by Rena Barron
Tyrek draws back and meets my eyes, his smile wicked. “I’m here to kill you.”
Magic rises to the surface of my skin at his threat, but I push it down. He’s half-drunk and powerless with or without his titles. “Why would I let you do that?”
“Please don’t take offense.” Tyrek holds up his hands. “I’m offering to help you should you need it.”
He might be right, I realize, though part of me recoils at the idea. Essnai and Sukar will try to keep me in line, but would they hesitate if my death was the only way to stop the Demon King? A split second could be the difference between saving the world and unleashing chaos. I can’t put my friends in that position.
“If you want to help, then I need you to promise me . . .” I can’t bring myself to finish my sentence. I don’t particularly like or trust Tyrek, but he does understand in a way that no one else can.
“Say no more.” Tyrek touches his hand to his forehead and dips his head in the Aatiri tradition. “I will not hesitate when the time comes.”
“If the time comes.”
“We all tell ourselves what we need to hear to survive another day,” he says as he comes to his feet. “Thank you for giving me a purpose again.”
Part III
The Unnamed Orisha: Dimma
I remember the pitch of Daho’s voice, the way it ebbed and flowed like the wind that howls on the mountain. Every night, he would tell me a story. The best were the ones of us traveling across Ilora looking for adventure. We sought lost treasure, flew in a sandstorm, raced on the backs of giant turtles. Tonight, he tells the story of a young prince lost at sea until a maiden rescues him.
Daho lies on his side with his head propped on his elbow, and there’s such light in his eyes that I can’t look away. He brushes his fingers across my cheek, down my neck, along my collarbone, sending a warm thrill through me. When we’re this close, I notice changes in his body, too, though I do not call attention to them.
“Do you want to see the world?” I ask, considering. “We can explore every corner of it together.”
“The world is fine and all, but I want you . . . and to see Jiiek again.” His voice lingers on you, heavy and raw, yearning. It puts words to my own feelings. I want him, too, in ways I do not fully understand. He hasn’t talked about going home since those first days we were together. “I doubt that anyone I knew is still alive.”
“Why go back if you have no one?”
“I don’t know.” He frowns. “I guess I’m homesick.”
“Isn’t this your home, too?” I ask, hesitant, afraid that he will reject this idea.
“Oh, yes,” Daho says, his voice bright, “and you are my family.”
He leans over to kiss me, and I press my finger to his lips. “I don’t want to lose you.”
“You won’t,” he breathes against me.
But that isn’t true. He is mortal. All mortals die.
When Daho falls asleep, I shed my body, so its constraints do not bind me. It feels good to be free of it. The parts that make up the whole of me stretch across the frozen lake and the mountain. I have a single goal: cure Daho of his mortality. Without a physical presence, I can cover many worlds in my search in a shorter time.
I start at the bottom of the mountain, which overlooks the farmlands on the outskirts of an endoyan city. A scattering of lights pushes back the night, and the people wrap themselves in furs against the cold. I find a forge with fires and an endoyan shoves dead bodies into slots in the walls. In another room, an endoyan scoops ashes into a jar and closes the lid. I stretch my consciousness across the land, finding thousands of people with ashes. Some spread them in the wind, some pour them in lakes or oceans, and some keep them in their dwellings.
I travel to the edges of Jiiek, feeling guilty that I am here without Daho. The night is almost as bright as day, full of lights and endless sounds. The endoyan city had been flat, but here the dwellings reach into the sky. The people don’t burn their dead; they collect their useful parts and bury the rest in the ground. Sometimes they grow new body parts, which extends the lives of the demons. It still isn’t enough to save Daho.
Iben’s gate is a circle of energy that sparks and spins, moving in and out of time. It is and isn’t there. Time does not exist in the space inside it, yet I can feel its pull, its call, its tethers reaching into my soul. There is a sprawling city built around the gate, of both endoyan and demon design. The city is the center of Ilora’s trade with Zöran. The mortals have not yet learned how to adjust the frequencies of the gate to visit other worlds.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” Iben says, his voice a whisper on the wind. “Without it, there would be no mortal life. Do you understand, Dimma?”
I understand through the vibrations of the universe. The Supreme Cataclysm continuously destroys and remakes everything close to it. Only my brethren and I can survive that chaos unchanged. That’s why Koré, Re’Mec, and the others made these worlds so far away from the Supreme Cataclysm to seed life. “Why must they die?”
“The child is not his parent.” Iben’s form shimmers into a shape with wings sitting on top of the gate. “We are of the Supreme Cataclysm—it is our parent, but we are not the embodiment of it. We have limits. We cannot create immortality.”
My frustration quivers across the sky and land. The ground beneath me cracks, trees split, the molten rocks in the center of the world grow hotter.
“If you keep doing that, you will destroy this world.”
“I . . . I don’t understand,” I say. “I didn’t mean to do that.”
“Our intentions and emotions manifest in mysterious ways,” Iben explains. “You’ve changed the shape of this world with one small slip.” He looks up as it begins to rain—droplets that fall in heavy sheets. “It’s fortunate that you’ve done no real damage.”
“When you came to the cabin, you said that you were there to see the beginning of the end.” I bury my desperation deep to keep it contained, and it burns inside me. “What did you mean?”
“I am the guardian of time and its secrets,” Iben answers. “If I went around telling everything I know, then I would be a rotten guardian, wouldn’t I?”
“You’ll never do anything to influence the possible futures you see.” As soon as I convey that thought, something else more terrible occurs to me. “You’re not here by coincidence; you knew that I would seek the gate.”
Iben’s shimmering body dims with anguish, but his pain doesn’t spread across the land like mine. “Sometimes our nature brings us joy, and sometimes it brings us pain.” He shifts his position so that his wings spread to their full width. “Nothing I say tonight will have any effect on the future.”
Knowing that I will get no answers from him, I bid my brother good night and pass through the gate. Inside it is a void of space and time with endless threads into many worlds. I don’t know where to start, but I push forward into one, determined and restless.
I visit two dozen worlds, searching for some sign. On each of them, life has a beginning and an end. It is finite. I’m tired when I finally return to Ilora and slip back into my physical form. The weight of my anguish almost brings me to my knees as I lean against the cabin, feeling the cold for the first time. I will search again for a cure for death. I will search to the end of time.
Seventeen
Arrah
We trudge through the narrowest path of the Barat Mountains pass with the wind howling in our ears. With a week on the road behind us, the snowcapped summit ahead promises rest and the start of our descent. Icy mud splashes against my ankles and slips into my boots. I walk alongside my horse, holding the reins with one hand and rubbing his shoulder to keep him calm. The cold air aches in my lungs, but the peace of the mountain gives me some solace.
Sukar walks ahead of me, Tyrek behind, and Essnai brings up the rear. Neither Sukar nor Essnai were particularly happy when I invited Tyrek to travel with us. They say it’s a mistake to trust a Sukkara, but they don’t know about
the deal I made with him.
The last time we trekked across the mountains, I’d been sure that I was on my way to die. One of the craven twins, Tzaric or Ezaric, had told stories to lighten the mood. Somehow I defied the odds and survived. I thought my path was clear for the first time in my life, but the ritual with Mami changed everything. Now I’m anxious to search for the tribal people, and my confidence has all but withered.
We clear the path and set up camp below the line of snow, where the ground is still dry. While we tie up our horses, a group of travelers crests the north side of the trail, on their way from the tribal lands. They look weary and tired, and when Sukar asks them if they met any survivors, they shake their heads. I notice their bulging saddlebags and suspect that is how the Zu mask ended up in the East Market. People like them have been raiding the tribes and stealing from the dead.
“It doesn’t mean anything,” I say after the travelers are gone. “None of them have magic, so they couldn’t possibly track down the survivors if they don’t want to be found.”
Sukar nods as he gathers twigs and leaves for a fire, but he’s clearly disappointed at the news. We all are.
Tyrek clutches his extravagant fur cloak tight to him, warding off the biting cold. “Wouldn’t it be faster to use magic?”
I unpack my bedroll and kick off my frozen boots. Faster, yes, but is it worth the risk? It’s been more than a week now since I called upon magic or sought knowledge from the chieftains. “I can’t.”
“Come again?” Tyrek cocks his head, a sarcastic smile on his lips. “So, you can peer inside my mind but not do something so trivial?”
“No one asked you,” Sukar snaps at him.
“It’s a valid question.” Tyrek blows on his cupped hands. “Is that why you haven’t”—he taps one of his perfectly straight teeth—“fixed that?”
Sukar hurls a rock at Tyrek, and Essnai deflects it with her staff. “You behave,” she tells Sukar before glaring at Tyrek, “and you shut it.”
I glance away, my face burning with embarrassment. I hadn’t felt the Demon King’s presence when I called wind for Essnai or when I broke Princess Veeka’s glass. Starting a fire should be just as simple—nothing like growing a new heart or reliving someone else’s memories. “I’ll do it,” I blurt out, already regretting my decision.
“Are you sure?” Essnai asks.
Sukar bares his teeth at Tyrek. “You have nothing to prove to the likes of him.”
“Yes, I do,” I whisper. “I will never know if the blood medicine works if I don’t start testing it.”
I give Tyrek a meaningful look, and he catches on. If I lose control, you know what to do. He eases his hand toward the dagger at his waist and angles his body so Essnai and Sukar can’t see it. He gives me a nod as if to say he’s ready. It’s only then that I remember I haven’t actually taken my nightly dose of blood medicine.
I turn my awareness inward, my mind tuned into the hum beneath my heartbeat. My skin tingles as the magic wakes like a sleeping mammoth, unfurling, stretching, seeking. I raise my hands and sparks light on my fingertips, hues of silver and blue and black. I stare at them for a moment, afraid, anxious, and relieved when nothing happens, then I flick my wrist. The sparks hop to the pile of sticks and the fire ignites.
The whole thing is . . . uneventful. Oh, but how wonderful it feels to wield magic again, like I’ve been missing a vital part of myself for the past week. Soon the fire is large enough to give us heat and a place to cook. The moment passes, but my friends and Tyrek wait. After a while, I smile, shaking my head to let them know that I don’t hear the Demon King’s voice. I’m filled with newfound hope. Not missing a beat, Essnai tosses yams on the edge of the fire. Sukar removes his boots, and Tyrek’s hand falls from the hilt of his dagger.
Later, when the moon is high, Tyrek takes a swig from his wineskin, the fire reflecting in his dark eyes. “My family never cared for magic, but I’ve always loved it. When I was a child, it was popular among the Sukkara children—Darnek, my cousins, and me. My father would have charlatans brought from the East Market to entertain us. They’d do all kinds of tricks—make things disappear, turn their faces green, levitate.”
“Wasteful,” Essnai murmurs, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders.
Sukar snorts, then laughs. “No more wasteful than getting your hair magically colored.”
“That is completely different,” Essnai says dismissively as she turns over the yams. “Magic doesn’t damage hair like dyes, so it’s worth it.”
“Ah, I see.” Sukar rakes a hand across his shaved head. “I wouldn’t know.”
Tyrek peers at me from across the fire, oblivious to Sukar and Essnai teasing each other. “I never knew why my family feared magic until Efiya.”
We all go still at the mention of my sister’s name. The pain and regret in Tyrek’s eyes are unmistakable. He’d have to live with those memories for the rest of his life. “I did what I could to stop her,” I say, apologetic. “She was so strong.”
Tyrek takes another pull from his wineskin. “I know.”
Sukar digs in his bag and removes a Zu drum encircled with a net of cowrie shells. He taps out a slow beat at first. Each thump sends a haunting hum echoing against the mountain.
“For what it’s worth,” Tyrek says after a long silence, “I am sorry for my part in everything.” He doesn’t address any of us in particular.
“How about you share some of that wine,” says Essnai. “The rest of us are thirsty, too.”
Tyrek perks up at that. “Oh, if it’s a drink you want, I packed plenty for my travels.” He walks over to his saddlebags, nestled against a tree, and removes two more wineskins.
I shake my head in disbelief. “Did you bring any real supplies?”
“I didn’t think that far ahead.” He grins, his smile genuine for the first time since the tavern.
He hands one of the wineskins to Essnai and one to me. I take a swallow, and the wine is deceptively sweet and benign. “Sukar,” I call before tossing the skin over to him.
He catches it with one hand and pours a bit on the ground. “A drink for the dead.”
“Let me play,” I say, reaching for the drum.
“I hope your playing is better than your tattooing skills,” Sukar teases as he turns over the drum. I poke out my tongue at him—the ungrateful brat that he is—then smooth my hand across the lambskin, tugged tight against the wood base. The Zu chieftain had a liking for music, and my fingers itch with an overwhelming need to play. Beka’s memories pour into my mind—the way his hands flew across the drum, the way he felt the music in his bones. “I might know a song.” I tap once with my wrist, twice with my palm, then fall into an easy rhythm with a fast tempo. Tap. Tap. Slap. Tap Tap. Slap. Tap Tap. Roll.
“Will you do me the honor?” Sukar asks, reaching for Essnai’s hand.
She drags herself to her feet. “Why not.”
I watch as they move to the beat, swaying their hips, twisting and shaking in perfect sync. Essnai’s a good dancer, but Sukar has a natural grace. His body flows with ease. He slides one hand on Essnai’s waist and slowly circles her, his brown eyes warm in the firelight.
“Interesting,” Tyrek says, startling me. I’d been so caught up in the dance that I hadn’t noticed he’d moved to sit beside me. “I thought that you and my Omari cousin were together from the way he acted with you at the palace.”
“Excuse me?” I miss a beat on the drum and earn myself a scathing look from Sukar. Tyrek has a lot of nerve to comment about something that’s none of his business.
Tyrek glances at Sukar again. “Just an observation.”
“What are you insinuating?” I ask, growing impatient.
“Nothing at all.” Tyrek gulps down another swig from his wineskin. “It’s not like any Sukkara or Omari ever marries for love anyway. We only marry for political gain.”
His last words catch me completely off guard, and my hand falters on the drum. I miss several beats. W
hen I start up again, my mind is elsewhere. I’ve tried not to think about Rudjek taking Princess Veeka on tours of Tamar and sharing meals with her. He doesn’t have to worry about wearing gloves or fear what will happen if they touch. I hold on to my memories of him, but even they aren’t enough to soothe away my doubt.
My thoughts cut short as something whizzes past my ear. Sukar clutches his arm, and blood runs down his elbow. It takes too long for me to put the pieces together as the presence of anti-magic sears across my senses. I start to come to my feet when a sharp pain splits through me. I gasp, choking. A metal taste. Blood. I look down and stare at the tip of a jagged bone poking out of my chest. Black veins stretch from the wound. My body convulses, and the pain—gods, it burns like a raging fire.
The world spins, and my ka strains against my body. It’s like before with Mami, but so much worst. The tether between my body and soul pulls taut and starts to fray. The chieftains’ strength holds me together, if only by their sheer will. Tyrek jumps to his feet, the wineskin forgotten. Sukar’s face twists in horror. Essnai cuts across my sight with her staff in tow as men in black elaras sweep into our camp.
Darkness blankets my eyes, and the sounds around me grow faint. “Sleep,” coo twin voices, so gentle that I almost give in to them. I fight against the urge, but the lull is so strong. “Let go, Dimma.” My eyes snap open. I know their voices—it’s not the chieftains, not the Demon King. It’s Fram, the orisha of life and death. Why do I know their voices? A memory shakes loose like a butterfly opening its wings for the first time. They called me Dimma.
Do you still love him?
And what of the craven?
I snap out of the memory to find Essnai and Sukar fighting off assassins. Sukar’s tattoos and sickles aren’t glowing. The anti-magic is blocking his protection spells. That doesn’t stop him or Essnai from cutting down assassin after assassin. Someone else moves in and out of the shadows, attacking the assassins from behind. I can’t see their face as I gasp for air.