Namesake

by Kate Stradling

  If he gets the chance.

  Amid a hail of streaming arrows and smoldering grassland, I climb to my feet. The beast within prowls its cage, fixed upon the exact moment it can break free and ravage all in its sight.

  Only vaguely do I register Demetrios’s continued presence. He withdraws a pace, his sword drawn and his stance protective, ready to shield me from any attack that might rocket my direction.

  A streak of lightning flashes in the cloudy skies above, followed by a roll of thunder. It distracts a handful of Bulokai, who look skyward. One of their fellows barks a command.

  Their master-magician has revealed himself in their ranks.

  They might outnumber me, and their practical experience with the superlative principles gives them an advantage. I am untried, a novice who knows how magic works but has never actually worked these higher laws. My body aches, my joints sore and blood still coursing freely down my face.

  A mere girl in their eyes, a minor obstacle to overcome.

  One element stands in my favor, though: they are only riverbeds. I am a volcano.

  The eighth superlative of magic is that it amplifies all discernible sparks. In unity may one conquer many.

  Their master-magician lifts his hands. A scream tears from my throat as I hijack the colossal surge of power and wrench it down into their cluster. The explosion hurtles them away from one another, slamming them into the ground, snapping necks and spines.

  The mass of energy diminishes with each magician’s defeat, and still I clutch it tight, blasting it against their heads, feeding it with my fury. Thunder resounds across the sky again. The clouds crack and rain lets loose upon us.

  Magic, with its kinship to fire, quickly fades in the torrent. Nevertheless, I swipe a final blow against the master-magician. He lies prone upon the ground, his men scattered, their horses running for cover from the downpour. The murmur of rain engulfs the battlefield as all other noises fade into silence.

  My inner beast snarls, eager for more destruction. I stalk forward to inspect its prey.

  Demetrios sweeps past me, his stride longer. He reaches the first fallen figure and thrusts his sword through the man’s neck with a twist to sever sinew and bone.

  I halt in my tracks, shock coursing through me. The scene before me shifts into focus: these are men, humans, lying broken and defeated upon the ground.

  Demetrios repeats his ruthless sword-work with two more of the Bulokai before I gather my wits. I dart to his side, carefully averting my eyes from the gore I pass. The rain washes his blade clean as he readies it to strike his next victim.

  “What are you doing?” I cry, snatching at his arm.

  My strength is nothing to his. He decapitates this warrior, dragging me forward in the act. I nearly stumble into the body, but he catches me and rights me on my feet.

  “They will carry no reports back to Agoros,” he says, his voice as hard as stone. He strides onward to complete his task, leaving me beside this fallen corpse. My contingent of warriors crosses the gap from the city walls, some to haul the bodies away for disposal and others to retrieve the scattered Bulokai horses.

  And for the first time since my arrival in this backward era, the reality of my circumstances hits me like a brick to the head.

  Whether any of the enemy magicians survived my frenzied attack is immaterial. Demetrios beheads them all, a swift and deadly executioner. I watch his every move, a punishment for my bloodthirsty instincts of moments ago. Sickness swells within my windpipe.

  In my rage, I intended to slaughter them all. Is a cold and calculated blade through the neck so very different?

  By the time he returns, we are both soaked to the bone. Demetrios stands before me, broad-shouldered, muscled, water streaming from his head to his toes. I look up at him, wordless and—I’ll admit—awestruck. Is this the same man who only an hour ago declared his feelings for me? This man has no feelings. He is terrifying, a conqueror, a merciless tyrant.

  If he had died, I would want to die as well.

  He breaks the silence between us. “I will carry you back to your tent, Goddess.”

  The statement jars me from my maudlin self-reflection. My spine stiffens as a sense of dignity floods through me. “You will do no such thing.”

  He reaches for me, but we’re both drenched and I slip easily from his grasp. My toes squish through the mud as I start back toward the city gates. Demetrios keeps pace beside me.

  “Anjeni, you are barefoot and injured, and with as much magic as you expended, you might faint at any moment. You must honor your limits.”

  “You only want an excuse to pick me up,” I retort, my attention fixed stubbornly forward.

  “I do.”

  The bald admission startles me. I stop short and stare.

  His gaze is deadly serious. With the rain falling in sheets around us, he reaches one strong hand to my face, grazing my cheek with his knuckles. That simple touch, calculated and controlled, is all he ventures, but his intensity consumes me. Despite the frigid rain, heat blossoms in my chest.

  Terror follows quickly on its heels.

  I could have died. He could have died. I am in this mess so far over my head now that my only hope of success lies in what the legends of my native time report, but while the legends boast of Helenia’s triumph over evil, they are not kind to the goddess and her lover.

  It is yet another reality check. Woodenly I back away and resume my path to the gates. Demetrios, silent, follows on my heels. We pass through the opening, only to be met with rows of solemn-faced warriors and leaders. They stand beneath the shelter of the watchtowers, their eyes almost accusing upon me.

  Their goddess fell before magicians of the Bulokai. They are more vulnerable than they believed.

  Etricos approaches his brother. From his pocket Demetrios produces the message he was to deliver. “Agoros can draw his own conclusions about his delegation,” he says.

  Etricos nods.

  “What of Aitana and the others in the tower?” I ask.

  “All are injured, but not fatally, Goddess.”

  “See to their treatment. I will be in my tent.”

  The street is a river of mud. Thankfully, the homes are on higher ground than the roads and alleys that run between them. My tent, at the very top of the hill, will provide shelter from storms and floods alike. As I near that safe haven, though, on impulse I bypass it. Demetrios, ever my shadow, does not question my chosen path.

  From the back of the tent, my vantage point overlooks the Eternity Gate on the adjacent hill. Already the basin between here and there fills with water. The Gate, barely visible through the mist, might as well be a hundred miles away.

  Demetrios brushes gentle fingers against my arm, sending a wave of goosebumps up my spine. “Come inside, Anjeni. Come in where it is warm and dry.”

  I look at him—really look at him, at his steady eyes and strong jaw, at the face and physique I was determined to dismiss from the moment I realized where the Gate had brought me—and I break.

  This isn’t a story. It isn’t a legend. It is deadly. The weight of my task presses down upon my shoulders, but it is nothing to the weight of emotion that crushes my heart.

  The rain masks my tears, but it cannot hide the agony upon my face. Demetrios enfolds me in his arms and tucks my sodden head beneath his chin. I sob against his chest, the trauma of this day too much to contain.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “You should not be here. It is indecent.” Huna prods at Demetrios with a stick meant for the fire.

  “Baba, would you truly send me out into the cold and wet?” He lounges beside my fire pit as though he owns the place, a far cry from his usual regimented stance.

  I, meanwhile, peek from behind the curtain where I’m supposed to be changing clothes, but a hiss from Huna sends me back into my sheltered corner. I pull a dry shirt on over my head and fasten its collar in place.

  Huna resumes her scolding. “You know better than to linger in an u
nmarried woman’s home.”

  “Cosi lingers here all the time.”

  “He has tribal business. You have none. People will talk.”

  “Maybe I want them to talk, Baba.”

  A hearty thwack echoes through the tent. I emerge from behind my curtain, freshly clad, to discover Demetrios in a mock cower while Huna fumes over him. The grin on his face testifies how much he fears her temper.

  She straightens when she sees me. Tossing her stick on the fire, she snatches up a blanket, which she flings around my shoulders. “You’ll catch your death of cold, little goddess. What were you thinking, standing out in the rain until your very bones trembled?”

  She rubs my arms through the fabric, watching my face as she works. I meet her inquiring gaze, but I give no answer. I don’t know how long we were out there, Demetrios and I. By the time he coaxed me indoors, my teeth chattered and my shoulders shook from the chill brought by the rain. Huna received me with disapproval and instantly shooed him away.

  Only he didn’t go.

  He observes me from the ground, his expression guarded. I suspect he can read my every jumbled thought, but I can read none of his.

  “Anjeni, sit by the fire.” He pats the spot next to him.

  He’s as drenched as I was, but if I send him home to change, there’s a chance he won’t come back. After my terror of this afternoon, I don’t want to let him out of my sight. Neither he nor Huna seems at all concerned about his health, only mine.

  “She’ll sit here,” says Huna, and she drags me into a chair she has placed on the other side of the fire, opposite Demetrios. I settle on it, bewildered, only for her to drape a towel over my head and vigorously rub my wet hair. “Where would we be if you got sick again?” she mutters under her breath. “The Bulokai march boldly to our gates. What would we do?”

  “We would fight to the death,” says Demetrios.

  Dread plunges through me. “I won’t get sick,” I say from beneath the towel.

  Huna tuts and continues her ministrations. She retrieves a comb and drags it through my hair. It’s a good thing I’m not tender-headed.

  As she works, my gaze meets Demetrios’s, and I look away again, ceiling-ward. The rain beats against the tent roof. A hood blocks the cloudy sky from view while leaving space for the smoke from the fire to vent. I pretend to study this arrangement as Demetrios continues to study me.

  The curtain from the outside parts. Etricos enters, with Moru right behind. He hones in on his brother. “Aitana is asking for you,” he says unceremoniously.

  Demetrios tenses but remains silent—defiantly so, to my eyes. The knots in my stomach twist tighter.

  “Dima, you know how she can be,” says Etricos. “Tora can do nothing with her right now. Go help.”

  A mutinous crease appears between Demetrios’s brows, but it disappears almost as quickly. He hefts himself from the ground and inclines his head toward me. “Goddess, I will return.” After a brief glance at his brother, he sweeps out of the tent into the steady rainfall beyond. I clench my fists in my lap and swallow my irrational fears.

  From behind Etricos, Moru watches this entire interchange with scrutinizing attention.

  Huna abandons my side to fuss with things in her corner of the tent, pretending she is otherwise occupied lest Etricos order her away as well. He ignores her presence.

  “What happened, Anjeni?” he asks me. Moru steps wordless to his elbow.

  My tattered emotions have no place here. Despite my wet hair and informal clothing, I straighten in my chair like a queen. “Agoros of the Bulokai sent a dozen magicians to your gates.”

  “Why did you not defend us from them?”

  The accusation in his voice triggers a scowl upon my face. “Excuse me?”

  “You did not attack them, Goddess. We are lucky their powers misfired.”

  I open my mouth and then snap it shut again. I used no intermediates during the battle. From afar it would have looked as though no magic originated from me.

  Mostly because it didn’t originate from me. But the assumption that I did nothing except uselessly run around on that battlefield infuses me with cold wrath.

  “Their power didn’t misfire, Etricos. The superlatives of magic allow for it to be controlled from a distance. I did not directly attack. I used their sparks against them instead.”

  He digests this information. Moru does the same. Before they can question further, I twist my wrist. The flames in my firepit spark a ball of light into the air. The two men jump, surprised. The bright-burning spell bobs before their eyes.

  I squash it with another flick of my wrist. “It’s a higher skill. There are nine superlatives. And the Bulokai magicians knew them. They tried to use the eighth at the end of the battle.”

  Etricos pulls at his collar, gathering his wits. “But why did you allow them an opportunity to attack? Why did you allow yourself and your students to be injured?”

  “Allow?” I repeat, my hackles rising. “Why did I allow it? Do you have any idea how difficult it is to control a dozen foreign sparks?”

  “You are a goddess, are you not?” Moru softly inquires.

  A hush settles upon the tent. Etricos, rigid, watches with bated breath. Moru studies me, disquiet dancing upon his face as he awaits my answer. Even Huna in her corner has halted her token tasks.

  I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. Locking gazes with Moru, I clasp my hands together so they will not shake too much. “In my world,” I say, considering each word before I speak it, “magic is a skill, not a weapon. We know it can attack, but we have no cause to use it for that purpose. I am sorry. In this, my power falls short of your needs.”

  “In your world?” Moru repeats. I can see it on his face: he wants to believe I am the goddess I have pretended to be, but doubt has crept into his heart. “Is that the world of the gods?”

  “It is a completely different realm.” My eyes lose their focus as I ponder just how different the two worlds are. “Battles are fought with fire-laden artillery and more destruction than you can imagine; machines carry us across the land and through the air. We can travel halfway around the world in a day. And magic is a luxury, not a necessity.”

  Absently I pull my lighter from my pocket, its solid weight familiar in my hand. I glance up to gauge Moru’s expression. He fixates on the silver trinket as I turn it over and over again. When I flip it open and spark a flame on its wick, he recoils, his eyes huge.

  “I am not one of you,” I say, my voice low. Moru jerks his attention from my lighter to meet my gaze. “I do not belong in this world, and I bear power to a degree that none among your people yet manifests. Whether that makes me a goddess is your decision, not mine.”

  He blinks, contemplating my words. Briefly he glances towards Etricos, who eyes him warily, then shifts his attention back to me. With great reverence, he angles his body in a formal bow. “Goddess Anjeni, forgive my boldness. I questioned you out of turn.”

  Moru has chosen faith, unaware of how close I came to defeat on the battlefield this afternoon. The burden of my responsibility weighs even heavier upon me.

  “There is nothing to forgive,” I say. “You have the right to question.”

  Etricos has bided his time throughout this exchange. With my divinity for the moment settled, he steers the conversation elsewhere. “Goddess, how long will it take to train your priestesses in these higher principles you speak of?”

  “I can teach them the superlatives, but true proficiency requires time and practice. How badly were Aitana and the others injured?”

  “Scrapes and burns among them. Mostly they were in shock.”

  Not surprising. The seventh intermediate has an effect akin to electrocution. The weakness of Aitana’s attack likely spared her life when the enemy twisted it back upon her.

  “I will give them tonight to rest and resume their instruction tomorrow.” I say this as though it’s a well-measured response, but really I’m too shattered myself to focus
.

  Etricos makes no sign that he suspects as much. He simply inclines his head. “We need them trained quickly. When Agoros learns of what happened today, he may well descend upon us with his entire army.”

  My stomach twists again. “How will he discover what happened? All of the Bulokai magicians are dead.”

  Etricos and Moru both straighten their spines, dignity descending upon them like a mantle—the same stance my father always took to defend a decision for political reasons rather than rational ones.

  My hackles rise. “How will he know, Etricos?”

  “We have sent him his magicians’ heads bundled on one of their horses.”

  “He will think twice before threatening us again,” Moru adds.

  This is why I hate politics. A show of strength can quell or incite the enemy. From what little I know of Agoros of the Bulokai, he will likely react with vicious force.

  I run my fingers through my wet hair, as though I might smooth away the indignation that flashes through me. “You could not send your response in a less aggressive manner?”

  “Agoros communicates through aggression,” Moru says. “We must answer him in kind.”

  “The tribal leaders agreed upon our response,” says Etricos, as though this justifies everything.

  I bury my face in my hands, burdened with new anxiety at the growing danger of the situation. Etricos and Moru make no apologies before they depart into the rainy evening. In their wake, Huna presses food upon me, chattering at me to eat as she finishes drying my hair. For the next hour, my eyes intermittently stray toward the tent flap, but it remains in place.

  Demetrios does not return.

  I might as well be breathing water for how humid the air is. Every inhale sits heavy in my lungs, and my instinct is to sleep it off.

  The rainy season always has this effect on me, though.

  Huna mops at her brow with a handkerchief as she stirs the breakfast pot over the fire. She ladles me a bowl of broth, which I accept with listless gratitude. I slept poorly, too consumed by my anxiety in the wake of yesterday’s battle and its revelations.