Namesake

by Kate Stradling

  I drape an arm around her shoulder and pull her into a lopsided embrace. “I do it for the Helenai, Huna.”

  She snorts, ever the skeptic.

  By week’s end, I can walk among the scorched, abandoned enemy camps that used to mark the borders of our safe haven. Each sits atop a hillside that allows me far-spreading views of alien scenery beyond. My daily surveillance changes accordingly.

  Ten days after the company departs, a single rider streaks across the rain-soaked plains. I see him from one of these hills, and the terror that strikes my heart wrenches me back to the confines of my tent. I sit up amid shadows, trying to calm my racing pulse.

  Logically, this is a messenger. He bore no marks of the Bulokai, and it makes sense that Etricos would communicate with us, especially after so long an absence. But fear for the group—for Demetrios, more than anything else—shatters my concentration. I tear from my cot and throw on a hooded cloak and shoes. My students practice fundamentals and intermediates in their dormitories during the afternoon rains. Light flashes against their cloth-covered windows as I pass.

  Below, in the city, I sludge through muddy streets to the council hall. Moru and a handful of others sit within, discussing the growing city. They pause as I enter.

  “A rider comes,” I say. “He should be here in another two or three hours.”

  They exchange nervous glances. “Is he friend or foe?” Moru asks.

  “It looks like one of Etricos’s men—a messenger, I presume. We cannot be sure until he arrives.”

  They set aside their local business and prepare instead for this rider’s advent, sending word to the other tribal leaders and to the city guards upon their watchtowers.

  In my modern era, communications take place at the click of a button and one may travel miles in only a few minutes. Here, where nothing travels faster than the speed of a horse, my impatience builds and my mind flits through a dozen or more terrible possibilities.

  Failures, deaths, destructions.

  Perhaps he is the last survivor, come with warning that Agoros leads an army of thousands to destroy us. And that would mean that Demetrios—

  I box my emotions from following this train of thought. I cannot invest in anticipatory grief.

  When the watchtowers finally trumpet their signal, I’m almost ready to die from the dread. The tribal leaders file into the council hall one by one to take their places. I sit in my designated spot, a token guard nearby.

  And we wait.

  Except that I’m so tired of waiting. I lean back against the wall and shut my eyes. In an instant, I am at the city walls, watching as the rider pulls up before the gate. Dusk and shadow obscure me from his view. From above, a soldier calls down for identification.

  He gives his name and says, “I bear a message from Etricos of the Helenai.”

  The gates shudder and part wide enough for the rider to pass. He gallops through, and I recede to my body in the council hall. I open my eyes to a ring of councilmen. Moru alone glances at me, concerned.

  I arch my brows and he turns his attention forward, the lines of his face smoothing. He alone in the room realizes that I was not entirely there.

  Outside, horse hooves clatter to a stop and a parlay of voices ensues. The rider enters, wind-swept and bedraggled, with a pair of soldiers behind him. From the depths of his layered clothing, he produces a sealed and folded letter, which he presents to the council with deep reverence.

  Etricos sends word of victory.

  The tension in the room breaks as relief smothers us all. The rider precedes a supply of provisions and cattle, tributes offered from two of the conquered Bulokai holdings. The liberated people have pledged their loyalty to the Helenai.

  I fight the sudden urge to cry. The legends were correct in this measure, at least.

  The council piles questions upon Etricos’s messenger, demanding details of the raiding band of warriors.

  He bows low. “We owe our victories to the goddess Anjeni.” Shock jolts through me at the sound of my own name. The warrior continues. “Word of her power spreads across the land. The demon soldiers of the Bulokai cannot abide the spark. They flee and perish before us at the first sign of magic in our midst.”

  “What of the Bulokai magicians?” I ask.

  “We have encountered none.”

  The absence of magicians strikes me as suspicious. Even as my worry mounts, Moru speaks.

  “Agoros keeps his spark-bearers close to him, goddess. They are not as plentiful as it may seem.”

  The dozen that approached our very doorstep were an anomaly, in other words.

  The meeting disperses. The rider leaves to rest, and the tribal leaders carry news of Etricos’s success to their respective quarters of the city.

  The next day brings a caravan of wagons brimming with supplies—sacks of grain, crocks of oil, dozens of chickens in cages—along with herds of cattle that extend in a straggling line toward the horizon: sheep, cows, oxen, pigs.

  The city rejoices at its sudden fortune. The council frets over where to store such wealth. They divide the goods among the households, so that hardly a yard exists that does not harbor an animal or two.

  Agoros will not take this blow well. I resume my vigil upon the surrounding hills.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Wind sweeps the far-flung plains, and the tall grass rolls like ocean waves. In my projected form, I feel nothing but the cot against my back in my tent miles away. Another ten days has passed, and I have expanded my range. I walk amidst foreign scenery, ever alert for intruders.

  Twice I have discovered clusters of Bulokai agents sneaking onto our lands. Twice I have eliminated them. I cannot dwell on the blood I shed but keep my emotions tightly compartmentalized. Even so, their faces haunt me, the killer who fells them with deadly precision.

  Use of magic in this form, even the lower intermediates, still saps my strength in the blink of an eye. Huna scolded me the first time she found me in a near-comatose state. Now she does not leave my side.

  I crest a hilltop, black flames bleeding from me. A rumble of galloping horses carries on the wind. Alarm mounts within me. Is this Agoros come to take his revenge?

  But the host that crosses the gentle valley below has too few in its numbers to be the great army of the Bulokai. I recognize, too, the proud leader at its head.

  Etricos returns triumphant.

  Someone in their midst spies me. A cry cuts through their ranks and dozens of heads peer toward my hilltop. I gather my strength and push my projection closer to them.

  Etricos pulls his horse to an abrupt stop. He schools his shock when he recognizes me and inclines his head in greeting.

  “Goddess Anjeni.”

  “Etricos, well met,” I say. Briefly I allow myself to survey the men behind him. Demetrios is not among the front lines. Neither are my spark-bearers. I hope they are further within the crowd. “Do you return to the city, or do you only cross through to another destination?”

  He smiles. “We return, goddess, but briefly.”

  A rider urges his horse through the company, Demetrios forcing his way to the front. I fight the instinctive relief that bubbles within me as he reins in beside his brother.

  A scowl marks his face. “Anjeni, who is with you?”

  I arch my brows. Huna is there, but I suddenly don’t want to tell him that. Before I can formulate a cheeky response, Aitana emerges from the crowd and directs her horse alongside Demetrios’s. She lifts her nose proudly, but the reins in her hands betray a tremor of nerves.

  “I trust all my spark-bearers are safe,” I say to her.

  She spares a self-conscious glance toward Etricos and Demetrios, but she wordlessly nods.

  “Injuries are part of battle, goddess,” says Etricos. “Not a man among us has escaped unscathed.”

  Meaning some of my students are injured. “And how many men have you lost?” I ask.

  His jaw tightens. “Fourteen.”

  Fewer than I feare
d, but more than we can spare. “We will honor them as heroes. The city will rejoice at your return, Etricos.”

  He banishes the instinctive wistfulness that flashes through his eyes. “We stop only briefly, and then we leave again.”

  I’m not surprised. He has no reason to stay.

  “I will instruct the people to prepare for your arrival. May you have swift travels to our gates.”

  “Thank you, Goddess Anjeni.”

  Demetrios opens his mouth to speak, but his brother spurs his horse with a cry to continue. As the host rushes upon my projected form, I wink to the shadowed confines of my tent on its hilltop above the city miles away. I open my eyes and allow them to adjust. On the other side of the fire, Huna chops carrots to add to the broth that bubbles over the pit.

  “Etricos is coming.”

  Her hand stills. She observes me as I sit up, her expression frozen. “How soon?” she manages to ask.

  I can’t be too sure about distances, but I take a guess. “They’re within twenty miles, I think. I will tell the tribal elders to prepare.”

  She sets the knife aside and starts to rise, intent upon running the errand for me.

  I stand, waving her back to her task. “Stay here. I didn’t overextend myself. The walk down to the city will do me good.”

  “How am I to face him, little goddess?” Her earnestness pierces through me. In the time since Tora’s death, she has had too many opportunities to brood.

  “He blames himself, Huna,” I say, careful of her trampled emotions.

  She shakes her head. “I kept them apart for so long. He must blame me for that, and he should.”

  “He blames himself.” I harden my voice on that phrase. Too many of us carry this burden of responsibility. “Most likely, he expects you to blame him as well.”

  Huna looks up with watery, stricken eyes. Sudden tears prickle at the corners of my own. I cross to her and envelop her in a fierce hug. “I am sorry,” I whisper. “If I had power to change it, I would.”

  She pats my head, for the moment accepting my sympathy, but her gruff exterior soon returns. She pushes me away. “Go to the tribal elders, little goddess. The city must properly receive its heroes.”

  I retreat, obedient to her command.

  The news spreads from the tribal elders to the people, who abandon their usual tasks to prepare a celebration. Hours later, as the afternoon clouds roll across the sky, the guards in the watchtower blast a signal. People gather to the gates, anticipation thick upon them.

  As Etricos and his company pass from the plains to the city, the throng roars with joyful welcome. The force of their ardor reverberates through the council hall where I wait.

  Moru insists that a goddess does not descend to her warriors, but that they must ascend to her. He and the other tribal leaders clot the entrance to the hall. Huna and I sit within. For the sake of peace alone, I opt not to project my terrifying black-flamed image to the streets, but this blind anticipation might be the death of me.

  I’ve already spoken with Etricos. Demetrios is more my concern. I cannot entirely banish the fear that nearly three weeks apart has irreversibly altered the relationship between us. It seems like eons have passed in that short span.

  A stir of movement draws my attention. Tribal leaders back through the doorway to create a path, and Etricos ducks into the hall. Demetrios and Aitana come three paces behind him, together. My heart drops at how natural they look beside one another. I fix my gaze upon the leader of the Helenai, holding my emotions in tight check.

  Etricos approaches my position at the head of the room but pauses halfway. He bows low, a sign of reverence. The council hall is a theater now, where onlookers crowd in the door to glimpse the interaction between their tragic hero and the goddess who favors him.

  Demetrios and Aitana mirror their leader’s action, though Demetrios chances to make eye contact with me as he bends. Simple though that gesture is, it eases the turmoil in my heart. If his concern for me is only pretend, he is a magnificent actor.

  “Goddess Anjeni, we greet you upon our return,” Etricos says. He and his two subordinates remain in their bent position, and I realize a split-second later that they await for my command to straighten again.

  Because this is a theater.

  “Rise, Etricos of the Helenai.”

  He obeys. Demetrios and Aitana each take this as cue to do the same.

  Etricos steps away from them. “We bring you tidings of much success, Goddess, and of much yet to accomplish. By virtue of your name, we have rid ten settlements of the demons of the Bulokai and struck a decisive blow to Agoros and his brutal reign. Our newly liberated allies swear fealty to the goddess Anjeni of the Helenai and even now gather their strength to join us in further campaigns against our mutual enemy.”

  Were we supposed to prepare speeches? I wish someone had told me. “You have done well, Etricos,” I say, feeling my own lack of eloquence next to his grandiose display.

  “Thanks to you, Goddess.” He bends his head in humble acknowledgement, which sets me wondering what new game he plays.

  “And what yet lies ahead?” I ask.

  “I desire to counsel with the goddess and the tribal leaders on that matter, if it please you.”

  As if I would tell him no, the manipulative goat. “Do you first require rest and refreshment, Etricos?”

  “I do not. I trust that my men and your spark-bearers will receive according to their needs, but the war we wage presses upon me greater than any earthly comforts.”

  He wants to counsel immediately, then. I order it to be so. The tribal leaders assemble, and the onlookers retreat to the celebration that still flourishes in the streets. A trumpet sounds, and someone beyond the door announces that the goddess and her chosen servants meet together.

  My legend writes itself before my very eyes.

  Demetrios and Aitana remain for the council. They have acted as Etricos’s seconds in battle and hold place at this meeting. Aitana seats herself between the pair of brothers, her expression defiant, as if she expects me to order her away.

  I won’t. If anything went wrong with my spark-bearers, I want her held accountable in front of an audience.

  I half-expected Demetrios to resume his usual position as my guard. From the way Moru glances from me to the stoic warrior and back again, he expected it as well. No wonder Demetrios remains near his brother.

  Or perhaps he remains for Aitana’s sake.

  The philandering cad.

  I choke back a laugh at my heart’s readiness to condemn him. We sit in tribal council to discuss a war. My petty jealousy can take a back seat for an hour.

  On my direction, Etricos gives his further report. Though he does not sit at the head of the room, he commands the attention of all, a true leader in their midst.

  “The Bulokai are in upheaval, Goddess. The demon soldiers cannot abide the spark. They flee before us without a fight, leaving only token garrisons of foot soldiers behind. Our first battles were hard won, but as word spread that a goddess had granted spark-bearers to the Helenai, our enemies’ fear undermined their prowess. A week ago, we took three settlements in two days, with not a man lost in those skirmishes.”

  “The demons fear the spark to that degree?” Moru asks, his gaze intent.

  “Even the feeblest attack can fell them,” says Etricos. “We know that Agoros and his predecessors rooted out spark-bearers for decades. These demon soldiers appeared only after they would face no threat of enemy magicians, and they refuse to fight in a battle where such enemies exist. It was thus when the goddess first arrived: those demons that she did not slay fled from her sight, though they still numbered in the hundreds.”

  “Had we known their fear of magic to run so deep, we might have struck the Bulokai sooner,” one of the tribal leaders says.

  Etricos nods. “Truly the presence of a goddess within this city keeps these demons far from us. Agoros has sent only human agents against us since that first battle, bu
t this was by necessity rather than stratagem. The demons will not fight. Even now, they rebel. The Bulokai soldiers we captured confirmed as much. The demons believed our goddess’s influence to be contained to our territory here at the ends of the earth. They consider the existence of additional spark-bearers a betrayal of a covenant between them and Agoros.”

  “The demons and the magicians of the Bulokai never mingled,” Moru says, a frown upon his face as he muses upon this revelation. “I cannot think that I ever saw them work together.”

  “We always assumed unity in the ranks of the Bulokai,” one of his peers adds, equally bewildered.

  Etricos leans into the circle, eagerness on his face. “We assumed what does not exist. Agoros has knit together forces that refuse to mix, and it appears that he did so on the pretext that they would never have to deal with one another, or with enemies of the same skill. With magicians on our side, we have an opportunity to strike and to strike hard.”

  Moru stiffens, wary. “What is your plan?”

  Because we all know Etricos has one.

  “In three days’ time, I meet our newly freed allies at the Red Cliffs, to the north. I have promised to bring them weapons and armor. If rumor is true, Agoros himself marches with a horde of Bulokai warriors to squash our uprising. We will meet him and destroy him.”

  “Our numbers are yet too few to meet the Bulokai,” says Moru. “Even without their demon fighters, they are many. Agoros will have spark-bearers in his company.”

  “He is a spark-bearer himself,” I say. All eyes in the room turn to me, but I fix my gaze upon Etricos. I’m fairly sure I know what he plans to do, but I will allow him to ask rather than volunteering for the role I must play.

  Etricos tips his head. “If we have a goddess in our company, even the legions of Agoros stand no chance.”

  Voices ring out, protests of alarm. They clamor roughly the same question:

  “If the goddess Anjeni leaves us to meet the Bulokai, what protection will we have?”

  Etricos raises his hands for everyone to remain calm. He pitches his words above the din. “If we destroy Agoros upon the plains, we will have no need of divine protection here. If we fail, he marches for the city anyway. It is better to keep the conflict away from our people, away from our women and children.”