly, "if, as you claim, you had no knowledge the white-winged Angelic was real. Why didn't you tell us someone had seen another one of his species?"
"Who would I have told?" Gita asked. A small spark of anger ignited in her belly, and then was extinguished. "Him?"
"Yes."
"Do you remember what happened the last time I asked for his help with Shahla?"
Firouz gave her a stony stare. "That's because you and Shahla had told Ninsianna he had fathered her baby."
Gita gave him a raised eyebrow. That small, dark instinct which had kept her alive told her to remain silent, to avoid confrontation and let Firouz work it out for himself…
"Okay," Firouz said after her silence made him uncomfortable, "Shahla told Ninsianna that. But she only did it because she was mad at you."
Another eyebrow. She could see it, the cloud of doubt which lingered over Immanu's accusation that she had orchestrated this tragedy. Remain … silent. Just … stare.
"Maybe … maybe you're telling the truth," Firouz finally mumbled. He jabbed the butt-end of his spear into his foot and swayed the weapon back-and-forth, more thoughtful than threatening.
Gita turned back to watch the way the brightening sky cast a reddish light upon Mikhail's flesh as if he had a fever. She touched his forehead, his neck, and then ran her fingers down to the poultice soaked in myrrh to chase away the evil spirits. She was no healer, but she had fended for herself enough times to know that after injury often followed an infection.
Should she wake Needa?
No. Everything she did would only aggravate Immanu further.
"Is Homa still here?"
"No," Firouz said. "She went home to get some sleep."
"Alalah?"
"She's still tending the lesser wounded," Firouz said. He glanced at Mikhail. "For him, I think she would drop everything."
Gita unclasped her fingers and slid them out of his hand to lift the poultice. Immediately he began to thrash.
"Ninsianna?"
"I'm here, mo ghrá," Gita said, praying he would not open his eyes. With the sun rising, there was no way she could continue to fool him. "I just have to check your stitches."
He murmured something in the beautiful language of his people as she lifted the bandages reeking of the clean, astringent myrrh. The sun finished heaving itself over the horizon and peeked through the window to shine a light upon the injury. That dark gift, the one which whispered where someone was weak, drew her eyes to the thin spider-web of lines which radiated away from the knife wound into the clean, hairless expanse of his magnificently muscled chest. Gita hesitated, and then touched what was not hers to touch. She pressed her fingers on either side of the gash and gently pressed the edges together.
Mikhail cried out in pain.
A putrid green pus, tainted with black, seeped out of the wound.
"Wake up Needa," Gita said. "Right away."
Mikhail's eyes shot open. His unearthly blue eyes were glazed with pain and confusion from the fever. Gita met his gaze from beneath the safety of her hood. Mikhail saw what he wanted to see. The red cape. A dark-haired woman leaning over him, tending to his wounds the way his wife would.
"Ninsianna," Mikhail whispered. "Bhí mé aisling go raibh bás duit."
A large, trembling hand reached up to caress her hood. Gita froze, not sure how to answer. It was more important than ever that she convince him she was Ninsianna.
She bent and kissed the flesh next to the knife wound, careful to tilt her head so the hood only allowed him a glimpse of her raven hair.
"This woun
d is infected, mo ghrá," Gita said, using the only word in his language that she knew. "And I am exhausted. Please, let my mother help me tend this wound?"
Mikhail tilted back his head and closed his eyes, not noticing she had answered him in Ubaid instead of the language of heaven as Ninsianna would have done.
"Leag síos le liom, mo bhean chéile. Ní féidir liom a thuiscint cén fáth go bhfuil tú roghnaithe chun kneel ar an urlár."
Gita answered him by slipping her hand back into his. That peculiar rightness trickled into her heart. Mikhail thought she was Ninsianna, and because he did, perhaps that same gift which allowed her to see where someone was weak, to see a spark of light even within the spirit of He-who's-not, perhaps that was what allowed her to feel what he felt?
'We'll get her back for you,' she said to herself. 'This I swear...'
Her eyes filled with tears as she turned back to Firouz, mindful by the trembling of his wings that Mikhail had not simply fallen back asleep.
"Fetch my mother," Gita lied, doing her best to mimic Ninsianna's cadence of voice. "I have been here all night and my clothing reeks of sweat. I trust no one else to tend to my husband while I bathe and fetch something to eat."
"Yes, Ninsianna," Firouz perpetuated the ruse. "You look tired. Don't forget you are with child."
"Eat, mo ghrá," Mikhail murmured through closed eyes. "And then come lay down beside me to rest instead of kneeling on the floor."
"I fear to reopen your stitches," Gita lied. Wound, or no wound, Ninsianna would have lay down with her husband.
Mikhail's voice sounded small, the way a child's might. "Ninsianna, I need to feel you. For some reason I can't seem to get warm."
The death-cold. Even Firouz was savvy enough to recognize the symptom. He abandoned his spear, no longer caring that he was supposed to use it to guard Mikhail against her, and hurried out of the room to awaken Needa. After some muffled arguing, Needa bustled in, her eyes red-rimmed from crying. She was followed by her husband, who gave Gita an angry glare. Needa did not address her, simply shoved her aside to tend to Mikhail's wound.
"Ninsianna is right," Needa said. "This wound is infected." She turned to her husband. "Immanu ... you must discern the nature of these evil spirits so know which herbs to use to banish them."
Needa glanced at the sun which had heaved itself above the horizon and shone its brilliance on Mikhail's bed. It was the kind of light not even Gita could hide in.
"You look like goat excrement, daughter." Needa gave Mikhail a furtive glance. "You've got his blood all over you. Go get washed and get some rest. I'll come fetch you once your father has finished performing the sacred ceremonies."
"Ninsianna stays," Mikhail mumbled. He tightened his grip on Gita's hand.
"She is with child, you big oaf!" Needa snapped. "And she's been up all night, weeping over your bed." She turned to Gita. "Once you've gotten cleaned up and eaten, lay down in my bed. You will get no rest in here."
Mikhail tightened his grip, and then let go. "Go, mo ghrá. Rest. Join me once you feel rejuvenated."
Needa frowned. Mikhail's voice sounded raspy, even to Gita's untrained ears. As he spoke there was a rattle in his lungs. The evil spirits which stole your breath could be a death sentence if not treated promptly. Gita rose, careful to keep her face shielded from Mikhail's view, and hurried out the door where she ran face-first into Immanu's chest.
"I was just going..."
"Home," Immanu hissed so Mikhail would not hear. "And don't come back. I don't care what Pareesa said. I should have never begged the chief to allow you and your accursed father back into our village."
Twin daggers of hatred seethed out of her uncle's copper-gold eyes. She'd only been five years old when her father had dragged her across the desert to Assur. According to Merariy, it had been Immanu who had committed the wrongdoing? Not him. She was smart enough to keep that thought to herself.
"Yes, uncle." Gita cast her eyes downwards.
He grabbed her shoulders and for a moment she feared he might throw her down the stairs, but then he let her go. In his hand was Ninsianna's red cape.
"Homa or Gisou will impersonate Ninsianna from now on," Immanu said. He pressed her against the wall. "If you have any common sense whatsoever, you will leave this village this instant and never return."
Gita swallowed. Black eyes met his tawny-beige ones, the eyes of a shaman; the eyes of a man who could see into the dark and, if what her father said was true about their shared father, Lugalbanda, could stop the heart of a man simply by thinking about it.
"Yes, uncle," Gita whispered.
He shoved her towards the steep ladder which served as a stair. Gita caught the railing just in time to prevent herself from falling down into the first floor below. She gathered her tattered brown cape which had been left in a heap on the floor and Jamin's cast-off spear, still stained with the blood of their enemies. Someone had come by and left fresh bread, roasted acorns, and a crock of porridge on the table. The delicious aroma tantalized her nostrils and reminded her she had not eaten since before the ambush. She glanced up the stairs. Immunu's hate-filled copper eyes communicated this feast was not for her.
Her stomach empty, she made her way back home to answer to her father.
~ * ~ * ~
Chapter 14
November 3,390 BC
Earth: Sata'an Forward Operating Base
Lieutenant Kasib
Kasib
"May our lord, god convey their sprits into the Dreamtime," the field-chaplain droned on, "and immortalize their deeds forever in pursuit of the glory of the Empire."
"Peace be upon his name," Lieutenant Kasib uttered the familiar prayer.
He pressed his claws against his forehead, his snout and his heart, signaling his devotion to forever think, to speak, and to always serve wholeheartedly their emperor and god. With a sigh, he rose up from the small, ornate prayer-mat where he'd kneeled for the last two hours in memoriam of five good men who'd lost their lives. A poster of an elaborately dressed red dragon had been haphazardly taped to the tent behind the place where the chaplain stood giving the commemoratory. Kasib sighed. This was not a temple befitting worship of Shay'tan, but field-chapels never were. What mattered, Kasib reminded himself, was the supplicant's devotion to Sata'anic ideals and well wishes for the deceased to carry into the next incarnation.
Tucking his tail out of the way so it wouldn't get stepped on as he rolled up his prayer mat, he thoughtfully trailed out of the tent along with the other soldiers stationed at this Forward Operating Base for Shay'tan's latest annexation. Martyrdom ceremonies were supposed to be joyous occasions, but Kasib couldn't help but feel the men's lives had been wasted. With a groan, he arched his back to get a crick out and flared his dorsal ridge to soak up the rays of the dying sun.
"Hey! Kasib!" a pig-snouted Catoplebas named Katlego shouted as he exited the chapel. "You going to join us later for a game of senet?"
"Yeah!" a lizard-Specialist named Iyad said. "You've got to give me a chance to win back that thirty deben you won from me last month!"
Kasib glanced over at his intended destination, the commissary. Ever since General Hudhafah had given him permission to acquire quarters within the town which abutted the seaport, he'd been shirking his connections to his friends. On the other hand…
"Not tonight," Kasib forced his posture to remain relaxed and prayed they would not smell his guilt. "Ba'al Zebub gave the general a laundry list of things to do to kiss that bastard Lucifer's tailfeathers. We all know what that means."
The Catoplebas smirked at him through his tusks and punched Specialist Iyad in the bicep. The entire base had been in an uproar ever since the Prince of Tyre had appeared in orbit and none other than Ba'al Zebub, their highest-ranking official second only to Shay'tan, had come onto the display monitor to order the battle cruiser to stand down.
The lizard soldier laughed. "Yeah! Good old loyal Kasib gets to do the shit-work while Hudhafah gets all the glory!"<
br />
Specialist Iyad tasted the air with his long, forked tongue and then yanked it back inside his snout, his expression sheepish. It was considered ill manners to taste for pheromones in a higher-ranking officer.
"It is my privilege to serve the General," Kasib chastised them. His snout curved up in toothy grin. "Besides, how do you think I got assigned one of those choice 'special overflow barracks' inside the town?"
"I'd sure like me one of those!" the Catoplebas lamented. "When's that armada going to get here so we all can stop sleeping 50 men to a tent? I swear, if Specialist Owiti shoves my footlocker out of the way one more time, I'm going to beat him to a bloody pulp!"
'And that,' Kasib thought to himself, 'is why I didn't burden any of the human families with a pugnacious, irresponsible brute such as YOU.'
"Only one Sata'anic soldier per family," Kasib said aloud. "And we have to integrate into their family routine as though we are second-sons, not conquerors. We are here to teach the human primitives to embrace the better aspects of Sata'anic culture! Not teach them the worst ones."
"In other words," Specialist Iyad taunted his raucous Catoplebas senet buddy, "Kasib here doesn't want us to teach the humans how to gamble!"
"Well there's five new beds just opened up in the town," the Catoplebas said. "C'mon, Kasib. Get me one of those slots. You know you can."
"Katlego!" Specialist Iyad hissed at his battle buddy's lousy manners. "We haven't even buried those men yet!"
All three of them hastily bowed their heads and made the prayer-gesture, pausing for a moment of silence as they contemplated the five good men who'd lost their lives. The renegade Angelic was finally dead, but at a much higher price then they'd intended when they'd listened to Ba'al Zebub's devious plan to lure the bastard into a trap. With so few boots on the ground, their supply lines cut off, and Shay'tan's armada still working its way the long way around the outermost edges of the galaxy, who knew when reinforcements would arrive?
Sword of the Gods: Agents of Ki (Sword of the Gods Saga) Page 15
