by Beth Wangler
I frown. “Why do we need a caravan?”
Saviayr and his parents exchange a look. “Remember, some things have changed in your absence,” Saviayr says. “Traveling alone isn’t safe anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
Savi sighs. “I told you about the royals limiting the sultan’s power, right? With them focused on the capital, they’ve neglected their territories’ borders. Bandits are everywhere, and they’re hunting in groups. Traveling without a large company would be taking our lives in our own hands.”
“Hurry,” Nihae says. “We should get back to the village before dark.”
“You mean the city?” Elesekk chuckles and takes her hand. “The royal Yrin’s home is bigger than a village, dearest.”
Confusion passes over Nihae’s face so quickly that I’d miss it if I wasn’t looking at her. She laughs. “Of course, you’re right.” Nihae follows Elesekk into the port city.
Saviayr and I trail behind. “I’m thankful we got off the ferry with no problems,” he murmurs, leaning close, “but it’s gotten me thinking. We’ll probably run into this problem again.”
I squeeze Savi’s hand. “We’ll deal with that when the problem arises,” I reassure him.
“Okay, but like I said, I’ve been thinking,” he goes on. “I’ve almost saved up enough to buy Yorchan’s freedom. I’m sure she won’t mind if I buy yours first.”
I stop walking. “Savi, I couldn’t take that from my sister.”
He turns to face me, eyes soft. “Rai, she would want you to. Yori’s been part of my planning all along, helping me with the royal Yrin so we could somehow find a way to make life better for our people. She would say the same thing if she was here.”
I wet my lips, already chapped from the dry Izyphorn air, and think of my sister. Longing to see her fills me, stronger than my sadness at leaving Tatanda, Anik, Maylani, and Pitka. I wish there was a way to travel instantly to a destination, so that I could be immediately reunited with her. “I’m sure what you say is true,” I tell Saviayr, “but I could never accept that, even if she was offering. Besides, I think I should stay a slave for now. To lead Maraiah, I should be like her.”
Savi pulls back and wrinkles his face. “What do you mean, be like her? You are Maraian.”
I look away, then back at him. “I mean...you’re free, but your story is the same as every Maraian. You were washed up on shore in a box, discovered and raised by slaves. You were saved from the water—your very name attests to that—and you were freed from slavery, as Maraiah will be.” I step closer to Savi and lace my fingers through his. He looks down at our hands, not into my eyes. “I’m different, I’ve always been. I wasn’t raised by our people, I was raised by the kaites. I’ve lived in exile. As their leader, though, I need to be one of them. I can’t change my upbringing, but I can stay a slave like them.”
Savi sighs deeply, and his shoulders sag. “Okay. I guess I understand your point.”
I relax and smile. “Thank you.”
“But,” Savi brings our joined hands to my chanavea resting over his heart, “this is what truly makes you Maraian. This and your obedience to Aia.”
I look at the charm, then up into his earnest green eyes.
Ahead, Elesekk calls our names. “Hurry,” he waves at us. “We found a caravan that’s leaving now.”
I press a quick kiss to Savi’s cheek, squeeze his hand, and let him lead the way after his father.
I’m back in Izyphor now. The dry air around me conjures up my nightmare. I try to focus instead on the tasks before me, on our plans from the ferry ride.
First, I must reach the royal Yrin’s territory. Then, Savi will gain an audience with him, and we’ll convince him to champion our cause. Next, I’ll find Yorchan and hug my little sister as long as possible.
After that...the capital?
Just on the western horizon, the sky is dark gray. It could be regular clouds, but it reminds me of the storm two nights ago. The aivenkaites are still out there, and they still want me dead. Soon Yrin, a powerful Izyphorn, will be aiming for my life, too, unless we convince him to help us.
Right now, I just pray that I live long enough to make it to the capital.
Chapter 18
Limping over the exposed bedrock and sandy dunes on my sore ankle, I end up falling to the back of the caravan. Saviayr stays beside me, but after talking all through the ferry ride he seems content to walk in silence.
I mull over my easy reentrance to the mainland. Why would Aia have done that? I did pray, but I hardly dared hope that He would answer. While Aia has often responded to my prayers in the past, I usually only ask for Him to affect me, nature, or the aivenkaites.
That, I decide, is why passing without a seal of freedom startled me. It wasn’t just Aia working in something that acknowledges Him. It was Him breaking human laws and blinding the captain to what was right in front of him. “Trust Me,” Aia seems to have said. “I can do whatever need happen to make My plans succeed.”
And so it is full of gratitude and humility that I take my first look on the royal Yrin’s land. The sun, setting in the west, gilds the slave-made hill rising out of the desert of living gold. The city’s shining glory takes my breath away.
“I have a word for that.” Nhardah appears out of nowhere, speaking as if we’ve been engaged in a conversation.
“What?”
He waves an arm around at the general evening splendor. “That. Orrock is scarred, you know, and the curse mars the beauty of the world. Every so often, though, if you look just at the right moment, there’s a glimpse of perfection.”
By the time he finishes saying this, the sun has sunk enough that the sand is just sand and the city’s just made of stone.
“What do you call it?” I ask.
“Elcedt,” he says.
Ah, combining Elcedon and the suffix “dt,” showing similarity. I like the term.
Savi, Elesekk, and Nihae stop, so Nhardah and I follow suit. “Peace to you,” Elesekk bids farewell to the leader of the caravan.
The man—a Carinite by his tattooed cheek—nods and keeps plodding on across the glowing sand. Saviayr’s hand on my back guides me toward the city gate, where the Izyphorn horned viper twists up the posts. The guards nod to him as we pass.
Saviayr and his parents stride easily through the city’s paved streets, but I scan everything with wide eyes. When I was in Izyphor before, I saw only the unsettled oasis in the northeast and the slave dwellings at major building projects. Our families, together with much of the clan of Charn, lived in square mud huts covered by canvas roofs while we built a mountain of stone.
This city is nothing like that. Oh, at one point it must have been a small natural incline surrounded by toiling slaves. Even the smallest buildings now are three times the size of slave huts, with walls of sandstone and wide openings supported by columns. Carved faces, each unique, cover every surface of the pillars.
A shiver runs down my back. These are the faces of the dead, etched into rock to tether their souls on the surface of Orrock. Izyphorns believe that, unless a person’s face is replicated before they decay in death, their spirit will be sucked into the Void and consumed forever by Akir the Devourer.
Their beliefs are mostly lies, I know. The dead wait in rest for the day when Aia-Thaies will punish the wicked and raise His faithful ones to walk again. Then the world will be perfect, as it was before the Rending. Our spirits aren’t devoured eternally. The Void is not the realm of human souls.
But, though they call him by another name, their Akir of the Void sounds too much like Aivenah for me to dismiss. Akir consumes everything he touches, as does Aivenah. He was rejected by the other divinities, as Aia cast Aivenah out. Akir has dominion over the Void, as does Aivenah.
“I forgot how morbid Izyphorn architecture is,” I whisper to Saviayr, sliding my hand into his.
He glances at the pillars and gives my hand a reassuring squeeze. “You stop noticing them, eventual
ly. At least most of the time.”
We crest the hill, and the two buildings there dwarf those we saw on the way up the hill. Both the temple and palace have similar structure, made of granite blocks twice as tall as I am. One large, low door is the only opening on the ground. Gaping holes near the roofs, filled with curtains, expel the desert heat. Teal curtains flutter over the temple to Havil, guardian of the River, but the royal Yrin’s curtains are red, the color of Izyphorn royalty.
A royal’s palace close to the shore must pale in comparison to the sultan’s palace at the capital. Doubt wiggles in my chest. I am so small, and Izyphor is so vast.
But the ferry—Aia is in control. I push my shoulders back and stride boldly forward.
Savi leads across the plateau. Paved in red and white stone laid in a pinwheel pattern, it separates the temple from the palace. Gigantic white textiles drape between pillars bearing the faces of dead royals. My footsteps slow. Never in my life have I seen such wealth, even in the luxury of Tatanda’s house.
“Greetings, Saviayr, Elesekk, Nihae,” one of the guards at the entryway calls. He wears short, flowing pants and holds a spear twice as long as I am tall, tipped with a point as long as my forearm.
“Peace to you, Fynor,” Savi says.
“Glad you finally made it back,” Fynor says. “Who is your companion?”
Only now do I realize that Nhardah is not with us. Where did he go?
Saviayr takes my hand and grins. “This is my new wife, Raiballeon.”
“Huh. What happened to the Iranine?”
“It’s a long story.”
Fynor accepts this in lieu of explanation and looks at me. “Forgive me, that was rude. It’s a pleasure to meet you, wife of Saviayr.”
I can’t decide if I trust him. Fynor sounds earnest, but I’ve never known Izyphorns to be courteous to Maraians. I settle for answering with a nod.
“Well, go on in.” Fynor waves us past. “The royal Yrin’s waiting for you. He should be dining now.”
“Thank you, and peace to you.” Saviayr takes our leave of them.
“The divinities be kind to you,” Fynor and the other guard reply after the Izyphorn fashion.
The fading evening light does not reach inside the door. Instead, torches line the walls, spaced far enough apart that we move in and out of shadows between the circles of light. We wind through corridors with low ceilings, and soon I am completely lost. “You know where we’re going, right?” I ask Saviayr, Nihae, and Elesekk.
Elesekk chuckles and smiles at me. “It took me a long time to figure out where everything in here was, too.”
In the end, one of the corridors dumps us into a cavernous room lit by candles. A small fire blazes on a platform in the center of the room, sizzling under drippings from a large roasting bird. Smoke rises up to the ceiling high overhead, where the corners of the red curtains flutter. An ornate, red-cushioned chair left of the fire rests between towering statues of Zyphor’s horned viper and Havil’s crocodile.
A man lounges on the chair, his wizened hands picking food off a tray held by a young, pale servant girl. His skin, orange as the coarse desert sand, glistens from the costly oils rubbed into it.
This can only be the royal Yrin.
At our entrance, the royal’s shaved head turns toward us. A genuine smile slides over his face. “Saviayr, you have returned,” he greets. His deep voice echoes off the stone.
“Peace to you, your Greatness.” Saviayr strides forward. The serving girl slides to the side of the chair. Nihae and Elesekk follow their son, so I trail after them.
“I am sorry your sister could not be here to greet you,” the royal says.
My heart sinks. The closer I get to Yori, the more I long to see her.
“There was some unrest down at the shore, so I sent her to help with restoring peace. Yorchan really is good at diplomacy—even I, old and feebleminded as I am, can notice that. You’d better watch, or she may supplant you.”
Saviayr smiles. “I’m just thankful we’ve both found favor with you, your Greatness.”
Yrin’s eyes fall on me then, and his thick gray eyebrows shoot toward each other. “What is this?” he asks. “You left to marry that charming Iranine girl. Where is she? Who is this?”
Saviayr and I look at each other. His face softens, and his eyes fill with warmth. He’s proud to present me to his patron, and that makes me feel like I could glow. It soothes my discontent at Yori’s absence.
“I present to you Raiballeon of the clan of Charn, my wife. If your Greatness allows it, I will tell our story.”
The royal Yrin straightens in his chair and waves away the servant girl. She disappears down another dark hall, this one behind his throne. “Yes, yes, what are you waiting for? You know I enjoy your stories. That is why I hired you, after all.”
Saviayr dips his head and begins. While he explains our story, I watch the royal. He calls himself old, and his gray eyebrows support his claim, but few wrinkles mar his skin. His thin eyes peer at us with clarity only lessened by a milky film, and his large nose cuts like a knife down the front of his face. His build is that of a man who never labored physically yet rarely overindulged in fancy foods—loose skin stretches over thin, undeveloped muscles. Even without the shimmering, costly material of his loose pants, I would know he had a life of ease.
Savi tells briefly of our past promise to marry, the events that separated us, and our reunion on Ira. I listen eagerly when he explains his feelings this past week: His initial anger when he thought I abandoned him purposefully, his warring concern at how Tatanda treated me, his growing awareness of his continued affection for me, and his final decision that marrying Mayli would be unfaithful to her and to me.
When Savi finishes, the royal Yrin stares at me, lips pursed. Silence drags on. I want to edge closer to Savi as Yrin’s inspection continues but instead raise my chin. Savi clears his throat. “Did I mention she knows the histories far better than I do? She taught me much of what I know.”
Yrin looks at me a moment more, wrinkles his nose, and flops against the back of the chair. “Eh. I like her. She suits you better than that other girl,” he pronounces.
“Thank you,” Savi breathes. His shoulders drop, and I breathe in relief.
“Away with you all now,” the royal orders. “Saviayr, tomorrow you must give a report on the situation of the slaves this past year. My nephew will want to know if our policy must change when I see him at Api’s Feast.”
Saviayr nods and signals for me to bow. Having dismissed us, the royal Yrin waves for the entertainers in one corner of the room.
“I’ll ask for an audience when I give the report tomorrow,” Savi whispers to me.
That sounds fine. One night of delay won’t interfere with our plans. But before Savi, Nihae, and Elesekk lead the way to our rooms, something makes me hesitate. Warmth spreads through my heart and wakes my stomach with energy. I’ve never felt this way, but I have no doubts. Aia wants me to speak now. I whirl back to Yrin and open my mouth. Words flow out like air, easier than breathing. Joy fills me, sets my skin tingling.
“Royal Yrin, I am Raiballeon of the Maraians, a child of the kaites, a servant of Aia who is Thaies. He formed Orrock by the song of His lips and spoke creation into being. Aia has heard the cries of His people whom you have oppressed, the weeping of Maraiah under your whip. He is ready to act. He has sent us to lead His people into freedom, and He gives you a choice today: Will you release us, or will you continue to rebel against the one true Divinity?”
Silence so deep that I can hear the curtains rustle overhead reigns when my words dry up. Yrin stares at me again, eyes stretched wide. His face melts into fury and terror. “Guards!” he shrieks, and my stomach clenches. We’re in trouble.
A dozen guards armed like the ones at the door materialize from shadows in the walls. “Sorcery! Rebellion! Witchcraft! Mother Weaver preserve us from the Devourer.” Yrin’s gnarled finger darts out, pointing at me. “Seize them and thro
w them into the dungeon!”
The guards spring forward and grab Saviayr and his parents. They hesitate before touching me.
“Your Greatness, please!” Saviayr cries out. “Have mercy. Let us talk—”
“Silence,” Yrin snarls. He half-rises from the throne. The smooth skin on his forehead stretches tight, and his arms shake. “How dare you bring black magic and uprising into my halls, after all I have done for you! Would you have the Devourer consume my house?”
“My royal Yrin, please,” Saviayr begs, straining against the hands around his upper arms. Hot, dry hands clamp onto me.
The royal holds out his hands, palms down, and flicks his fingers away from him. “I cast you away,” he growls. “Saviayr is nothing now. By Havil of the River and Zyphor Groundshaper, I denounce you.”
The crocodile and viper statues of the divinities he invokes remain unchanged.
Yrin grasps his staff, leaps down from his chair, and swings the staff at Saviayr’s face.
“No!” bursts from my throat. I drop my bag and lunge toward them—I have to shield Savi! His guards’ knuckles are pale from their tight grip on him. They don’t let him dodge the attack.
My captors yank me backward. Shouts echo through the room. Do they come from Nihae and Elesekk, or are they simply in my head?
Another blow of the staff, this time against his stomach. The thunk makes me flinch. Savi curls forward.
I strain against my guards. “Savi!” His name grates my throat.
Brute strength drags me away, down a steep passage, through a maze. The guards shove me onto coarse, unpaved dirt. My hands automatically catch my fall. Tiny stones scrape my palms. Elesekk, Nihae, and Saviayr tumble into the cell on top of me. “Savi!” I call again, under the tangle of limbs.
Elesekk pulls himself out of the pile and lunges toward the door. “Wait!” he shouts.
The guards pay no heed. A door swings shut and iron scrapes against iron.
The door barely shakes under Elesekk’s pounding fists. He yells, but no one answers.
Saviayr pushes up from the filthy floor with a groan. He cups his swollen jaw. “Rai, what happened back there?” Fear and frustration tint his voice.