But one stepped before the others: girl, of no great height or import. Only as he saw her did Agmon Brandheart remember Aika of the Green riding in his vanguard.
Fearless, the girl challenged the God of Hunger soaring above. ‘Daemon! I offer you a chance to sate your ravenous desire! I will tame the hunger that commands you, if you but dare to come near!’
Famine immediately dove at the girl like a hawk at a mouse, his jaws opening wide. Agmon, staring inside his gaping maw, saw the end of all times within. He quailed and waited for the girl to be consumed.
But Aika of the Green stood her ground. ‘Famine!’ she called again. ‘I offer myself as Sacrifice! My blood and my spirit are yours!’ And upon these words, she raised a knife white as bone, then plunged it through her own chest.
- The Seeds of Famine, a translation from the Lighted-tongue; by Oracle Kalene of deme Hull; 881 SLP
I lay in bed, sleepless, Isidora’s scene painting exercises faltering in my mind. Despite night having settled over Oedija, Nomusa and Kelena had gone out to sway the upcoming election, insomuch as they could. The honor, knowing many secrets of the Servants, promised to be useful if it came to coercion. It left me alone to think over the day — or avoid thinking about it, as I’d opted to do.
Yet after my thoughts became so distracted that I couldn’t remember if I was supposed to be imagining a desert or a sandy beach, I sighed and sat up. Images of what was happening to Linos kept inserting themselves every time I tried to focus, the barbs of Eltris keeping back information from me and Kallias the Sculptor being too important to treat my brother following quickly behind. But imaginings of Talan with Sule were what stirred me to anger. How the man could be foolish enough to trust a daemon, I couldn’t understand. If he wouldn’t listen to reason, I didn’t know what could sway him.
Helplessness and frustration conspired to keep me from sleep as well. Finally, I relented, rebinding my sandals and throwing on my cloak.
I only got as far as the tower before something drew my eye. In the low light of the pyr lamps among the many finches settling down for night, I glimpsed a tightly bound scroll attached to the leg of a green-plumed bird. Ascending nearer the top of the tower, I took some seed from a nearby trough and cooed softly, trying to coax the bird toward me. Eventually, I succeeded, and the finch ate contentedly of the seeds as I untied the scroll, then withdrew my knife to cut the unfamiliar seal, a tree with its branches formed into a sphere — the shape of the Bali isikhayha trees, if I wasn’t mistaken. The script was strange to me as well, written in large, flowing letters barely recognizable as Oedija’s sea-tongue.
First Verifier Airene,
The Shaka-Heir bids you visit his quarters this night, if you are able. If this missive arrives too late, he wishes you to come at your earliest convenience.
- Faluwa Yorandu Nkosi, Advisor to Charratta Yorandu Komo, Shaka-Heir of the Yorandu
I lowered the small scroll, considering. When this message had arrived was critical. Though Nomusa made liberal use of our finches, I’d found little reason to of late, and hadn’t been looking for scrolls. Either way, I could ill afford to delay. The turn wasn’t too late as to attempt a visit, and I clearly wasn’t going to fall asleep.
With a purpose propelling me on, I hurried toward the Laurel Palace. The green radiant winds streamed across the cloud-dappled night sky, lighting my way as I crossed the bridge and ascended the hill to the golden Wreath estate. Though the guards were unfamiliar to me, they admitted me at a flash of my medallion. Recalling my steps from two nights before, I found my way back up to Komo’s quarters.
But as I traveled down the hallways of the opulent wing, I found the Bali guards stood in front of a different door. I froze as I realized why. Memories of the fleeting battle crashed through my mind. Screams filled the air. Blood splattered the floor. Bodies slammed into stone walls with sickening squelches. The perfumes of burned flesh and fresh death filled my nose.
I nearly doubled over. It must have only been a moment before the panic passed and I was able to draw in a ragged breath, yet the moment dragged on and on. My eyes again saw the hallways before me. The unfamiliar guards watched me. They could have been carved from trees for all their expressions shifted.
Feeling as if I walked in a dream, I put one foot in front of the other until I stood before them, grasping for words. “Heir Komo summoned me.”
One of the guards raised an eyebrow. “And you are?”
Recognition of his voice startled me from my daze. Incredulous, I stared at the man, words completely escaped me now. Without having to search, the traitor guard who competed for the Despoina’s affections stood before me.
It was easy to see why he thought he stood a chance, even with royalty. In addition to his honey baritone voice, he had strong features and bright, lively eyes. The hardened muscles of his arms and stomach were on fine display in his warrior’s garb, and he looked dangerous and alluring all at once. A smile played at the corners of his lips even as his eyes narrowed at me. Yet scorn didn’t diminish his beauty, but somehow enhanced it.
“What do you think?” the would-be seducer asked his fellow guard. “Which of the sea-city herbs did this one take?”
He clearly intended offense by speaking in my own tongue. Yet still I found myself tongue-tied.
The other guard didn’t answer either. A taller, thinner man already balding despite his youth, his brow knitted together as he studied me. “Are you well?” he asked, his words heavily accented.
I roused myself. “Yes. I just… I was remembering what happened here before.”
The guards exchanged a look. The younger man said something in a low, excited voice in the Yorandu tree-tongue, but the traitor guard just shook his head, amusement plain in his expression.
“My friend believes you remember as the Shaka-Heir remembers,” he informed me, speaking with exaggerated slowness. “That you feel the violence of places.”
I knew he mocked me, yet in my stunned state, anger couldn’t reach me. “Remembering as I do is enough,” I told him. “I was there with Heir Komo when the Seekers came.”
The traitor guard’s smile slipped, and his eyes flickered to the medallion at my chest. “First Verifier Airene?”
My name and title returned some semblance of my dignity. “Yes. Now will you admit me?”
The traitor guard spoke rapidly to his companion, and the younger man shot me an inscrutable look before knocking on the door, then entering within. The traitor and I were left in silence. With each passing moment, I felt more myself. If the memories hadn’t faded, they’ lost some of their cutting edge.
“What’s your name?” I asked him flatly.
The traitor guard seemed to have recovered his mocking confidence. “Why? Do you wish to report me for my suspicions?”
“What’s your name?” I repeated.
“Bhaka.” He said it as if it were of no importance.
I didn’t respond, but waited until the door opened again. The younger guard stepped out and motioned to me. “Shaka-Heir will see you.”
As he held the door open, I stepped inside. I felt Bhaka’s gaze on me as I passed him, but I didn’t look over as his fellow closed the door behind me.
“First Verifier Airene.”
Komo wore a loose white tunic and short trousers, similar to what he’d worn the night of the attack. The Shaka-Heir’s boyish voice had none of the buoyancy from when I’d first met him at the feast. I wondered if his “feeling the violence of places” was taking their toll.
“Heir Komo.” I bowed and approached. The room was not as richly adorned as his first quarters had been and lacked the vines covering the walls. Komo’s advisor Nkosi stood in one corner of the room next to a bookshelf. He didn’t look up at my entrance, seeming engrossed in a small book cradled in his hands.
Komo noticed my study of the room and shrugged. “Do not fear — we are comfortable here. I am more worried about you. How do you fare? I saw the man they call Hilario
n up and walking.”
“I’m fine. My wounds were not so dire. And yes, Xaron was healed without complications, thankfully. I see you’re well yourself.”
Komo nodded absently. “Yes. As I said, it does not take my body long to heal. I had feared I would call you from your bed with the note, but I could not.”
“You needn’t have worried. What did you wish to speak of?”
The boy glanced back at his advisor, but Nkosi continued to ignore us. “Asileia Wreath,” he said with some reluctance.
I tried to hide my surprise. How strange that the topic should come up now, with the Shaka-Heir’s traitor standing outside his door. But as I considered telling him, I realized I couldn’t. We needed the Yorandu as allies, and the surest way to tie the bonds was through marriage. To confess our Despoina might have a dalliance with his guard could only serve to undermine it.
I tried to ignore the guilt that assailed me as I stowed the admittance away. “What would you like to discuss about the Despoina?” I asked lightly.
Komo’s brow creased. “You seem reluctant to discuss her, as do most I have encountered. Is it considered rude in your customs to discuss your leaders?”
I thought quickly. “It isn’t offensive exactly. But people might be reticent because they don’t know her personally. She’s a figurehead, and most know her as little more than that.”
“And you?” the boy pressed. “You have spoken with her, have you not? What has been your impression?”
I strained to think which of her qualities might be put in a good light. “I have only spoken directly with her once, and she hasn’t worn the Evergreen Wreath long. But she seems a driven woman, and one intent on making Oedija strong.”
“So I have heard. Yet what others tell me and what I see do not match.” He shifted, his gaze wandering from me. “She seems… distracted. And she often speaks of being the Hand of Clepsammia. Is this a title of some importance to your people?”
His mentioning her self-proclaimed title stirred a thought that sent cold fingers crawling down my spine, and for a moment, I lost the line of my thoughts. But now wasn’t the time to consider it. I scrambled for a way to spin it. “She means that, as the Despoina, she is the ambassador of the Eidolan gods. A recently adopted title, but one steeped in tradition.”
Nkosi’s book snapped closed. “Enough,” he said, his tone halfway between annoyance and amusement. “Enough dancing around the truth. The Shaka-Heir wishes to know whether or not he courts a madwoman.”
My tact was nearly banished before the bold question, but I clung resolutely to it. “Some might be offended by that question.”
“But I do not think you take offense easily. Tell us, First Verifier Airene. Is the Despoina god-touched?”
“Nkosi,” Komo said nervously. His eyes darted between us.
“It is under control, Shaka-na. The question, Finch.”
Nkosi knew. If I was to salvage our relationship, I had no other choice but to confess the truth. “I don’t know. But once, I believed her mad enough to attempt to murder her father.”
The two exchanged glances.
“I wondered when you would speak of your missing Despot,” Nkosi said. Satisfaction warmed his tone. “Myron Wreath is alive, is he not?”
My mind spun. Who would have told him that? This game raced ahead of me. Until I found a way to get ahead of it, the truth was the safest route. “We believe so.”
“Yet you have not recovered him.”
I saw the chance and seized it. “We haven’t the strength. The Manifest hold Myron Wreath captive. There’s been no demand for ransom, so freeing him by force has become the only option. We need you, Heir Komo, to rid the traitors of our city.”
“But if Myron Wreath is freed, does he not resume his position as the Despot?” Nkosi pressed. “Would not Asileia be forced to cede the crown back to her father?”
Curses ran through my mind. I hadn’t considered that angle before. “I don’t know. You’d have to pose the question to the Archon.”
“Jaxas Wreath. The man in line after Asileia, is he not? I wonder if there are not other reasons Myron has not been recovered.”
For a moment, I could do nothing but stare. The implication was an insult to a man who had sacrificed so much for Oedija.
“I would not fear that,” I said coolly.
“Please, Nkosi,” Komo urged. “Do not offend everyone in Oedija. We may yet make this alliance.”
“When we have been met with little but lies and deceit? I do not see what we would have to gain, Shaka-na.”
The boy turned to his advisor. “We have not been honest either. Tell her. Tell her what only one of the Bali would know.”
Nkosi seemed taken aback, his night-dark skin flushing darker. My curiosity grew as I looked between them.
“You are right,” the man admitted. Then he approached me and held out the small book he’d been reading.
I hesitated a moment before accepting it. Though it seemed well-cared for, the cover was time-worn, the words and images faded beyond recognition. “What’s this?”
“Tales of the Desolate, you would call it in the sea-tongue.”
Everything fell into place. I knew what they thought they withheld. “The story of how the eleventh ishaka became the Unnamed. The story of Yama and Lophe and their Serpent God.”
They stared at me, eyes wide. “Then you know?” Komo urged.
I nodded slowly. Yet the weight of the admittance held back the words. If they didn’t suspect what I hoped they did, what I would tell them might still drive them away. But as it was, they hesitated over the marriage and alliance. They might leave us. I suddenly resolved that if they did, it would be knowing the full extent of the threat the Four Realms faced.
“Heir Komo, the Serpent God that assailed the Bali ishakas didn’t leave this world. And Yama didn’t die in obscurity. He came to another place and continued to serve his god. He came here, to Oedija.” I drew in a breath for the final admittance. “The former Tribune Vusumuzi is Yama in another guise, and the Dragon he and the Manifest revere is the Serpent God returned.”
Komo stared at me, features lifted almost in awe. “You knew. All this time, you’ve known. And yet you do not fear to face him.”
Nkosi seemed to have aged. “It is as I feared then. The world again buckles beneath the tightening coils.”
I held the book out to him, but the advisor pressed it back into my hands. “No. You know the book, but you have not seen all. This is an older version than the one you will have read. After Yama and Lophe fell, the Shakas agreed that their words were too dangerous for any to hear. So a copy in our tree-tongue was disseminated that stripped the words of the Twins away, leaving only the history and the warnings against the Serpent God. The book you hold now is the original, written from firsthand accounts in your sea-tongue, in case it fell into the wrong hands of our countrymen. It contains the words spoken by Yama and Lophe.”
The book suddenly felt heavy in my hands. I considered what this might mean. “How do you know the words are real? How do you know they weren’t an author’s invention?”
“This book has been handed down through the line of the Shaka’s family, unblemished by history’s workings, that was written by the advisor to the Yorandu Shaka at that time. It is uncorrupted.”
I looked the advisor in the eye. The time for half-truths was over. “But you broke that bloodline. You murdered Nomusa’s family.”
Nkosi didn’t flinch. “Madness does not prey only on Oedija’s rulers,” he said softly. “My Shaka did what had to be done.”
I looked aside. The man spoke with far too much belief to be comfortable. Could he speak the truth in this as well? Had Nomusa’s father been as mad as Asileia was becoming?
“I need to think this through,” I found myself saying. I bowed stiffly, not meeting their eyes. “Thank you for the book.”
“Keep it safe, First Verifier Airene,” Nkosi responded. “Read it. And when you have, w
e will speak of this further.”
I nodded, then turned from the room.
17
The Same Coin
As Aika of the Green fell to the earth, unmoving, Agmon Brandheart found his courage. Calling the charge, the First Wardens surged forward to meet the enemy.
But as Famine swooped down to accept the girl’s body, the ground suddenly trembled. A tree, as shining and brilliant as the sun, grew where none had stood before. As all stared in awe, they saw the God of Hunger plunge onto its branches.
Famine screamed, and raged, and lashed his great serpentine body back and forth, but he could not break free of the white limbs thrust through him. Slowly, his movements grew sluggish; then he ceased to move at all.
Agmon Brandheart stared into his enemy’s black eyes, but could not tell if he lived or had died, for he had never seen life behind them. ‘Is it over?’ he whispered. ‘Is it done?’
The Hero of Man sank to his knees and wept. For all they had lost. For the girl who had saved them. And for the coward he had showed himself to be.
- The Seeds of Famine, a translation from the Lighted-tongue; by Oracle Kalene of deme Hull; 881 SLP
I read the night through.
The previous copy of Tales of the Desolate that Nomusa had lent me had been intriguing and vivid enough to haunt my dreams. This original was engrossing. Now that I knew Yama and his Serpent God for what they were, everything took on new meaning. The will that drove the Twins to conquest their fellow people, the hunger for power and vengeance, were all too familiar.
Yet there was more in this first edition. Yama and Lophe’s own words were littered across every page, and when Yama spoke, it was as if I heard the words from Vusu’s own lips. All that is great comes with sacrifice, he whispered into the still air of room, and I had to look around to ensure he wasn’t there.
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