Namesake

by Kate Stradling

  I guide them to the back of my hill, with full view of the Eternity Gate across the basin from us. Without projection magic, the intermediates are child’s play.

  Which only makes me want to practice them in projection. Demetrios watches me like a hawk, though, so I refrain from following this impulse.

  The cloud clusters tighten as the sun descends. Orange light glitters upon the distant ocean. The humidity, thick and heavy, is a portent of more night rains yet to come.

  A trumpet signals from the city’s watchtowers. I look to Demetrios for its meaning.

  “People approach the gates,” he says.

  “Should we go to meet them?”

  He considers the question, and ultimately nods. I disperse my small class to their evening activities.

  Demetrios offers me his arm, and I take it as we climb the back of the hill together. I don’t actually need to lean on him. If anything, the afternoon’s exercise has invigorated me, strange as that seems, but yet I allow this small indulgence.

  We cross the other side of the hill and down through the streets. Etricos meets us near the watchtowers, with Moru beside him. “It is the first batch of our rescued captives,” he says. “There are roughly thirty of them—men, women, and children—and all of them unharmed. This is an easy collection of allies to make.”

  “We should not bring them directly into the city,” Moru says, his brows drawn together in a frown.

  “Where would you put them?” I ask.

  “We can give them tents beyond the city walls. We cannot assume these people are allies, Goddess. Many of them may blame us for their plight.”

  I look to Etricos, who grudgingly nods his agreement. Moru departs to give orders, but Tora joins us only moments later.

  Her husband kisses her cheek. “What brings you here, love?”

  She blushes under the open affection, her self-conscious eyes sliding toward Demetrios and me and then away again. “There may be relatives of the injured in this new group. Where will you bring them?” When he tells her that they are to remain outside the city, alarm flashes across her face. “Even the children? Cosi, you can’t leave them beyond the walls. What if the Bulokai attack?”

  “It is safer this way, Tora.”

  “But—”

  “No arguments. It’s not permanent, but only until we can assess their loyalties.”

  “Then let’s go,” she says, and she tugs him toward the gates.

  He digs in his heels, confused. “Go where?”

  “To assess them. Goddess, will you come?”

  “No,” Demetrios says before I can answer. “Goddess Anjeni must rest.”

  I glare at him, but he doesn’t flinch. I play my one trump card. “You can’t stop me from going with her, you know.”

  Etricos intervenes on his end. “Tora, there will be time to assess them tomorrow. Night is almost upon us. They are not injured and can stay beyond the city walls until morning. Please, don’t argue.”

  She scowls but buttons her mouth, deferring to her husband for now.

  “Do you tend to the infirmary tonight?” I ask.

  “Yes,” she says. “I’ve rested this afternoon.”

  The tightening of Etricos’s jaw tells me that he’d rather his wife remain with him. He bids us farewell and accompanies her that direction. Demetrios angles me back toward the dormitories up the hill. “You must eat something and go to sleep,” he says.

  I bristle at being treated like an invalid. “I’m stronger than you think.”

  “Don’t be stubborn, Anjeni.”

  “That’s like telling a fire not to burn,” I say in full glower.

  Demetrios laughs. He catches my hand and squeezes. “It is exactly like that.”

  Overnight, the number of rescued captives grows from thirty to a hundred or more. “They crowd the tents that Cosi provided them,” Demetrios says.

  It has been drizzling since the dark hours before dawn. Guilt for our less-than-hospitable reception of them flits through me. “What a miserable night they must have passed.”

  He regards me with a wry glance. “Less miserable than being tortured and maimed by the Bulokai.”

  I concede the point. We pass from the shelter of my students’ dormitory to the misting rain outside, our heads covered as we quickly walk the road toward the council hall. “What does Etricos intend to do with all of them? Does he make an assessment this morning?”

  “Yes. Tora insists.”

  “Should I go with him?”

  Demetrios hesitates. The concern that chases across his face, while heartwarming, is unfounded.

  “I am rested,” I say. And it’s true. I haven’t felt this refreshed in days. The weakness that plagued me after the encampment raid has vanished. My beast of magic within its cage purrs, eager to explore beyond its confines again.

  “Moru fears there may be those hostile to our people among these captives. You are the goddess of the Helenai and would draw their ire if that is true.”

  “Who better to draw them out?” I ask.

  “If someone were to attack you—”

  “I don’t have to go in my physical form.”

  He regards me, skepticism in the angle of his head. “You might project yourself into their midst, but will that not leave you weak again?”

  “I cannot grow stronger if I don’t practice.”

  He trains his attention forward, a discontented expression on his face. “We will put the question to Cosi.”

  We arrive at the council hall. Moru and a handful of tribal elders already assemble within. They greet me with nervous bows. Etricos has not yet arrived. I draw Moru aside to question the restive atmosphere.

  “We did not expect so many captives,” he says. “Our resources will not stretch much further.”

  He maintains a diplomatic calm. I have come to recognize this mannerism in him as indicative of unrest. “What is your true concern?” I ask.

  Moru glances over my shoulder to where Demetrios eavesdrops on our conversation—on the pretense that he is my bodyguard and cannot leave my side, of course. I half-turn, trying to communicate with him to step away.

  He arches his brows but receives my unspoken request. Silently he removes himself two feet. He can keep me within his sight while still allowing for a degree of privacy.

  Moru observes this wordless interaction, but he refrains from commenting on it. His voice lowers to a whisper. “There is a higher ratio of men than expected. If we are not careful, we might offer the Bulokai free transport into our lands, and into our very city. Even if we keep them without the walls, there is nothing to prevent some in their ranks from slipping away and entering the city from the back. If they are allies, we need their strength as workers and warriors.”

  “How do you propose to discover their loyalties?” I asked.

  He shakes his head. “We do not know, Goddess. We cannot continue to receive them into our care at this rate unless they are willing to work for their own fare, but it makes no sense for Agoros to send us those who would be a strength to us.”

  “Agoros will not send more captives when he realizes his encampments are compromised.”

  “Unless he wishes to use them as cover for his agents,” Moru says darkly.

  Across the hall, Etricos enters, his head high as he surveys the assembly of leaders. He hones in upon me almost immediately. If my private conversation with Moru bothers him, it does not show upon his face. He greets the other leaders as he passes. They follow in his wake. I can see a hierarchy of power before me: Etricos at the top, with Moru as a close second and the others tiered beneath.

  “Goddess Anjeni, you honor us with your presence this morning,” says Etricos, and he bows low before me.

  Scratch my previous hierarchy. I’m at the top, with Etricos and Moru as my close seconds, at least as far as appearances are concerned. Etricos would not bow to me were it otherwise.

  “Have you devised a means of assessing the rescued captives?” I ask, tur
ning my full attention upon him.

  He straightens with a guarded set to his shoulders. “We have already sent word to separate the women and children from the men, and to determine whether there are families among their ranks. They are less likely to be hostile to us if they are with their own people.”

  I nod. If Agoros did implant hostile agents in their midst, as Moru fears, they would be unconnected to the other refugees, strangers to their fellow captives unless he somehow recruited traitors from within the groups. Given his treatment of the people beneath his control, I feel this latter possibility to be improbable.

  “We cannot continue to receive so many so quickly,” one of the leaders behind Etricos says.

  “The warriors we left behind to receive them have broken down the encampments,” Etricos replies. “The last of them returned half an hour ago. We have taken the Bulokai tents they brought back with them directly to the refugee encampment, which should help with shelter.”

  A discussion of food and other resources follows this. I sidle up to Demetrios as I observe. His proximity calms my nerves—we are both outsiders to this meeting. Briefly he catches my hand in his, a momentary comfort to my inner turmoil, but he releases it again lest someone observe that minor intimacy between us.

  I wish he had not let go. As a goddess, I should feel confident and composed. As a teenaged girl, I’m a fish out of water in a crowd of men. For the barest instant, my mind transports to the evening parties my family attended when I was growing up—those assemblies that masqueraded as recreational activities while providing yet another venue for politicians to bargain with one another. This era cannot afford such pretenses, but the bargaining is the same.

  Tora enters the council hall, and Etricos breaks off conversation to meet her. Misting droplets of morning rain glisten against her dark hair.

  “You’ve had a long night. You should be resting,” her husband says.

  She shakes her head. “You said we could assess the newcomers this morning.” A hard look crosses his face—he doesn’t want her involved—but she grasps his hand. “Cosi, let us see to the women and children, please. I’m not alone. A dozen of our kinswomen wait at the guardhouse to help. Do what you will with the men, but we cannot leave women and children outside the city walls, exposed to elements and attacks.”

  “It is a reasonable request,” Etricos reluctantly says to Moru as he joins the pair.

  “Send warriors with them,” Moru replies, his hands folded in his sleeves.

  I step forward to offer my presence as well, but Demetrios catches my arm and pulls me back. “Stay out of it,” he whispers.

  “Why?”

  “Because you have other responsibilities, Goddess.”

  His use of my title instead of my given name raises my hackles. “Protecting the Helenai is my responsibility.”

  He tips his head in brief concession, but he still doesn’t relent.

  “What are you worried about?” I ask.

  “If you venture beyond the city walls, you will be a target for anyone hostile to us.”

  “I don’t have to go in my physical form.”

  “And that will drain you of your strength.”

  I purse my lips in a flat expression. “I’m getting better at it. The more I practice, the stronger I become.”

  “So you say. Your students expect more training this morning, Goddess.”

  “They can’t practice in the rain. Most of them can’t even manage a spark.”

  Our hushed back-and-forth has drawn attention from some of the tribal leaders, who regard us with suspicion. Demetrios flashes them a tight smile. Part of me wants to step away from him, to put some distance between us, but I hold my ground.

  What do I care if rumors fly? Our relationship will become the ultimate in legendary gossip, so why should I try to prevent it?

  “Goddess Anjeni,” says Etricos from across the hall, “we go to inspect the newcomers. Will you come with us?”

  A low growl sounds from Demetrios. I spare him a wry glance and say, “Yes, of course.”

  Moru and a handful of other leaders remain behind. The rest of us pass into the drizzling rain, headed for the city gates. Demetrios sidles up next to his brother to chastise him.

  “If there are enemies among these newcomers, they will target the goddess in their midst.”

  Etricos slides a sideways glance at him, and that wordless acknowledgement speaks volumes. He knows I present a target. That’s why he invited me: Tora will go beyond the city walls as well, and he wishes her safety above all else.

  Demetrios glowers. It’s nice that someone cares whether I live or die.

  As we near the walls, several Helenai women join us, their heads shielded with scarves. A call to the guards signals for the gates to open. We pass through to the barren expanse beyond. To the left, a small encampment brims with activity. Warriors set up the stolen Bulokai tents amid the few mushroom-like Helenai ones already standing.

  The assessment is a tedious endeavor, and one in which I play no part beyond onlooker. Tora and her band of helpers tend only to the separated women and children. In addition to physical needs, they determine languages and tribes, seeking to match these refugees with those tortured few who yet survive in Tora’s infirmary, or with the larger tribes that earlier escaped the Bulokai.

  These people have a strange tranquility to them, as though they are past feeling any pain or fear. What horrors have they already survived, to arrive at this dazed level of confidence?

  “They did not need you here,” Demetrios says. His grudging tone speaks of boredom.

  “Perhaps not, but it is good for me to see.” These liberated captives have no dire physical injuries, but they also have little in the way of worldly goods—only the clothes on their backs, and those clothes are in tatters. They receive meager rations of food with eager gratitude and divide the small portions between them as though they dine upon an enormous feast. I have never imagined such levels of abject poverty.

  Etricos and most of his warriors remain among the separated men. Tora finishes her inspection of the women and children and joins him, but he quickly shoos her away. A short interchange ensues—she is pushing to help with the men as well. Her husband, short-tempered in his concern for her safety, denies the request and turns to escort her from the area himself.

  One of the refugees moves in the midst of the men, his focus on the pair. Metal glints in his hand. A warning cry tears from my throat and an instinctive spell flashes from my outstretched fingers—

  A split-second too late.

  Tora crumples to the ground as my fourth intermediate strikes its mark. Her assailant jolts back into the crowd. Etricos shouts his beloved’s name and Helenai warriors converge to protect him.

  My feet pound across the sodden earth. Demetrios outstrips me, his sword in his hands, and plows into the clustered men. I stop short, my mind clouded as chaos sweeps through the encampment. A riot stands before me. Helenai warriors cut into the fray, forced to abandon their guard over Etricos. I pivot my attention to him instead.

  “Tora, stay with me.” He gathers his wife in his arms, her eyes wide with shock. A dark stain spreads against the rain-damped fabric of her dress, originating from the wound at her back, where a narrow blade protrudes.

  “Get her into the city, quickly,” I say.

  He clutches her to him and lurches from the ground into a run.

  Magic crackles from within the fray of rioting men. I whirl and turn it back upon its source. Power explodes and bodies fly. They crash upon the ground. I stalk into their midst, my mind aflame with seething fury.

  I can discern the innocent from the enemy: one gibbers in fear while the other tenses to attack me off-guard. I strike any who dare to lift their eyes in defiance to the goddess of the Helenai and leave seventeen dead upon the ground.

  In the aftermath, silence possesses the encampment. I scream—loud and long and hard.

  Chapter Thirty

  Keening
pierces the air, mourners in the crush of bodies that crowd the council hall. Tora lies at the head of the room in waxy stillness. Beside her, Etricos kneels, his gaze upon the ground, his body almost as motionless as his beloved wife’s. He clasps one of her hands in his, her ashy skin a contrast to his bronze. Next to him, Huna grips his other hand and folds over herself in monumental grief.

  This isn’t how the story goes.

  I know by now that the legends haven’t gotten everything right, but this is too far outside the lyric narrative. Etricos rules Helenia with Tora by his side.

  We have evidence of it in the National Archives.

  Maybe the fog in my brain clouds my reasoning. I sit, dreamlike, at the head of the room but apart from the principal mourners. The goddess presides, but she does not participate. The other tribal leaders cluster near me, their faces drawn with somberness. The whole city cycles through to pay their respects, an endless line of grievers bearing condolences and offerings: flowers, trinkets, mementos of the deceased.

  Divisive as Etricos has been among the tribes, Tora was universally loved. Aitana and Ineri escort her orphans through the line, and their sobbing faces might as well tear my heart from my chest. Everyone here has experienced death and destruction, but this is somehow worse.

  A body settles beside me, and a hand thrusts a cloth into my line of sight. “Goddess Anjeni,” Moru says, his voice hushed.

  I stare at the cloth first and then up at him in confusion. He regards me with gentleness and pity. With a careful hand, he dabs my cheeks.

  I blink and receive the cloth from his hand, completing the job myself. “Should a goddess not cry, Moru?”

  His reply comes in a whisper, spoken in reverence. “Even the heavens weep tonight, Anjeni.” He removes himself from my presence to join the other leaders.

  Demetrios, on the far side of his brother, turns halfway to check on me. If I could banish the pain from his eyes, I would in a heartbeat. He sees my sorrow, matches it with his own, and returns to his vigil.

  Tora was like a sister to him. She was a sister, mother, and daughter to everyone she encountered.