Their alarm does not dissipate. Moru adds fuel to the fire with a quiet observation.
“It seems the best choice. If our goddess cannot defeat Agoros of the Bulokai in battle, she would also fail to protect this city should he come upon it in the fullness of his wrath.”
A stricken silence possesses the room as, again, all eyes fix upon me.
This weight of responsibility might kill me before I come anywhere near Agoros. My throat, tight with sudden panic, refuses to work any words. I breathe a deep inhale.
The legends say that the goddess aided Etricos in his quest to defeat the demon hordes, and I know from my time that his campaign succeeds.
But I am the goddess, and the possibility for failure wracks my nerves.
Even so, I swallow my apprehension and replace it with pretended confidence. “You speak wisdom, Etricos of the Helenai. I will go with you. Together we will eliminate Agoros and his Bulokai warriors from the face of the earth.”
I sound so much more arrogant than I feel. Etricos dips his head in approval, and my anxiety eats me alive from the inside out.
Chapter Thirty-Three
My spark-bearers have injuries, more than simple scrapes and bruises. By the time I arrive in the dormitory where they congregate, their fellows already treat their wounds with herbs and fresh bandages. I come alone: Etricos will want to speak with me in private, but he cannot request such an audience without raising suspicions, and right now the tribal leaders waylay him with questions and concerns. Demetrios remains with him, which means that Aitana lingers there as well.
I survey the eleven newly returned spark-bearers before me. They bow their heads in reverence, even in the midst of their treatments. From Etricos’s report, I expected cuts and gashes, but most of the injuries I can see are burns, evidence of magic encountered. Or mishandled.
And I can guess who to hold accountable for that, but she’s not here for me to scold.
I frown upon Ria and Ineri as they bind the blistered arm of one of the youngest who traveled among them. Ria refuses to meet my gaze. Ineri glances up, contrition written on her face.
“Etricos reports that you did not engage with any Bulokai magicians,” I say. “How, then, came my spark-bearers to receive such wounds?”
Ria shoots a warning glance to her peer, but Ineri lifts her chin in defiance. “Goddess, Aitana insisted on instructing in the superlatives as we traveled.”
“The younger spark-bearers begged her,” Ria says, but she speaks to Ineri rather than to me.
“And I told her they were not ready,” Ineri retorts, her low voice simmering with anger.
Meaning that Aitana took the position of leadership after all. I knew that Etricos would elevate her above the others, but irritation lances through me anyway. “Did I not send you three as equals?”
Resentment dances across Ineri’s face. “Aitana is of the Helenai. Ria and I are not.”
I wave aside her words. “Aitana is no more Helenai than you are. The tribe took her under their protection as they did you.”
“She is the strongest of all your spark-bearers, goddess,” Ria says.
I wonder at her willingness to defend her perceived superior. “Strength and wisdom do not travel hand in hand. She does not understand how to teach because she does not struggle enough to learn. I made you her equals to keep her folly in check.”
“She would not listen,” says Ineri, her brows drawn together in a frown.
The beast within me prowls its cage. “And the weakest among you paid the price.”
Between them, the injured spark-bearer chokes back a sob, tears welling in her eyes. I crouch to her level, drawing upon one of the worst manipulative tactics that my father’s example taught me.
With a gentle hand on the girl’s shoulder, I meet her gaze and ask in all compassion, “Do you understand now why patience is so necessary?”
Kindness is a weapon of the very worst order. It drives its point into the soul.
My pupil bursts into tears with a gibbered nod. I gather her up in my arms and drop a kiss on her forehead, considering what more to say. I care about my spark-bearers—so much so that it surprises me. They delight in their talents, eager to study and to improve. I don’t want to kill that fervor, but it does require corralling.
“It is good that you want to learn. The order of the principles is not to hold you back, but to keep you safe.”
She nods again, murmuring apologies. I withdraw from her and look to Ria and Ineri for any last words.
Ria hugs her arms to her chest, defensive. “Most of them were able to work the superlatives we taught, Goddess.”
“But they had not the control they needed to work them properly.”
A blush stains her cheeks. She looks away and mutters, “Even you have overextended your abilities at times.”
Ineri hisses. “Ria!”
“She’s correct,” I say. My spark-bearers turn upon me a wondrous gaze, the room at a stricken hush. “I have overextended my abilities. But I have never allowed or encouraged those beneath me to do the same. If a goddess sacrifice herself for her people, that is her right. I know the boundaries of what is safe because I have walked their length.”
Not to mention that I witnessed years upon years of magic students who tried to advance beyond their abilities, only to receive injuries similar to those before me now.
The rules exist for a reason. Rivers must always run their designated course.
And volcanos can forge what paths they see fit, but I’m not going to tell my students that.
The door behind me opens: Etricos, with Demetrios and Aitana at his heels. I straighten in a slow, controlled movement, favoring him with an unspoken question.
“The spark-bearers ensured our victory, Anjeni,” he says, dispensing with all of the pomp and ceremony he stood upon less than half an hour ago. “They deserve your praise for their valiant efforts.”
Aitana stands proudly rigid, ready for the rebuke she assumes I will give.
I oblige her. “They have done well. They would have done better had Aitana kept them safe within the bounds of their abilities.”
Anger flushes her cheeks. She opens her mouth for a hot reply, but Etricos speaks ahead of her.
“Anjeni, I—”
“These are my spark-bearers, Etricos,” I interrupt, my spine straight. “I only lent them to you. Their worst injuries come not from the enemy, but because one who I instructed to protect them willfully endangered them instead.”
“I spoke with Aitana when the incident occurred. It will not happen again.”
“No, it won’t, because I go with you myself this time.”
Etricos inclines his head, acknowledging my words. Beside him, Aitana trembles with rage. Tears shimmer in her eyes. She holds my gaze as she sidles nearer to Demetrios, seeking comfort from him.
Their arms touch, and he glances down. His expression remains aloof as she clutches his wrist in both her hands to draw even closer, but when he lifts his gaze to me, surprise flickers across his face. He tactfully extracts himself and says, “Goddess, Aitana understands her mistake. She deeply regrets it.”
It’s not regret that smolders in her eyes.
“I certainly hope so,” I say, “for her sake as much as that of my other spark-bearers.”
The corners of his mouth twitch with amusement. Aitana’s brows descend in a glower, and she clamps her hands around his arm again.
Etricos clears his throat. “We will need more spark-bearers this time, Anjeni.”
I choose my words carefully. “The demons may fear us, but Agoros and his magicians do not. They will twist the spark of any bearer who has not attained full control, to the destruction of your other warriors. Is that a risk you are willing to take?”
The Etricos of former days would brush off this remark with glib reassurance that nothing so dire will occur. This one nods, ever solemn. “It is a risk we must take for the strength that we need.”
Gone is
the cavalier belief that those beneath him are expendable to his cause. He is a warlord now, one who carries the burden of casualties that result from his decisions.
And I must support him in his campaign, but only to a degree that logic upholds. “I will bring with me those who have reached the fourth intermediate and above. Any who have not achieved that mark will be more hindrance than help. When do you depart?”
“Tomorrow, midday.”
“Then I will assess my spark-bearers at dawn. Everyone should rest well tonight.”
The trio in the doorway steps aside to allow my exit to the darkened road beyond. Further down the hill, firelight and music mark the celebration that yet continues, the scent of savory foods heavy on the air. My stomach churns with nervousness and I orient my steps instead to my isolated tent.
Etricos and Demetrios follow me in silence. So, too, does Aitana, who keeps close to the younger brother. My temper simmers. Apparently one rebuke wasn’t enough for her tonight.
I pause at the entrance of my tent, looking back in time to catch Demetrios’s disapproval at the lack of warriors to guard my fence.
Etricos gestures for me to proceed. “Anjeni, we must speak within, away from prying eyes.”
I pass through the door. Huna stoops over the fire at the center of the tent, stirring her pot of soup. She glances up at our entrance but averts her gaze again. “Your people have left you offerings, little goddess.”
A small, squat table holds dishes laden with foods from the celebration, including the Terasanai’s dumplings and a bowl of heavily spiced curry. I have no appetite, but I smile nonetheless.
At the door, Demetrios barely contains a growl. He glares at the food like I want to glare at Aitana beside him. What does it say about me, that he sees food as his greatest rival for my affection? We make a ridiculous pair.
Etricos, within the relative privacy of the tent, launches straight into the heart of his concerns. “Can you defeat Agoros?”
My nerves flare anew. I indulge in a short sigh. “I don’t know. I won’t know until he and I come face to face in the flesh.”
Aitana studies me. I meet her gaze and arch an eyebrow, challenging her to speak aloud whatever skeptical thoughts course through her head. For the moment, she refrains.
“If he dies, the Bulokai forces will scatter,” says Etricos.
“As will we if Anjeni comes to harm,” says Demetrios, his steady gaze upon me.
His brother claps a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “We have not come this far to fail, Dima.”
“Your success depends not only on how potent a magician Agoros is,” I say, “but also on how many magicians he has under his command. I suspect I can meet him as an equal in a battle, but if he has dozens of spark-bearers—or hundreds, heaven forbid—I cannot control all of them and him at the same time.”
Agoros commands a greater distance than I do in his projection magic, but his reluctance to use the intermediates in that form speaks to his limitations—or to my folly for not exercising the same caution. Perhaps it is my inexperience that makes me hope I am not far behind him in ability.
“You don’t have to control them,” Aitana says, her voice stiff with umbrage. “You are not the only one who can use the superlatives.”
I look to the fabric of the tent wall and ask, “How have you achieved all of the superlatives when I have only taught you the first five?” Silence meets my question. I turn to observe the fury in her renewing blush. “There are nine, Aitana. Agoros knows them all. His magicians—the ones we have encountered, at least—were proficient in the first eight.”
Assuming that projection magic is the manifestation of the ninth superlative, I have no reason to believe that anyone under Agoros has acquired it. He would have sent his magicians to menace us in our very midst, were it otherwise.
She clenches her fists at her side. “So you put us all in danger by withholding those higher principles?”
I fling my hand out in the direction of my students’ dormitories down the hill. “Have you not seen the result of teaching a principle before the pupil is ready? How many injuries might they have avoided if you had shown restraint?”
“Anjeni.” Etricos steps forward, a shield between her and me. “She acted on behalf of the Helenai.”
“As do I!” The fire flares, its flames encircling Huna’s pot to lick the air, dangerously close to the ceiling. My audience jumps while my beast of magic rumbles within me.
Etricos raises defensive hands. “No one questions that. Aitana will not repeat her mistake. Your spark-bearers seek for victory as much as the rest of us. They will obey your command.”
A strangled noise presses against the back of Aitana’s throat, as though she smothers an instinctive protest.
The fire vents my wrath in another upward spiral. Aitana’s shoulders hunch in the slightest degree and her chin drops. The subordinate grudgingly acknowledges her place. I shift my attention from her to Etricos. “I hope you are right. This battle will be difficult enough without mutiny in our ranks.”
“Aitana knows the proper order,” Demetrios says. Her gaze jerks up to him as he grips her arm. “She knows what is at stake. Anjeni, you must rely more on your spark-bearers. You cannot carry this burden alone.”
My heart shrivels into itself. He is correct, and had anyone else spoken those words I would agree. His support of her right now only makes me wonder how close they became during their time away from the city.
And he has the audacity to growl at the Terasanai dumplings. I’d bean him with one in the head if it wasn’t a complete waste.
Etricos eyes the roiling flames in my fire pit. They stay within their proper confines now, but their frenzied depths provide that bestial portion of me a fitting playground. “We will leave you to your rest for tonight, Goddess,” he says. A wise decision. “Sleep well.” He motions for Demetrios and Aitana to exit the tent ahead of him. With a rustling of fabric, they are gone.
I huff in the aftermath. The fire calms from frenzy to quiet, licking flames. I face my attendant, who watches me with upraised brows, her mouth flat.
“Sorry about your cookware.”
“There’s no harm done. It’s created to withstand flames.”
True to her words, the fire-scorched pot appears none the worse for wear. The contents within bubble and steam. I force a steady breath to loosen my taut nerves.
“Are you truly that worried, little goddess?”
Fear crawls up my spine. I give it voice. “Agoros is strong—stronger than any of us knows.”
She smiles, though wistfully. “You will triumph. The fates did not send you to us to fail.”
The legends of my time agree with her, but they have proved wrong before, to disastrous ends. “I hope so, Huna.”
I glare at the exit where Demetrios disappeared with his brother, and then I flop onto my bed, my back to it.
“Will you not eat?” Huna asks.
“I’m not hungry.”
She clucks in mock sympathy. “It must be dire indeed if the little goddess has no appetite.”
I favor her with a sour glare, but she only grins at me in return. Her toothy good cheer warms my soul: it is the first time I have seen such humor in her since Tora died. I change my mind and accept the food she offers me, though I manage no more than a few bites.
What will I do if Agoros is, like me, a volcano of magic? That he could spare a dozen magicians to send to our gates tells me he has many more. We will have twenty or fewer on our side, and most of them nowhere near proficient in all the intermediates, let alone the superlatives.
And their lack of preparation is my fault. Aitana’s accusation rings in my ears. Have I truly put the Helenai in danger by withholding the higher principles? Should I have taught her, with Ria and Ineri, the words at least, so that they could ponder the concepts attached?
But then she may have taught them to the younger students, with worse results than their premature forays into the superlatives ha
ve already produced.
I heave another sigh. On the opposite side of the tent, Huna grunts at my melancholy.
A rustle at the door draws my attention. Demetrios enters, with neither Etricos nor Aitana behind him. I sit up in surprise, my heart leaping into an eager rhythm.
“Baba, I need—”
“Take her outside if you wish to be alone,” Huna interrupts. “She could do with a long walk right now.”
He opens and shuts his mouth, then looks to me in confusion. I suspect he had steeled himself for a rebuke for entering my tent unattended, and so late in the evening. I would have anticipated one as well. I glance to Huna, who tips her head to the exit.
“Go on, little goddess. Take your cloak and shoes and go.”
My shoes are still on my feet. I sweep my cloak around my neck, my throat tight. Wordlessly Demetrios and I depart. We orient our steps away from the merriment and lights in the city below.
“I thought I would have to persuade her,” he says. We descend the back of my hill, to the basin.
“She blames herself for keeping Etricos and Tora apart for so long. She doesn’t approve, but she won’t interfere.” I surprise even myself with this observation, but the truthfulness of it thrums through me as the words roll off my tongue. My heart might beat itself right out of my ribcage, so torn between dread and anticipation for the cause of his visit. I pause in my descent to pin him with a stare. “What have you to say to me, Demetrios?”
His brows arch. “What if I didn’t want to say anything?”
I laugh, but skeptically. The image of Aitana beside him this evening burns upon my mind. She sidled up to him every chance she got, and though he did not especially acknowledge her, he did not entirely rebuff her either. I pivot, my cloak swirling around me as I continue my descent. His footsteps rustle in the grass behind me, his presence close at my elbow.
The basin is damp. We cross it in silence.
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