Namesake

by Kate Stradling

  As we start up the hill toward the Eternity Gate, he speaks.

  “You did well tonight.”

  I turn a bewildered look upon him. “In what respect?”

  He takes my hand in his, contemplating it, running his rough larger thumb over my smaller knuckles. “In holding Aitana accountable in front of the younger spark-bearers. Cosi did as much as well, but it is good for them to see that you care for them. You keep yourself so distant most of the time.”

  I scoff and pull my hand from his grasp, but he snatches it again, his grip tight. The intensity of his gaze burns me all the way to my toes.

  “It will be over soon,” he says.

  My breath leaves my lungs in a whoosh. The nerves I have quietly battled erupt anew within me. I swallow and nod.

  “You will prevail.”

  Again I nod, though not because I believe his words. He tucks my hand in his arm and guides me to the crest of the hill. We continue onward, our steps directed toward the black ribbon of ocean on the horizon.

  “Cosi doesn’t fully trust the tribes we liberated,” Demetrios says. “He won’t allow them shelter here with us, not until Agoros and the Bulokai vanish from the earth. I trust them, though.”

  I lift concerned eyes to him, and he smiles reassurance down upon me. “They have suffered, Anjeni, and they are eager for vengeance. We left behind what weapons and arms we could, and they continue the raids on the strength of our reputation.”

  “But they have no spark-bearers, do they?”

  He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. Word of the Helenai precedes them. The demons will flee before they ever glimpse their warriors, and the Bulokai foot soldiers make easy prey. The tribes we liberated will liberate others, and they will join us to defeat Agoros and his ilk. And all of this is thanks to you.”

  A denial perches on the edge of my tongue, but he drags me into his arms before I can speak it aloud. Demetrios cradles my head against his shoulder and leans in, his warmth encompassing me. Calm floods through my jittering nerves. I wrap my arms around him and revel in the comfort of his embrace.

  Three weeks was too long a separation. How will I cope when I don’t have him at all?

  I push away on that thought, terror descending upon me anew. His arm around my waist won’t allow me to withdraw more than a scant few inches.

  “Don’t go,” he whispers. His eyes gleam fervid in the darkness that surrounds us.

  I gaze upon him, my heart in my throat and grief puddling in my soul.

  Demetrios repeats his plea. “Don’t go, Anjeni. When it’s all over, when the Bulokai are no more and peace comes to this land, don’t go. There’s no law that says you have to leave us.”

  A slow tingle works through me, raising goosebumps along my skin. I have always assumed my time here was finite, that I would leave the way I came, whether to my own era or another that awaited my arrival. In the months that I’ve lived among the Helenai, I have kept that inevitable end in my thoughts. This life is a difficult one. Even coddled as I am, I recognize the work that goes into daily living. I don’t know how to accomplish even a fraction of it.

  I don’t belong here any more than I belonged in my native time, but for entirely different reasons.

  Demetrios drops his forehead to rest against mine, his eyes shut, his arms still firm around me. I cannot speak the reassurance that he wants. Instead, I breathe deep to calm my racing pulse.

  “What is my future, Anjeni?”

  The question jars me. I recoil, staring up at him. He meets my gaze, his eyes steady.

  “What is my future? What do the people of your time say of Demetrios, brother of Etricos?”

  Emotion sticks in my throat like a lump of food. My quick, shallow breaths betray my inner turmoil.

  He presses the issue. “You knew my name when you first arrived. You knew of me already. Tell me truthfully: am I to die in this final battle?”

  Confusion tumbles over me. “What? No.”

  A measure of tension drains from his shoulders. “Then what becomes of me? What is it that makes you retreat behind this wall of yours? Whenever I think we have an equal understanding, something makes you withdraw from me again. What is my future?”

  Philanderer. Faithless betrayer. The epithets I have always used for the Demetrios of legend bear no resemblance to the sincere and earnest man before me now. I seek refuge in the answer I gave him months ago.

  “Your future is your own to choose.”

  He cups my cheek in one hand. “And I have chosen it.”

  And yet, another woman leaned upon him only an hour ago. “Have you?” I ask, my voice a touch more waspish than I would prefer. “Have you really chosen?”

  The corners of his eyes wrinkle with amusement. “Yes.”

  I bristle. “Why are you laughing?”

  “You’re jealous of Aitana, and for no reason. You have the same expression on your face that you wore earlier, when we all stood in your tent. She’s only playing games. Cosi is in mourning, but when enough time has passed, she will focus her attentions on him.”

  “And until then you’ll let her hang upon your arm as much as she pleases?”

  “I didn’t know you could be so jealous,” he says, fighting a laugh. He stoops to kiss my cheek.

  I tip my head away. “Demetrios, it’s not funny.”

  “I’ve always let her hang upon my arm, ever since we were young. It doesn’t mean anything.”

  “It did once.”

  He pauses, assessing me in the darkness. His mirth settles into a more solemn expression. “I won’t allow it anymore, if you don’t like it.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Is this your promise to stay with me? I am yours, and you are mine, and we live the rest of our lives as husband and wife?”

  That fervid intensity has returned. My heart plunges into my stomach. If I demand faithfulness from him, why should he not require the same from me?

  But still I deflect the question. “I would make a terrible wife, Demetrios.”

  He looks to the horizon with a laugh, his hold upon me loosening. “There’s that wall again. Does it keep you safe? I hope it does.”

  A protest bubbles up in my throat, but he grabs me by the hand and pulls me back the way we came.

  “You should rest,” he says. “The Helenai need their goddess to be strong.”

  This can’t be the end. I can’t let this be the state of our relationship. “I love you,” I blurt, stumbling in my steps as I try to keep pace beside him.

  Demetrios stops on the hillside, his full attention upon me. He draws me in and kisses me with such dizzying passion that my head spins and my every nerve stands on end. But it’s over almost as quickly as it began. “I know you do,” he says, half-breathless. “And I love you. But somehow, it is not enough.” He smiles, sorrowfully. Tucking my arm to his side, he leads me down the hill and across the muddy basin.

  This wall between us, I have kept it as a refuge against heartache and abuse. I only meant to protect myself, to limit the emotional damage that seems to be my destiny. But the wall itself is now the threat: Demetrios has retreated behind it as well, on its opposite side, and this separation is worse than all the days we spent apart.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The Helenai warriors string out in a long line, their horses loping through the tall grass. Etricos rides at the head of our host. I bring up the rear with my spark-bearers, the goddess protected by hundreds who precede her. Demetrios keeps close, supposedly as a guard, but I suspect he is here more to ensure that my horse does not run away with me.

  And I’m grateful to him for it.

  “Is this the way to the Helenai homelands?” I ask.

  He looks askance at me. “We came from further east, in the mountains.”

  “Do you wish to return there, someday?”

  “No. The Bulokai have ravaged our lands. We cannot return to what we once had, because it no longer exists.”

  In this respect�
��among many—he differs from his brother. I study his profile, my heart in turmoil.

  He favors me with a reassuring smile, though that imaginary wall between us remains strong. “Our past is gone. Only the future matters—now more than ever.”

  His speaking eyes trigger a blush up my neck. If I could safely jump from my horse to his and wrap my arms around him, I probably would. I suppress the irrational urge and train my gaze forward.

  We follow the boundary of the river inland. The sun blazes through trailing clouds overhead. Close to dusk we pass beyond the terrain I have roamed in my projected form.

  When we stop for the night, Etricos orders tents erected for me and my spark-bearers. The warriors have smaller, simpler shelters that will keep off any nighttime rain. I stride through their ranks, lighting campfires where needed and surveying the men as they prepare to rest.

  They dare not meet my gaze. Huna insisted that I head into battle in my full goddess regalia: death paint, headdress, flowing attire. Over the past several weeks, she has traded out all of my masculine pants for more feminine counterparts, long and full, their silhouette almost mistakable for a dress. They’re comfortable to wear, so I hadn’t thought twice about the missing clothes until it came time to prepare for this journey.

  “You are a goddess, not a warrior,” Huna said when I confronted her. “I gave the other clothes to your spark-bearers. These are more suitable for you.”

  The sneaky old crone.

  True to her word, my spark-bearers—all twenty that qualified to come—dress in pants, with banded-collar shirts beneath their cloaks. Death-paint motifs highlight their eyes, their hair pulled high in braids and topknots. They make a fearsome sight.

  I share my tent with Aitana and half the younger girls. While I would have preferred Ineri as a roommate, I don’t trust Aitana and Ria together. We recite the fundamentals and intermediates before we retire. I give brief instruction in the superlatives to those who can receive it, but with a strict charge that they should not attempt practice unsupervised.

  My skull aches from the weight of the headdress when I finally remove it. I wash the paint from my face and settle back on my bedroll, listening to the sounds of the wilderness beyond the tent walls. Around me, my tired spark-bearers slip into steady, quiet breathing.

  In contrast, restlessness eats at my soul.

  We covered a lot of ground today. We have much more to cover tomorrow, but I cannot go into it blind. A whisper of energy projects me into the outside world. Amid swirling shadow and black flame I cross through the quiet campsite, a specter in the darkness. I pass beyond, to the path that lies ahead.

  The clouds thicken above. I fly through foreign lands, bouncing from one point to the next until the unseen tether between my spirit and my body tugs. I stretch my limits and spring back into the quiet depths of the Helenai encampment. The sleep-rhythms of my spark-bearers press upon me, and I succumb to my exhaustion, satisfied with my progress for tonight.

  In two days of travel we pass through forest and plains. I grow accustomed to stiff legs and sore muscles. The land rises gradually, and in the distance, a range of snow-capped mountains hovers against the horizon. Our army courses through low, scrubby trees like a river of horses and men. We encounter small villages, women and children only, the Bulokai expunged from their ranks. They peer at us from within their rudimentary homes, wide eyes seeking glimpse of the goddess who enabled their liberation.

  When my gaze connects with any of them, they cringe and bow in reverence. My headdress steadily works a sore spot against my scalp.

  On the third day, the land swells upward into deep trees. We pause at midday to rest and scout ahead. Etricos picks his way back through the ranks to where I stand with my clustered spark-bearers.

  “We reach the Red Cliffs before dusk,” he says. “Our allies should await us there, if they have not lost their courage.”

  Uncertainty bleeds through his usual confidence. Demetrios’s warning near the Eternity Gate rings through my mind: Etricos does not trust the liberated tribes. For all he knows, we are riding straight into a trap that Agoros will gleefully spring.

  “Shall I go into their midst from here?”

  Demetrios stiffens, guarded as he waits upon his brother’s response.

  “Yes, Goddess,” says Etricos. “I would be most grateful if you did.”

  I glance around at the overgrown woodland, seeking a secluded nook where I can rest unseen by the company.

  Demetrios tugs my sleeve. “This way.”

  His unspoken promise calms my sudden anxiousness: he will watch over me. We start into low underbrush together. Aitana and Etricos both move to follow, but Demetrios halts them with a raised hand. “Stay here. Keep watch for scouts from the enemy, or from our allies. We will not be long.”

  Aitana bristles like a jilted bride. Etricos merely arches an eyebrow at his little brother. Demetrios gently prods me onward. I move, stiff-backed, among the trees, all too aware of the dozens upon dozens of eyes that watch my retreat.

  The land here buckles and caves, with fallen trunks swathed in spider webs and moss. The more I look, the less I see a suitable place to sit, let alone leave my body unattended. I’m going to end up with a hundred ticks and chiggers if I crouch anywhere in this arboreal mess.

  Demetrios, less concerned with parasitic pests, pulls me into an alcove where land and tree meet a jutting rock. “This should suffice,” he says. Before I can voice approval or protest, he flops down upon a nest of leaves, dragging me with him.

  “What—!”

  He settles back against the rock and tucks me close, securing his hold upon me. “You know I hate this brand of magic, Anjeni. Do it quickly and return. I will keep you safe.”

  I could protest. I could insist upon lying flat as I usually do, but my heart sings at his warmth, at the deeply masculine scent that he exudes, at the assurance that he will protect me in my most vulnerable state. Among the warriors and spark-bearers, we guard against even the slightest touch, so this moment presents a luxury I will not reject. Heedless of my headdress, of the painted motif that decorates my face, I rest my cheek upon his chest and close my eyes.

  My breath steadies and my muscles relax. I melt against him, secure in his arms, and shift my spirit beyond its physical constraints.

  We make a strange picture, he and I. My cloak covers both of us as we lie against the jutting rocks. Were it not for the golden headdress and the extra pair of feet, an onlooker might mistake us for one person instead of two.

  Demetrios looks up at my shadowed form, and the misery upon his face almost wrenches me back into myself. Do I cause him that much grief?

  “Go, Anjeni,” he says, the words echoing doubly in my ears.

  I wink away through the trees, crossing miles in the blink of an eye.

  When Etricos said we would travel to the Red Cliffs, I assumed that we traveled to their base. Instead, I emerge from the forest against a long, high ridge that overlooks a huge, rock-strewn canyon. The earth beneath my feet reflects vermillion in the afternoon sun. Below, the red rock gleams among scrubby trees and bushes.

  A shout from my right draws my attention. Further up the line of the cliff, bodies cluster like ants upon a pile. I flash into their depths amid outcries and scuttling retreats.

  The men create a circle around me, giving me wide berth. Wordlessly I scrutinize them, turning in a tight rotation as murmurs erupt in their ranks. They are old and young, with more of them at the extremes of age than in the middle. There are women, too, armed with swords and clubs. Their faces, coarse and brown and lined, speak of difficult lives.

  Some of the people duck their heads. Others drop to their knees, their wide eyes fixed upon me. A bald warrior muscles through a cluster that quickly falls back to let him pass. He enters the open space and observes me, from the crown of my head to the shadowed flames that spill outward at my feet. Wonder marks his expression. When he speaks, it’s with the accent of a different dialect. I’m
grateful to understand him at all.

  “You are the goddess of the Helenai?”

  “I am.”

  More bodies drop to their knees. Some prostrate themselves upon the ground. As the line of the circle nearest me bends, so too do the people behind them. At the edge of the crowd they gather to glimpse their divine visitor and alert those warriors further down the cliff’s rim of my arrival.

  “I am Zahar, whom Etricos of the Helenai freed,” says their leader, his head bowed. “My people have liberated many in your name, Goddess Anjeni. We will fight for you until death tears us breathless from this world. You come not a moment too soon.”

  “How so?” I ask. Some of the warriors have clasped their hands in prayer. Their worship of a false goddess rubs me wrong. If I am truly their salvation, they should worship the power that sent me here.

  “Agoros and his army approach from the north,” he says, and he points to the far-flung horizon, where a ribbon of dark haze shimmers low. “They will be upon us in another day. Though we occupy the higher ground, we have not the men nor the weapons to withstand the Bulokai in their fury without your support.”

  Fear tinges his words, as though he expects me to pull the rug out from beneath him, so to speak. He is as cagey of Etricos’s promises as Etricos has been of his.

  “How many warriors have you?” I ask.

  He puffs his chest. “We number a thousand strong.”

  Strong might be a stretch. The Bulokai culled the ablest bodies from among them in their captivity. Those who remain exhibit more determination than strength.

  But, their numbers are three times the number that travels with the Helenai. “You have done well,” I say. “Etricos and his company arrive here at dusk. I come in their midst.”

  “We will prepare for your arrival and rejoice, Goddess Anjeni.” He bends low, the afternoon sun shining on his head. Those in the circle around us take this as cue to press their foreheads to the ground, their voices vanishing into a silence that ripples back along the edge of the cliff.

  Am I to offer a farewell? Who would have expected godly visitations to be so awkward?