Namesake

by Kate Stradling

I focus on training, renewed in my resolve to see Helenia established on this land. And I face a new dilemma. The offerings from the people had tapered off in recent weeks. They resume, but now they are food offerings.

  I must have looked at that bowl of curry like it was my newly birthed firstborn.

  My spark-bearers have fun sampling the many dishes with me. Some are better than others. Some are more familiar to me than others, too. It’s strange to taste the culinary ancestors of my native time’s “traditional cuisine.”

  And it’s a wonder that the goddess Anjeni won’t become renowned for gluttony. Some of the offerings are too good to share.

  The people are transitioning from tents to houses. The builders complete more structures each day, so the valley of mushrooms is quickly becoming a grid of homes instead, with wagon roads and yards cleanly marked. From the top of my training hill, though, I can see only the jutting watchtowers and the wall that slowly grows along the ridge that separates us from the settlement. The basin is too much to include in this first line of fortification. The completed wall will not encompass the Eternity Gate.

  The early morning sun and the humidity combine to raise perspiration on my forehead. Clouds build and dissipate over the ocean, but they refuse to come inland. I fan myself beneath the canopy, watching over my class of spark-bearers in their practice.

  A horn cracks through the air. My head snaps up, orienting toward the sound. Demetrios is on his feet, one hand shielding the sun from his eyes as he peers into the distance.

  “What is it?” Aitana asks, bounding to his side.

  He looks over his shoulder and addresses his answer to me. “That’s a signal from the watchtowers. A party approaches.”

  “Friend or foe?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. From where we are, we can see nothing but specks near the horizon.

  “Return to your homes for now,” I instruct all of my students. I stride from beneath the canopy.

  Demetrios catches my arm as I pass him. “Where are you going?”

  I shake free. “To the watchtower. They might need me.”

  “I’ll come too,” Aitana says when Demetrios falls in step beside me. I consider denying her, but I bite my tongue. I have begun her training in the upper intermediates. She has memorized all the principles. As the goal is for her to use her magic in combat, I can’t keep her sequestered forever.

  I stride into the basin with the pair trailing in my wake. Demetrios tries to catch my eye but I fix my gaze straight ahead.

  “Goddess,” he says as we mount the hill where my tent sits, “you will need shoes.”

  I stop short and stare, a question on my face.

  “You never go down into the village. There are nails in the road there, from the builders. You need shoes. Unless you would like me to carry you,” he adds, an innocent lilt to his voice. Aitana looks like she just swallowed a bug. Are they on the outs again, that he needs to flirt with me?

  “I have shoes,” I say shortly. I’ve received sandals as offerings, but I’ve lost the habit of wearing anything on my feet. The risk of contracting medieval tetanus holds no appeal, however. We mount the hill and I duck into my tent to retrieve the footwear. Another blast from the horn echoes across the landscape.

  The shoes feel funny on my feet. The sandal straps rub against my ankles as I quickly descend from my hill. People have retreated into their homes and tents for safety. They peek out as I pass with Demetrios and Aitana behind me.

  “Goddess, what is it?” Tora calls from an open door, half a dozen children crowding around her.

  “Stay inside,” Demetrios says to her. “We will tell you when it is safe to come out.”

  Obediently she shuts the door.

  “Who are all those children?” I ask.

  “Orphans,” he replies, his voice curt.

  “She helps care for those in the encampment who have no parents,” Aitana says.

  Tora is a saint. I have never asked where she spends her days—or where she sleeps at night, for that matter. That she cares for orphaned children does not surprise me in the least.

  Further up the road, the gates loom, set into the wall that marks the boundary of our encampment. Etricos stands beneath it, amid a cluster of tribal elders. Though in theory they all bear equal authority, any observer can see that he is the de facto leader.

  Moru is speaking as we approach: “I warn you, do not under any circumstances open the gates to them.”

  “What is happening?” I ask as I join the group. Several of the leaders bow and fall back, allowing me space to speak directly to Etricos.

  “A party of riders approaches beneath a white flag, Goddess,” he replies. “They bear the standard of the Bulokai.”

  “They are scouts,” Moru interjects. “This is how it begins: they come to treat with you, and to take back as much information as they can to Agoros.”

  “What do we do?” I ask.

  “If we harm someone under the white flag, it is an act of war,” Etricos says with a sidelong glance to several of the tribal leaders.

  “If we let them leave here alive, they will report our fortifications and weak points to Agoros,” one of the men replies.

  I tip my head in uncertainty. “Are we not already at war with the Bulokai?”

  “They bear the white flag,” Etricos insists. “They may be defectors.”

  “They are scouts,” Moru says again.

  From above, the horn trumpets another warning call.

  “Let’s have a look at these scouts.” I head to the ladder that leads upward into the nearest watchtower. Three or four of the gathered warriors peel off to climb the second tower. Etricos, Moru, and a couple other tribal leaders follow me. Aitana in her dress must remain below, but Demetrios mounts the ladder behind us.

  I surface on a platform twenty feet above ground with a bird’s-eye view of the surrounding countryside. The warriors stationed here bow out of my way, allowing me to examine the party of riders that approaches: a dozen men astride horses not of the mutant variety, with a white flag raised aloft. Beneath this flag flies a black and red banner, a symbol of the Bulokai tribe. The party is well protected in their spiked armor. The hilts of their sheathed weapons gleam in the morning sunlight.

  “They look like they come for battle,” I say to Etricos on my right.

  At my left, Moru grunts. “They are spies. The Bulokai send them first under the guise of requesting a treaty. Even now they observe and assess our fortifications.”

  “The Bulokai never offered to treat with us in our homeland,” Etricos says, his voice low as he watches the group of riders. “They attacked us outright.”

  Moru says, “A treaty only determines whether or not their armies will brandish their weapons when they enter the city. They will come as conquerors regardless”

  I shift my attention to Etricos. “What will you do?”

  To my astonishment, he looks to Moru and the other two tribal leaders for counsel.

  “There will be a spark-bearer embedded among them,” says one of the men. “If we attack, we must kill all of them swiftly, or he will cause great destruction.”

  The four leaders shift their attention to me, expectant. My brows arch. “You want me to execute a dozen men?” It’s risky. Without knowing how accomplished the magician among them is, I cannot guarantee that my attack will be successful. At worst, it might ricochet back upon us.

  Add to that one minor technicality: even from this distance I can discern that these riders are all men, with not a demon among them. They have not that hulking shape or the profusion of black, bristling fur emerging from every exposed area beneath their armor. Demons I could gladly obliterate. Playing executioner to fellow humans—especially prior to any overt provocation—makes my insides squirm.

  But their approach, in Moru’s estimation, appears to be provocation enough.

  “We cannot execute them when they come beneath the white flag,” Etricos says.

  “If we do
not, we are ensuring our own executions,” Moru replies. “If they are here to treat, their armies are not far behind. Agoros has suffered us to exist for too long already. That they come now means they believe they can defeat us.”

  “Or that they acknowledge we will only grow stronger, and that they must attempt to crush us before that happens,” says another of the tribal leaders.

  As they discuss, I turn my attention to the enemy delegation. Their approach slows. “They’re stopping,” I say. Four tribal leaders turn to verify my words. “Why are they stopping?”

  The group is perhaps a hundred yards from our gates. The rider who carries their banners holds his staff aloft.

  Moru grunts. “They want us to send a delegation out to meet them, or to open the gates and invite them inside.”

  My heart thuds against my chest. Is this part of my responsibility as the goddess Anjeni, to meet an enemy party in negotiations? I part my lips to ask the question, but the words don’t make it off my tongue.

  “I’ll go,” says Demetrios.

  I frown. “Alone?”

  “Yes. They can give me their message. I will bring it here. They can wait outside the walls until it suits us to answer them.”

  Etricos looks to the three tribal leaders with him for approval. Each nods their reluctant agreement to this plan. The four descend the ladder to confer with those leaders in the opposite tower. The platforms on the watchtower are mostly shielded from view, except for the eye-level openings that allow for observation of the horizon in every direction. Our unwelcome visitors cannot see more than the slightest of movements within. Beyond the wall, they study our fortifications through the slits in their visors.

  “Will you watch over me from above, Goddess Anjeni?” Demetrios asks.

  I spare him a glance, wary of the two tower guards who still occupy this platform with us. I’m sure a number of rumors about me circulate the settlement already, but a familiar exchange here will only augment them. “Do you need someone to watch over you? If Aitana can climb the ladder, she can serve that purpose. This might be an apt opportunity for her to practice the seventh intermediate.”

  His expression shutters as I speak. At my conclusion, he tips his head in acknowledgment. “I will send her up to you. If you believe this circumstance harmless enough to entrust my life to a novice, so be it.”

  The guards behind him exchange a telling glance at his familiar manner of address.

  Perhaps Demetrios means to establish a narrative of friendship between us to lend to his brother’s right to rule. In that case, I cannot fully object, but I will not engage with him as though we are comrades. My metaphorical fortress protects my image as much as it protects my heart. “I trust you to gauge the danger and act accordingly. She and I will be here together.”

  “If she can climb up to meet you,” he says.

  Rather than dignify his taunt, I turn my back upon him, facing the enemy. The ladder creaks behind me as he descends.

  I should have dictated from the start that all spark-bearers must wear trousers. Skirts are too cumbersome and can get in the way at critical moments like this.

  The tribal leaders converse in the yard between the watchtowers. Demetrios, meanwhile, retrieves and saddles his horse. Half an hour passes. Warriors assemble on the ground and along the wall, ready to respond should something go wrong. The tribal leaders, even the most elderly among them, have their weapons in preparation for a coming fight.

  And Aitana has found a pair of pants. She climbs into the watchtower, self-conscious of her unfeminine attire.

  Yes, I definitely need to make this an official uniform.

  A cry from below alerts us that they are opening the gates. The massive bar-lock lifts on a pulley, and one door swings inward far enough to allow Demetrios astride his horse to exit, but provides no more than a sliver’s glimpse of the interior to our settlement before it shuts again.

  Aitana stands rigid as the horse and rider canter away from us. Beside her, I forcibly remind myself to breathe, more unnerved than I care to show. The enemy party a hundred yards off makes no movement whatsoever as Demetrios approaches.

  The encounter proceeds with nerve-shredding tension. Demetrios’s voice carries back to us on the wind as he hails the group. They deliver a rolled message to him. He returns to the gates at a leisurely pace, because he’s such a maddening piece of work.

  At his approach, he glances upward, and our eyes connect through the observation panel.

  He winks and focuses ahead again.

  An unfamiliar relief sweeps through me. I orient my attention to the enemy messengers. In the aftermath of Demetrios’s errand, they remain astride their horses.

  “Should we not see what the message says?” Aitana asks beside me.

  “Diplomacy is for Etricos and the other tribal leaders. Our duty is to keep our people safe from the enemies on our doorstep.”

  It sounds like a noble response, but at its heart it’s only an excuse. I don’t want to face Demetrios right now. As he rode out alone toward a dozen men armed to the hilt, I was more afraid for him than I’ve ever feared for anyone in my life. The intensity of my attachment has tipped my senses off balance.

  Betrayer. Philanderer. I know where this path ends from the beginning. I can choose not to walk its length.

  But is there anything wrong with recognizing someone as likable and valuable? Affection doesn’t have to be romantic, does it?

  Crap. I might be further along than I realized.

  The guards below have barred the gates again. The tribal leaders’ voices carry up to me in a murmur of cadences only. The ladder to the platform creaks, and a warm presence joins me in my observation of the enemy delegation.

  Demetrios leans his head close to mine. “The spark-bearer is there on the far side,” he says in a low voice, pointing to a rider at one edge of their staggered formation.

  A goddess in a fortress. Don’t do anything stupid, Anjeni.

  “How do you know?”

  “He has no sword and no gloves.”

  I look up at him on instinct. He is too near. Our eyes lock as though we are having an intimate interlude. Perhaps we are. Conscious of our audience and my jittering heartbeat, I resume my inspection of the enemy.

  Demetrios is correct. The rider he has pinpointed wears no gloves.

  A shuffle jostles my arm. “Where is the spark-bearer?” Aitana asks as she sidles between Demetrios and me. She peers at the enemy beyond as though her movement comes from natural curiosity rather than a desire to separate us.

  Demetrios withdraws a pace. “There, on the end.”

  I’m torn between gratitude and annoyance for her interference. I squelch the latter emotion. She is here—on my command—to receive instruction, not animosity. “Can you concentrate on him? Do you think you could use the seventh intermediate against him?”

  She bites her lower lip. “Shall I try, Goddess?”

  “No,” Demetrios and I say at the same time. I glance up at him and avert my gaze back to Aitana.

  “Never attack an unknown magician unless you absolutely must,” I say.

  Demetrios adds, “The Bulokai sent this man to the gates of our refuge knowing that we have a goddess who protects us. He will be strong.”

  “But if we attack him first, before he has a chance—” Aitana starts.

  “He may turn the attack back upon us,” I interject. “If he is strong enough, he will.”

  Her expression turns faintly mocking. “You worry that he is stronger than you, Goddess?”

  I meet her stare. “Perhaps the Bulokai have a god of their own, Aitana. We do not know.”

  She shifts under the intensity of my gaze, fixing her attention forward again. “But how can he control an attack he does not own?”

  “The superlatives of magic allow it.”

  “You have not taught me those yet.”

  Her flat accusation chafes me, but I can strike at her nerves just as well. “You have not been ready
to learn them.”

  Aitana’s eyes flash. “I am ready now.”

  Behind her, Demetrios grunts. The two tower guards observe with interest from the corner where they have taken refuge.

  Before such an audience, I deign to indulge her. “Listen closely, then: ‘The first superlative of magic is that it governs all energy. Twist it upon itself, but beware the stronger will.’”

  A contemplative frown descends across Aitana’s face. “What does it mean?”

  “It is a warning. For all the manipulation you learn in the fundamentals, for all the movements and attacks you discover through the intermediates, if your control wavers even slightly—if your strength lags in any small measure—another magician may steal your spark, your spells, everything. Never attack an unknown spark-bearer, Aitana. It could mean your death.”

  “Then why did you ask if I could use the seventh intermediate against this enemy?”

  “For instruction only. Should I not train you how to sight a target?”

  She grumbles under her breath as she focuses again on the enemy delegates, like I can’t hear her. From below, a voice calls to me.

  “Goddess Anjeni!”

  I stoop to peer through the ladder’s hatch. Etricos stands at the base, the message in his hands and the other tribal leaders clustered around him. “Will you come down?”

  As if I’m here to do his bidding. “No. You come up.”

  He scowls at my disobedience.

  “We must guard against an attack from their spark-bearer, Etricos. I can’t see him if I come down to you.”

  Etricos concedes my reason and mounts the ladder. The tribal elders behind him bargain over who else will go up and who will remain below. One man volunteers to stay on the ladder as a vocal relay between the two parties.

  This tower is sturdy, but the space is limited. Six people it can accommodate. Eight is pushing it. Moru and two of the other tribal leaders bring the numbers to nine. Aitana and I are crammed against one corner as we maintain our lookout. Demetrios, for a purpose known only to him, has positioned himself on my other side, so that I divide him and Aitana.

  She is annoyed, as am I, but amid so many bodies there is little room to breathe, let alone rearrange our stances.