Namesake

by Kate Stradling

  I shift from their presence, back to the warmth of a protective embrace, curled against Demetrios so snugly that my first inclination is not to move. Reluctantly I crack open my eyes. The forest seems dull and drab around me.

  “Well?” His breath ghosts over my ear, raising goosebumps along my spine.

  I shift in his arms. “You were right. They await the support that Etricos promised to bring them.”

  His hold upon me loosens, signaling me to draw back and stand on my own power. Demetrios watches me through half-lidded eyes, never moving from his spot among the leaves.

  I adjust my headdress. “Was I gone too long?”

  “Your body grows cold when you use that power,” he says.

  “I’ve never noticed.”

  “Perhaps you’re numb to its effects.”

  “Perhaps I should keep someone to warm me when I use it.” I offer him a hand to rise, though I expect him to decline my help. To my surprise, he accepts, hoisting himself up. He doesn’t immediately let me go, but first plants a kiss upon my palm, his gaze locked with mine.

  “Thank you,” I say, drawing my hand to my chest like a newly recovered treasure.

  “Always,” he replies, and my insides transform into a mass of twitter-pated goo.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Our allies line the edge of their encampment to greet our arrival. They speak not a word, and the solemn silence sends a chill up my spine. Only the hoofbeats of our horses punctuate the darkening air. The waiting host bows in reverence as I come into view at the end of the company. We pass through them to the center of camp and the cluster of tents that poke toward the cloud-strewn sky.

  The leader I spoke with, Zahar, waits with a collection of peers. Most of our warriors peel away and I move to the front of the host. Etricos dismounts. I do likewise, alongside Demetrios and my spark-bearers. Our reception committee greets us and guides us to the tent at the very center of the cluster, its doors open. Within are rudimentary fixtures—though probably among the finest that they possess—but no fire in the pit.

  “We hope this offering suits the goddess of the Helenai,” says Zahar. He bows deep. I survey the tidy cot with a nod of approval. When my gaze rests too long upon the empty pit, he bows again. “We have not dared light any fires today with the Bulokai so close.”

  “You may light them now,” says Etricos, “but keep the flames beyond sight from the plains below.”

  The leader looks to me for confirmation, and I nod. The smoke may betray our presence, but Agoros already knows his enemy lies in wait. He comes for us whether we light campfires or not.

  Messengers travel through the camp to give this command; my spark-bearers go with them to assist with the fire-lighting. It’s unnecessary magic, but it allows them practice and gives occasion to display their sparks to the ragtag resistance that has sprung up with the hope their power inspires.

  Aitana, Ineri, and Ria remain at my side as my seconds-in-command. Zahar shows the tents designated for Etricos and for my spark-bearers. The Helenai warriors will occupy the forest around us, which our allies have already cleared of underbrush.

  Tents large and small mark the territory of the other tribes. They organize their company by kinship. Zahar points to each cluster in its turn: some tribes have as few as a dozen warriors to their name. This amalgamated host represents more communities than I can keep track of. I lose count at seventeen, and the list goes on. Etricos liberated ten settlements in his raids, and they have liberated at least that many more on the reputation of the Helenai.

  Dusk falls. We move through the encampment, tracing the swell of land to the cliff’s edge. Afar off, through the deepening shadows in the canyon below, firelight marks the presence of the Bulokai host. The incandescent spots extend toward the horizon like stars smoldering in the night sky.

  “They will arrive at the base of the cliffs by tomorrow,” Zahar says. “Their magicians will attack us from below, forcing us out and away from the cover of the forest. It is a method they have used to great success in the past.”

  He looks to me, fear and hope mingling in his gaze.

  I’m supposed to give words of affirmation here, but the enormity of the task before me robs my confidence. Etricos comes to my rescue.

  “We have a goddess in our midst. Agoros and his magicians will exercise more caution in their attacks. Our higher ground gives us the upper hand.”

  I hope he is correct. If I were Agoros under the circumstances, I would leave the campfires behind and sneak with my armies through the night to attack while my enemy was unaware. With magic no longer his exclusive advantage, he will call upon other nasty surprises.

  A small crowd has followed us on our tour of the camp. A commotion rises within them as bodies press through their ranks. I turn, my heart in my throat, as a weathered man squeezes through the front line with a teenaged girl and an even younger boy on his heels. He does not look to me but beyond, and he shouts a single word.

  “Aitana!”

  A strangled noise escapes her lips. She pushes past me. “Papa? Papa!” She collides into his outstretched arms, tears glistening on her cheeks. Wide-eyed, I observe the reunion, barely able to follow the emotion-laden exchange. The girl and boy, Aitana’s brother and sister, crowd close, but they do not touch her. Rather, they somehow keep their father between them and her. Their stares take in her high braid and the black motif that decorates her cheekbones.

  Aitana, noticing their apprehension, tips her nose proudly in the air. She lifts her hand, the spark of magic on her fingers. Her sister and brother cringe away, terrified. The look on Aitana’s face suggests that she revels in this reaction, in her superiority over them.

  With a haughty tilt of her head, she swings her hand and the bright-burning ball upward.

  Etricos and Demetrios cry out a warning, but lightning-quick I snatch her power and slam it into soft earth. I snuff the resulting flames as a stricken silence encumbers our onlookers.

  Fury boils within me. It takes every ounce of my self-control not to scream. My rebuke emerges in a waspish accusation. “Did you seek to kill us all?”

  “I—” Her voice catches in her throat. She looks past me, to Etricos and Demetrios, contrition on her face. “I only wanted to show—”

  “We are at war. The Bulokai magicians might snatch any visible spark and turn it against us,” I say.

  For once she seems to recognize her mistake. “I am sorry, Goddess.” Tears glimmer in her eyes. She drops her gaze to the ground and hugs her arms to her stomach. Her family, cowed as they were by her presence, look at me as though they await execution.

  Like I’m a tyrant in their midst. And so I shall be.

  “Save the higher principles for the enemy. You can show off without putting our entire encampment at risk. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” she says woodenly.

  “Good.” I sweep past her, back toward the area designated for the Helenai. Ria and Ineri follow in my wake, with Etricos and Demetrios behind them. The gathered onlookers fall back, allowing me swift passage through their ranks. I arrive at my tent, where a small fire now burns in the central pit. My pair of acolytes shifts nervously, awaiting my command.

  “You don’t have to stay with me,” I tell them. “You may seek out the others.”

  Ria ducks away with a murmured, “Yes, Goddess.”

  Ineri lingers. “Will you be all right?”

  “Of course.”

  “Aitana was lucky you were there to stop her. We all were lucky.”

  Bitterness eats at me. “Yes,” I say. If Agoros or his magicians in the canyon had seen that spark of light rise from the cliffs, they might have caught it, divided it, augmented the fragments, and slammed them back into our midst with the certainty of hitting an array of targets. My nerves, so taut over the past few days, stretch almost to their breaking point.

  “Thank you, Goddess.”

  My attention jerks up from the ground. Ineri gazes back at me, all sin
cerity in her expression.

  “Thank you,” she says again. “Had you not been here, we might already be lost.”

  Words fail me. Her simple gratitude disarms my wrath. She bows and retreats before I can gather my wits. I look to Etricos and Demetrios, who hover in the doorway of my tent.

  Etricos tips his head. “Once again, Anjeni, your quick reaction saves us.”

  This is getting ridiculous. “I did what anyone with a modicum of sense would have done in my place.”

  “You did what only you were capable of doing,” Demetrios says. “Aitana acted without thinking.”

  My thoughts flit back to the mistakes I have made with my magic. I attacked Agoros, provoked him from afar, nearly killed myself in learning the ninth superlative—multiple times. Much as I despise Aitana, I’d rather drop this subject than dwell on her foolish misstep.

  A throat clears from beyond, someone outside my tent. The pair of brothers turns, and between them I spy the subject of our conversation silhouetted against the bonfire behind her.

  “Cosi, Dima, I’m sorry,” she says. “In my joy at seeing my kinsmen, I acted on impulse. I only meant to show them what progress I had made with my spark.”

  Etricos kicks up one corner of his mouth. “If you understand your mistake, that’s good. Thanks to our goddess, no harm befell anyone.”

  The shadows obscure her rising blush. She bites her lower lip and glances to one side. “My father wishes to meet you, to thank the Helenai for their many years of protection.”

  His mask of cordiality firmly in place, Etricos says, “Of course.”

  She beckons, and the man joins her from the far shadows. My position inside my tent allows me to spy the skittish sister and brother who remain at the edge of the firelight.

  Aitana makes her introductions. “Cosi, this is my father, Marakush. Papa, this is Etricos, the leader of the Helenai. You might remember him from long ago.”

  Marakush bends. “Your father was a good man. I was sorry to hear of his passing.”

  “Many good people have died at the hands of the Bulokai,” Etricos replies. The false politeness in his voice sets my nerves on edge. His icy smile might come from a dozen sources: does he reference Tora, or is he reluctant to speak of his deceased father? Or does this conversation with a member of another tribe signify obligations he does not wish to fulfill? Etricos is a many-layered enigma right now, but beneath that façade of geniality lies a serpent ready to strike.

  Aitana recognizes the danger. She suppresses her instinctive alarm and shifts her focus to his brother. “And this is Dima, Papa. He was my guard and protector from the moment you left me with the Helenai.”

  Her father’s face warms. “You have my thanks, young warrior. The Helenai have my eternal thanks, and that of my tribe. The Bulokai spared more of us because we had no spark-bearers in our midst. Had you not taken my daughter into your care—”

  “Our father was a noble and trustworthy man,” Etricos interrupts. “It was our honor to take up his mantle of protection over all who reside among the Helenai. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have many matters to which I must attend.” He starts toward his own tent nearby.

  “Wait,” Aitana blurts. He arrests his footsteps. She falters for words. “Please—Cosi, Dima, my father wishes to offer a sign of his thanks.”

  Her father adds, “Will you partake of our evening meal with us, as a show of our kinship and gratitude?”

  Kinship. This is a power play after all. Tucked away in the background, I stand as awkward witness to this interchange, my existence seemingly forgotten.

  Etricos glances to his brother, but whatever he conveys in that unspoken communication escapes me. “Thank you, but for my part of the offer I must decline. Too many other matters demand my attention tonight. Dima?”

  Demetrios starts. Almost he glances at me over his shoulder. “I do not lead the Helenai. Receiving such tokens of thanks on their behalf is above my station.”

  Aitana’s father remains undeterred. “As my daughter’s guard and protector, you deserve such tokens of thanks on your own merits. We would be honored to have you as our guest.”

  This time Demetrios actually does glance back at me, meeting my gaze within the dimness of my tent. Anxiety squeezes my windpipe. Aitana’s father exudes the same atmosphere as every politician and diplomat I once encountered in my native era. He will ramrod his way, intent upon giving and receiving favors, with timing that suits his purposes best. On the eve of a great battle, the Helenai can hardly afford to offend their allies.

  Even so, Demetrios squares his shoulders and his expression stiffens with resolve.

  But Aitana interjects before he can speak. “Will you not bring your evening meal here, Papa? We may partake of it together.”

  Mutiny flashes across her father’s face, though he replaces it with a congenial smile. “Yes, my sweet girl.” He kisses the side of her forehead. “We will return shortly. Again, my thanks to the Helenai.”

  Etricos disappears into his tent before the man even clears the ring of firelight. Aitana looks to Demetrios in desperation. “Please, Dima. He is in your debt. I know I made a mistake before, but please don’t punish me for that now.”

  “He, and you, and all of us are in the debt of the goddess Anjeni,” Demetrios replies, and the thorn of anger in his voice sends a jolt of surprise up my spine. He flings his hand toward me. “Why did he not invite her in thanks?”

  Aitana scoffs. “You think my father is so bold as to ask a goddess to share his evening meal? We do not expect her to condescend to us!”

  Briefly she glares past him to where I stand in the dim light of my tent’s smaller fire. She averts her eyes again, but her jaw clenches with bitterness. Onlookers from among the Helenai step closer—warriors and spark-bearers alike—for a better view of the discordant scene.

  “A goddess does not require an invitation,” says Aitana grudgingly. “She may dine wherever it pleases her to dine, and she is always welcome.”

  Obviously I’m not welcome at her little dinner party, though. Not that I want to attend. I settle a reassuring hand on Demetrios’s arm. “I should speak with your brother,” I say quietly.

  “You should eat and rest,” he replies in the same low tones.

  I shake my head. “I need to know his plans going forward. This might be a very long night.”

  He studies me, assessing. With visible reluctance, he steps aside to clear my exit. I offer him a wan smile as I pass. To Aitana, I spare only an arch tip of my head, condescending to acknowledge her existence. With utmost dignity I cross to Etricos’s tent. Demetrios follows as my escort until I pass through the door.

  I enter to find Etricos at a small table within. He sets down a stylus and angles his hand to hide the piece of paper upon which he has been writing. He forces a welcoming smile.

  Suspicious.

  “Did I intrude?” I ask.

  “Of course not, Goddess. You are welcome anywhere at any time.”

  I doubt he intended to echo Aitana’s accusation from a moment ago, or that he even heard the muttered remark, but it rankles me nonetheless. “That’s not true. If I’m interrupting, you should tell me.”

  He waves aside my concern. “I was only writing a letter.”

  I nod, my brain turning this sentence over and over. His secretive nature makes me question the letter’s content. Is it a treaty? A threat to another tribe?

  “Does it have to do with the battle tomorrow?”

  Again he waves my words aside, but he can’t make eye contact. A slow blush crawls up his neck to his ears. “It is nothing, Anjeni.”

  A thought occurs—Etricos, letter-writing—and I blurt it without reasoning whether I should speak. “Do you write to Tora?” He jolts, wide-eyed. Tears blur the edges of my vision. “Etricos, I didn’t mean to… I’m so sorry.”

  He sags back in his chair, no longer endeavoring to cover the page from my view. “I suppose it’s foolish of me, writing to someone who is al
ready beyond this world.”

  I shake my head. Caught in an onslaught of torturous emotions, I do not trust myself to speak. But he does not expect me to.

  “I can see so much clearer now, Anjeni. She loved me. She was willing to die for me, beside me. And I loved her too, but I loved myself more.”

  I start to protest, but he doesn’t give me the chance.

  “Not in word, but in action. My power, my advantages—I put off my love for her because I thought we had time. I spent my efforts in securing a greater position among the people, convincing myself that it was for both of us, but it wasn’t. Tora would have loved me even if I held the lowest rank in the tribe. I was the one who wanted more. I did it for myself, not for anyone else. I didn’t deserve her love or her loyalty.”

  My heart breaks for him anew. His loss, still so fresh, burns within him.

  He straightens in his chair and pins me with a determined gaze. “I will earn her love and loyalty. It is a debt I will hold until the day I die, and when I meet her in the next life, I hope to pay it in full. In the meantime, I will write to her.”

  The letters in the National Archives—this is their origin. I blink, and tears tumble down my cheeks. I catch a shuddering breath at the cause and effect manifested before me: Etricos becomes a national hero in honor of Tora, his lost beloved.

  It is tragic and beautiful, and far too painful for words.

  “Don’t cry, Anjeni,” he says, brushing off my sorrow by shoring his own behind heavy fortifications. “All is well. I will see her again.”

  Though I have no assurance of his words, I nod. There is a governing force in this universe greater than anyone can understand. If that force has any mercy whatsoever, Etricos will join his love when he passes from this life.

  Gently he changes the subject. “You did not, I think, come to speak to me of my letters.”

  I wipe my cheeks, restraining my raw emotions with a sniffle. “What would you have me do tonight? The Bulokai fill the canyon. Would you have me scout their ranks? Would you have me attack?”