Namesake

by Kate Stradling

  “You must remain, Goddess,” he interrupts, his voice hard. “If we lose you, we lose everything. And if the demons were to attack this place while you were away, while the warriors were away, they would destroy everything.”

  He is correct. I must protect the fledgling colony above all else. Any military campaign will fail without magic behind it, though.

  A bitter taste enters my mouth. I shuffle it away with the rest of my suppressed grief and anxiety. “Send Aitana to me. She is the strongest; I will train her personally. Find me any other spark-bearers among the refugees as well. If I must remain here, other magicians must be ready to go with you, when that time comes.”

  He tries not to look pleased as he rises from the ground, but he largely fails in the effort. “Do you have any other instructions before I go, Goddess Anjeni?”

  “Yes,” I say, much to his dismay. “Organize the people into groups: some to build, some to gather, some to grow. You need farmers and fishermen and masons.”

  An irritated look dances across his face. “There are not enough men in the camp to divide them, or to focus their efforts on any but the most pressing of needs.”

  “There are plenty of women,” I say. “Food, shelter, and fuel are the most pressing of needs, and all must work together to establish them.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  By noon, the hillside beneath the Eternity Gate crawls with bodies, women and children bearing every rude implement imaginable to pry up the many rocks and stones. They roll them down to the basin, where others wait with carts to haul them away. They have few tools in the encampment, and every last one is put to work somewhere.

  Etricos has either a genius for organization or else he knows how to delegate responsibility. I suspect the latter.

  I watch them work in spurts, my attention divided between their industry and the small cluster of spark-bearers who have joined me at the apex of the hill. Etricos gleaned fifteen newcomers from among the other tribes, bringing my class to an unmanageable twenty-two. Demetrios stands removed from the group, on his guard as he scans the surrounding terrain for any approaching danger. I mostly ignore him.

  Aitana has had her personal instruction. She advances at a pace that would make me sick if I didn’t absolutely need her to excel. Already she has mastered the first three fundamentals. She helps with the newcomers now; not all of them speak the same dialect as the Helenai.

  I have broken them into groups by age and tend to the elder ones. Two among them, Ria and Ineri, have abilities similar to Aitana.

  Below, the workers continue to toil beneath the blazing yellow sun.

  Movement from the encampment hill draws my attention. A line of people processes like a twisting snake toward the basin. Etricos runs alongside them, catching up to the leader, arguing as he keeps pace.

  I squint. The leader of the snake-like processional is an older man. He appears to be dressed in ceremonial clothing, his arms folded into trailing sleeves as he carefully picks his way down the slope. He never looks at Etricos, but maintains a stony façade.

  Demetrios is at my side almost before I realize it. I glance up at him, but he pins his attention upon the approaching group. The workers on the hillside pause and step out of the way as the line ascends toward the Eternity Gate. The leader takes a twisting path again, skirting around the torn earth. He and his entourage zigzag slowly toward me.

  Etricos has given up his argument and keeps pace beside the man. Both of them look up, and I meet their gazes.

  “Aitana,” I say over my shoulder. She straightens in my periphery. “Take all of the spark-bearers to the ocean side of the hill and continue to practice there.”

  She glances downward to the approaching visitors and, without question, herds the younger students away.

  “Go with them,” I tell Demetrios.

  “No,” he says.

  “If they are attacked, all is lost for the Helenai.”

  “They’re in no danger from that direction.”

  “Am I in danger from this direction?” I ask him, an edge to my voice.

  He looks down, meeting my arch expression with one of his own. “That is Moru, the elder of the Terasanai, the plains people who arrived yesterday.”

  “The people I rescued? Why would he pose a danger to me?”

  Demetrios scoffs. “A tribal elder who has survived Bulokai enslavement? He could only have done so through treaty. He sacrificed the lives of others to ensure his own safety.”

  I fix my attention again upon the approaching line, assessing. “There is value in survival. He has led his people out of enslavement, has he not?”

  Demetrios does not answer, which is probably for the best. The group is within earshot now. As they come to the Eternity Gate, Moru pauses to touch its weathered stones. The reverence of this action, the elegance of his long fingers pressing against the warmth of the arch, thrums through me as though he had pressed those fingers to my heart instead. Etricos sidesteps around the edifice, but each of Moru’s entourage in turn touches their hand to the sacred relic as they pass.

  I think I might like the Terasanai.

  Moru climbs the last several yards to the top of the hill, but he stops six feet from me and stoops into a low bow. “Goddess Anjeni, Moru of the Terasanai desires an audience.”

  His accent differs from the Helenai, but I can understand him well enough. I look to Etricos, who is silently, almost imperceptibly, communicating that I should send this upstart visitor on his way. I tip my head in rebuke, and his expression plummets into a glower.

  “Speak, Moru of the Terasanai.”

  The man freezes midway in his bow, his attention fixed upon my bare feet. He raises inquiring eyes, but rather than question my lack of footwear, he says, “Forgive me, Goddess. I wish a private audience, such as you often grant Etricos of the Helenai.”

  He has counseled with other refugees in the encampment and learned the way the wind blows here. Beside me Demetrios tenses, ever on his guard. I slide my attention to his older brother who, for the moment, holds his tongue. He cannot dictate my actions before others, lest he undermine my divinity and thus his perceived influence with the divine.

  “Etricos of the Helenai holds my favor,” I say. “What claim have you upon a private audience, Moru of the Terasanai?”

  He meets my steady gaze, scrutinizing me, calculating. “The Terasanai, too, hold your favor, Goddess Anjeni. You would not have spared us yesterday were it otherwise.”

  The corners of my mouth curve upward. I incline my head. “Come.”

  “Goddess,” Etricos protests as I turn away. I spare him a questioning glance. He pauses long enough to collect his wits. After a deep inhale he says, “Please do not forget your promises to the Helenai.”

  As if any promises have been made. But I know where my loyalty must lie first and foremost. The Helenai are my people. The Terasanai can only receive my blessing if they acknowledge Etricos as their leader. I nod my reassurance to him—though it does not allay his fears in the least—and lead Moru away from the cluster.

  Demetrios, thankfully, has sense enough to remain with his brother, though he watches me like a hawk as I separate from the group. I walk thirty yards from them on the hilltop, far enough that our voices won’t carry on the wind.

  “Speak,” I command Moru, examining his weathered face.

  He bows again. “The Terasanai thank you for your favor, Goddess Anjeni, that you have spared our lives and offer us protection from our enemies.”

  Politicians are the same in any age: none of them gives thanks except as an opportunity to request further support.

  “What additional favor do you seek?” I ask.

  He straightens. The flash of surprise on his face quickly gives way to grudging respect. “Lands designated for my people. The Terasanai wish to live under your protection, but as the Terasanai, with our own customs and our own space.”

  My instinctive frown troubles him.

  “Goddess, if we must l
ose our identity, we may as well have stayed in captivity to the Bulokai.”

  “Is that so?” The question leaves my tongue much sharper than I intended, but the nerve on this guy has my hackles raised. Playing nice with the Helenai is tantamount to demon enslavement? Who is he kidding?

  But I can’t excoriate him. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from my father, it’s that the necessity of making political allies trumps any personal offense one feels. I have to set boundaries without driving up a wall between us, if possible.

  “Moru of the Terasanai,” I say, picking my words carefully, “I grant my protection to my people, the Helenai. You may live among them here, you may even carve out lands upon these hills for your people, but if you cannot unite under one banner with all others who seek refuge in this place, I cannot support you. Only through unity will the people of this land overcome the demons who seek their destruction.”

  He ruminates upon my words, resentment lingering at the edge of his expression. “You would have us abandon our traditions, then?”

  “Far from it. I would have you contribute them to the united culture that will emerge. What skills have the Terasanai brought with them?”

  He cocks his head to one side, studying me as he considers his response. “We are farmers and builders. Our women are weavers and gatherers. But we have escaped with little more than our lives, Goddess.”

  I glance down upon the stone-gatherers at the base of the hill, the women and children who toil with minimal skill or knowledge of their work. “Why, when you have so little, do you seek to separate yourselves from those who would be your allies? You do not wish to contribute your strength to the efforts of those who offer you protection?”

  Moru stiffens, drawing himself up to his full height. “The Terasanai are a proud and ancient people. We wish to subjugate ourselves to no one.”

  It’s a pretty speech, but one glaring contradiction remains. “Moru, how did you survive the Bulokai?”

  His bravado falters. Hesitantly he glances up at me. “Goddess?”

  “How did you survive?” I ask again. “The Bulokai demons kill the tribal elders of those they conquer, do they not? How did you, Moru of the Terasanai, survive their slaughter?”

  His expression turns brittle. I scrutinize him, waiting for his answer, observing every minute movement he makes: the squints at the outer corners of his eyes, the right side of his mouth tugging slightly downward. He battles an inner demon, unable to meet my gaze for more than a fleeting instant. At last he steels himself to reply.

  “I treated with them, Goddess, for the sake of my people. It was a grave mistake.”

  The firmness of his voice speaks volumes above his words. If the Bulokai exploited their treaty, of course the Terasanai would not wish to enter a similar agreement with anyone else.

  And yet, he is a politician. I know better than to take a politician’s word as absolute truth.

  “How can the Helenai trust one who has treated with the Bulokai? How do we know you are not a viper in our midst, come to infiltrate and destroy?”

  His expression hardens, his gaze fixed upon an unseen vista in the recesses of his mind. “They required our labor, heavy burdens upon our backs from sun up till sun down. They took our children as tribute to Agoros, the firstborn of each family slaughtered in ceremonial sacrifice. They defiled our daughters and tortured our youths. It would have been better to die.”

  A chill crawls up my spine as he pins me with an iron gaze.

  “We will not bend in fealty again.”

  This is the true purpose of his errand, the true reason he stuck out his neck to encounter a volatile, fickle goddess. “Does Etricos of the Helenai require fealty from you?” I ask.

  He presses his lips together in a firm line, his silence my answer.

  And my blood boils. “I will speak to him.”

  “Goddess Anjeni,” he says as I start back toward the waiting group. I glance over my shoulder, expectant. “The Terasanai thank you for your favor and protection.”

  “My favor and protection yet remain to be seen, Moru,” I reply. “The Helenai need your strength and skill. You must remember: your enemy is the Bulokai.”

  He bows his head. I resume my course, reining my temper even as the beast within prowls its cage. Etricos sulks as I approach, but he says not a word. His attention flits to Moru, who follows ten paces behind me. Demetrios steps between me and the leader of the Terasanai, as though I need his protection. I fix my attention upon the ocean side of the hill, where Aitana instructs the younger students in the first and second fundamentals. For the moment I control my fury.

  Behind me, no words pass between Etricos and Moru. The emissaries of the Terasanai withdraw. The laborers cease their stone-gathering, their tools silent as the foreign tribe crosses through their midst. Only when the noise of their work resumes does Etricos speak.

  “Anjeni, you will not interfere with my leadership over this people.”

  His voice trembles with rage, with the echoes of his wounded pride. I do not face him. Instead, I look down at my hand, at the magic that flares upon it. With concentration, I reduce the flare to a controlled ball and dance it across the tops of my fingers, a seemingly careless effort that partially vents the wrath of my inner beast. It requires more focus than I’d ever admit to the likes of Etricos.

  The display serves as a quiet, potent reminder. I am not a goddess, but neither am I a pawn for Etricos to manipulate as he pleases.

  “If your positions were reversed, would you subject yourself to Moru of the Terasanai?” I lift my eyes at last to meet his gaze, the ball of magic a bright burning ornament upon my hand.

  He jerks irritably, refusing to answer my question.

  “I do not interfere in your leadership, Etricos,” I say, “but you will not use my power to subjugate others beneath your rule. A true leader earns loyalty; he does not take it by force.”

  With those words, I abandon him on the hilltop to join my students below. Demetrios follows, a silent shadow in my wake.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Jutting watchtowers become the first sign of a permanent settlement on these hills, beacons of protection and vigilance. Other hallmarks of civilization follow. The people dig wells and lay foundations for homes. They haul trees from the forest beyond the river and stones from the hillsides. A handful of masons and one blacksmith survive among the hundreds here; they have banded together to establish a brickyard and foundry.

  Fires are ever burning, smoke ever curling into the air as a signal of industry and fearlessness.

  The Terasanai have their own enclave in the camp. They refuse assistance with their needs, poor though they are in earthly goods. Etricos blames me for the separation. He blames me, too, that other refugee groups send their leaders directly to me to request freedom from his rule. As more and more refugees arrive, the Helenai become a greater minority, and Etricos’s influence diminishes.

  “It is good for him,” says Huna with a satisfied grunt.

  “He is supposed to be a leader,” I argue, wracked with guilt. Have I ruined the founding of my country?

  She snorts. “He should act like one, then. Everything has been handed to him since he was a child because he was his father’s eldest son. The firstborn always has advantages.”

  Her words chafe this firstborn. “Not always. Sometimes the second child is too spectacular.”

  She cocks her head, her eyes narrowed. “What is ‘spectacular,’ Anjeni?”

  I still inject modern vocabulary into my speech, partly out of habit and partly because I cannot fully express myself in their tongue. Most of the time, Huna and the others brush off the unfamiliar terms—as I do with their use of archaic words I have not yet acquired—but every so often she questions me.

  “‘Spectacular’ is something that catches the eyes because it is so wonderful.”

  Huna nods. She focuses on the sewing in her hands, muttering the word under her breath as though trying it on for size. S
he has fitted me with enough pants to last the year and more shirts than that. The material she works with now is a flimsy, silky offering from one of the encampment’s more recent arrivals. I think I must own every piece of jewelry and scrap of fine cloth within a fifty mile radius, and yet the people insist upon giving me more.

  I spend my days on Monument Hill—what will one day become Monument Hill—training my students and practicing control over my magic. I have run through every trick I used to watch Tana produce. I have not her agile, liquid manipulation of power, but I make up for it in sheer intensity.

  And I am getting better at the fluid aspect of magic, even if I’m still nothing like a riverbed.

  Aitana progresses in her studies as well. She reminds me of my sister in how quickly she learns. How apt it is that they share a name. We do not have the luxury to spend weeks upon weeks in mastery of one fundamental or one intermediate, though. Whereas Tana could build up her strength in each principle at a time, her namesake learns the basic concept and moves on.

  I reason that it is better to have a magician weakly versed in all the fundamentals and intermediates than to have one who knows the first few fundamentals thoroughly. But that’s not the whole truth. Deep down, I struggle against feelings of resentment as I watch her swift progress. She is not my sister, but she is my rival—at least insofar as the legends will report. What if the student surpasses the teacher? What will become of the goddess Anjeni if the mere mortal Aitana displays greater magical acumen?

  The intermediates deal with space and distance, useful for attacks. I start teaching them to her to assuage my guilt, but I also don’t give her deep enough instruction to master anything.

  The superlatives I do not discuss with her at all. I have scant opportunity to practice them myself, but I run through the memorized principles in my head each day while Aitana and my other intermediate students tutor the younger spark-bearers.