She regained her feet and ran at Munayair, hands flickering in a deadly pattern. As she fended off the blows and responded with jabs of her own, Munayair missed Avlingai terribly. He would know what to say, how to patch things up between them without pushing Anjita further away. But the place in the back of her mind where Avlingai usually resided was empty and silent. It felt like a missing tooth that she kept exploring over and over with her tongue.
“It’s high time I went back to Sayakhun,” she said. “How long was I going to trail after you? I have no future among the Adepts, and I have to accept that.”
And you’re safer with me gone, too, she added silently.
Anjita’s eyes narrowed, and she jumped with hands outstretched. Munayair plunged forward to arrest her mid-leap. Their arms tangled, both seeking for a handhold on skin or cloth. Then they broke apart, eying one another. They crashed again, and within moments Munayair had the upper hand. Blows landed on Anjita’s ribs and midsection. She stepped back, panting hard, pale to the lips.
Munayair halted, fear and guilt crushing her heart. “Anjita?” she cried. “Are you all right?”
“One second,” Anjita gasped, bending with hands on her knees, fumbling to sit. Munayair rushed to her side, hands hovering. Together they got Anjita to the ground with her back resting against the soft wall of water.
Munayair babbled. “Jita, spirits, I should never have—”
“So you do want to leave,” Anjita whispered. “I knew it.”
Astonishment roared through Munayair like a gust of wind. She felt dizzy even though her feet were firmly on the ground. She reeled.
“It’s not like I blame you,” Anjita scuffed at the yielding floor with the toe of her boot. “I understand if you want to go your own way.”
Munayair couldn’t believe her ears. “What? No, of course not—but—”
“Please, Naya, let me speak. I need to say this.” Anjita’s voice was not quite steady. “You saw Sachin for what he was. Falean, Lady Tarokh—all of them. And I didn’t. You were right, Naya, I haven’t been acting like an adept.”
Trying to make sense of what was happening, Munayair shook her head. “I should never have said that.”
“You were right, though.” Anjita touched her collar, where the round white enamel pin flashed. “I’m an adept and I wear the moon of the keepers, but when the time came for me to lead, I followed instead. Worse, I followed someone who sells children to save herself. This must be why the gods took my magic away—I’m being punished.” Her voice roughened and she buried her face in her hands, shoulders quivering.
Munayair put both hands on Anjita’s shoulders and pressed their foreheads together. She said nothing until the bitten-back sobs began to subside. “I’m sorry, Jita.”
“You’re sorry?” Anjita’s head rose, voice incredulous. Her eyes were red and tears streaked her cheeks. “For what, being right? Yeah, I bet that’s eating you up inside.”
Munayair hesitated. She knew what she had to say next. The words were building in her throat, pushing, desperate to be free. It wasn’t the gods who punished you—it was me. The curse that drove me from my motherland finally caught up with me and you.
The longer she hesitated, the softer Anjita’s eyes became. Finally, she took Munayair’s hands and looked into her eyes. “Naya. Do you know how I escaped Shivne’s thrall?” Mutely, Munayair shook her head. “There was one truth he couldn’t take away from me. Just one.”
Foreboding chuckled in Munayair’s ear, sounding like Khuson. Terror clogged her throat. You have to say it now! Say it! Or it will be too late!
“I can trust you,” Anjita said. Tears trembled on her eyelashes. “Out of everyone else in the world, I knew you would tell me the truth.”
Terror seized Munayair by the throat. She could not speak—she stood frozen. Her mind felt full of a thin whining sound like wind coming in through a chink in the tent. No, this is wrong! she cried inwardly. Av, where are you?
Anjita let out a laugh, sounding confused. “Naya, say something! I can thank you at least, can’t I? You aren’t still mad about what I said in the stable, are you? I got riled because I knew what you were saying was true, and I didn’t want to hear it. I would never have actually told Sachin where Khuson was, not after all the trouble I took healing the fool—”
Her eyes were bright again, voice a soothing lilt. Munayair lifted her gaze and warmed herself on it like a fire.
All too soon it would be gone.
Finally, Munayair interrupted the flow of words gently. “Jita, your love means everything to me. And because of that, I can’t accept your gratitude.” She steeled herself. “It wasn’t me. I didn’t save you.” I destroyed you. She chewed on the words, unable—even now—to voice them. But she had to, somehow.
Anjita frowned a little. Munayair stared at her hands, swallowing down nausea, waiting for the blow to fall. At any moment, Anjita would realize that Munayair was a monster, and then she would be alone. Forever this time. Destiny had finally caught up with her.
“… and when everyone she loved was gone,” Dame Savra droned in her mind, “Geshuu raised her hands and the earth moved with her …”
“Of course. Stupid of me not to see.”
Munayair glanced up to see Anjita watching her, a knowing gleam in her eyes. No time for misgivings—the next second she launched herself at Munayair’s midsection. She landed on her back with a jolt, the air rushing from her lungs with an audible whoosh. When spots stopped dancing in front of her eyes, she found herself flat on her back with a knee pressed to her chest.
“I wondered about the way you were looking at him,” Anjita said, grinning and panting.
“Anjita!” Heat bloomed across Munayair’s cheeks, and she wished she didn’t know what Anjita meant. Words tumbled through her mind, too scattered for her to catch hold of. Suddenly she was glad Avlingai was missing. He would have been enjoying this.
“He looks rather more heroic in daylight, doesn’t he?” Anjita said, grinning wider. “A little skinny for my taste, but I’ll gladly call him brother.”
“I yield,” Munayair groaned. She shoved at Anjita’s leg. “Now get off!”
Rising to her feet, Anjita took Munayair’s hand, gently this time, pulled her upright. Once she was on her feet, Munayair squeezed gratefully. Tired out, they fell onto their pallets and chatted until sleepiness overcame them. Munayair listened with half-closed eyes to Anjita’s whistling snores. Guilt like a stone sank into her heart. Even taking Tel out of her pocket and rubbing his forehead didn’t help—it only made her feel worse.
She had the chance to tell Anjita the truth. And she hadn’t taken it.
Chapter 41: Lord of Hunger
Munayair woke with a stifled shout from a dream she had already forgotten. As she sat up, she ached with weariness but knew she would sleep no more. Her chest ached—her breath caught. She sat upright, hands clamped on knees, eyes dry. Anjita lay curled up nearby, facing away, light from the walls touching her hair. The room was empty apart from the two of them, and it felt cramped. Oppressive. Jumping to her feet, she hurried out through the corridors until blinding daylight fell upon her. She was in the dining room again, this time empty and silent. Judging by the sunlight, it was well past sixth bell. She had slept a long time, but somehow she was still exhausted. She wished she had slept the entire night and not woken until the morning, so she could ask Avlingai for comfort.
Then she remembered. Avlingai was gone.
In silence, she began moving on numb legs. A door opened in the water in front of her and she went through it. She hardly cared where she walked, stumbling deeper and deeper into the dark caves. Her mind was a whirling vortex. The old curses her clan would whisper when they thought her father could not hear echoed in her ears.
Traitor.
Murderer.
Accursed.
She wandered the silent black halls with her witchlight, avoiding the slightest sign of life. Finally, she settled into a quiet
alcove to rest her aching legs. She pulled Mehan’s amulet from her pocket with the vague thought of studying it again. Instead, she turned it over and over between her hands, staring without seeing it.
Mindlessly, she turned again to the empty space in her mind usually occupied by Avlingai . Even if he didn’t talk, she could always feel him there, watching and listening. His emotions would bleed into hers until she wasn’t sure what she was feeling and what he was. It ached, like the phantom limbs her father’s warriors sometimes talked about. Like her mind was inventing pain to fill the blankness. Avlingai’s constant presence had gotten her through the constant fear of war. At the Marble Hall, he had been there for a desperately homesick teenager unused to sleeping in a bed, or under a roof. Missing her pony, her parents, her sister and friends.
Terror caught in her throat. What if he was gone forever? Had she said something, or done something, or not done something, to scare him off—make him hate her?
Something brushed against her leg, startling her until she saw the white cat next to her boot. The cat looked away, but when Munayair shifted she turned, let out a soft proww? and nudged Munayair’s hand with her head. Munayair ran a hand down her fluffy back, gently digging her fingers into the muscles above the bony shoulders. The cat arched her back and rubbed against Munayair’s leg.
“I envy you, little one,” Munayair murmured. “You have never doubted yourself.”
The cat regarded her pityingly and settled onto her haunches to allow further petting. Purring vibrated up Munayair’s arm. Soothed by the action, her mind turned down a safe path. “Find the man who is no man. The deathbringer and the golden son. Death and life, good and evil. He who is his own shadow. You cannot succeed without him.”
But she had brought her curse to this place, her father’s tent, the Marble Hall, Lower Adasari … everywhere she went. The danger in the sanctuary was her fault, just as it was her fault Anjita was covered in useless black ink. Who was to say this golden son would want anything to do with her, even if she could find him?
“… and when everyone she loved was gone, Geshuu raised her hands and the earth moved with her …”
Groaning, Munayair clutched her head in her hands. Amazing, how her mind could swallow the same poison over and over again without becoming immune to the pain. In agony, she glared at the mark. “It’s you,” she whispered. “The spirits were going to let me pass until they saw you.”
Her own anger choked her, filling up with venom until it overflowed. She grabbed her own wrist and twisted at the skin as if to tear it off, then clawed at it. Sobs filled her ears, but she couldn’t recognize her own voice. “Get off, get off,” she screamed. “I don’t want you, I hate you—”
Light flared around her, and she blinked. Flames had engulfed her hand, held ready over the mark as if to burn it away. With a gasp, she shrank away, and the fire disappeared without a trace of smoke. The cat had retired to a safe distance, and now the fire was gone it came back cautiously, sniffing her hands before allowing more petting.
“I’m sorry,” Munayair whispered, staring at her own hand. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
She had called that fire to life without touching a spell. No longer could she run from it, deny it as anything but the truth. Somehow, unnatural and unholy magic dwelt deep within her, the very reason her father had sent her away. Among Sayakhun legend, many told of magicians who called upon magic without aid of glyphs. And where they walked, the earth festered under their feet. The voice of the wind became the moaning of damned ghosts. Water turned to poison. Even the sun’s face blackened in the heavens. But she was afflicted with the curse even after eight years of training in the Marble Hall. A wave of fear swept over her. Would she never be rid of it, like the mark etched on her wrist? She shuddered. How long until her magic began to stink like Shivne-Mage’s, like seeping damp and rotting flesh?
Automatically she reached into her pocket and found it heavy with clanking stones. She took one out along with her grease pencil, sketching out the Shield glyph command. Losing herself in the work for a time, she made a row of stones, then energized them. As she watched the spiraling energy rise into the air, she wondered what the spell imbued them with. Magic? Life?
Her teachers had often argued about what exactly powered a chelka, but nobody knew for sure. As she put the stones away, she took Tel out and held him in her hand, looking at his silent, blank face. When she had first made him, he had been like any other chelka. Obedient, meticulous, detached, silent. But as time passed, he changed. Small things, things only she or someone who was paying close attention would notice. He became protective at times, wanting to attack when he had not been commanded to do so. Leading her through the caves under the Marble Hall when the only imperative he bore was Seek. Clinging to her like a frightened child instead of a wooden body powered with magic. Perhaps it was only her imagination. Adept Hematti would be shocked to hear such blasphemous speculation.
“Well, what do you think, Tel?” she murmured, rubbing his forehead with her thumb. “Are you alive?”
Of course, he could not answer. He lay limp and unmoving in her hands. Bayal and others before her had proven the risks of attempting to make chelka that spoke.
Munayair sniffled and caught the faint but unmistakable scent of smoke. Before she was conscious of moving, she was on her feet, panic coursing through her limbs. The cat sprang to all fours, tail lashing low to the ground, but did not run either.
“Wait!” Standing at the junction of the hallway was Unaraq, the fire spirit, feet obscured in a cloud of ash and smoke. His expression became sheepish.
She might still have run, but she could not help pausing. “Are you here to challenge me again?”
“It’s far too late now.” He floated forward and bowed, dark hair falling in front of his handsome face. “We were never properly introduced—I am Unaraq, High Elemental of Fire and Lord of Hunger.”
“What a curious name,” Munayair said. Then she winced. “I’m sorry—that was rude.” She bowed low, grateful for the curtain of hair hiding her face.
“Hunger comes in many forms, all of which I embody,” Unaraq said, drifting closer.
She got the impression that he wanted to talk to her but was unsure how to begin. She said the first thing that came to her mind. “You heard about Pich?”
“Mere rumors.” He blew out a wisp of flame. “Somehow my friendly neighbors never get around to sharing news with me.”
She smiled around her ebbing fear. “There’s no accounting for some folk.”
“The kudai has it in for me. Something about my razor-like wit, no doubt.”
“Or the fact that she’s a tree and you’re made of fire.”
“Whatever. I burn a couple of shrubs, and she threatens to run me out. It’s madness.”
Munayair attempted a chuckle, but it bubbled in her nose and she sniffed it short. “I’m sorry—I’m not good company today.”
Unaraq’s shoulders hunched. “I’m never good company. Haven’t you heard about me?” He glanced over. “I sat too long under Sorath’s eye and my mind is cracked. I see things that are not there, hear voices long dead, and invent dangers all around.”
Munayair cast her gaze to the ground, still breathing shallowly to avoid the scent of smoke. “What are you afraid of?” she asked.
He regarded her with eyes red as fresh blood. “A trap,” he said. “Sweetly disguised as a haven.”
Munayair’s eyes ached, and she sank back to her seat. “I wish I could help you, but I’m just a mortal.”
“We are all mortals here,” he hissed like hot coals. He sat nearby with shoulders hunched. “Living every day in fear of the slow death—the grey death.”
They were silent for a time.
Finally, she stirred and looked at him. “Why are you here?” she asked. “Where is your home?”
His fingers wove through the air, and figures made of smoke appeared before them. “When the gods first put me inside a body, I l
ived with my thousand brothers in the eternal flame, deep in the belly of the world.”
As he spoke, the smoke formed itself into leaping flames. Deep within sat a dark figure with glowing eyes. Munayair’s breath caught in her throat, enraptured by the pantomime. It reminded her of the shadow plays she loved as a child.
Unaraq’s clever fingers twisted, and the smoke wove itself into scenes, illustrating his words. “Then one day, a demon called us to the surface and forced us to fight in his army.”
A mountain appeared in the smoke, belching fire, and the demon stood on its edge, shaped like a rearing horse. Fearful faces filled the flames, hundreds of them. But as the fire roared higher and higher they grew twisted and filled with fury. The conflagration flared up into a whirlwind. Unaraq stared at his own illusion, reaching towards those faces.
“Unaraq!” Munayair cried, backing away from the heat.
He blinked and shook himself, throwing his hands down so the illusion shrank back to its original size. At the back of the army, one small flame broke away, staring back in terror at the demon horse and its army of corrupted slaves. Then the lone flame spirit ran, on and on into blackness.
“What happened next?” Munayair whispered.
The long, clever fingers twisted, and a new shape appeared. “A man found me—the first time I had ever spoken to a human. Ogodai, he called himself.” A small hill appeared with a single tiny tree growing from the top and a clear stream pouring from the side. The flame spirit and the man sat side by side next to the tree. “He wept when he saw me, the first pure spirit he had seen in many years. In those days, even spirits that still had their voices were wary of mortals.”
“In those days?” she repeated. The detail on the smoke faces captured her attention. Unaraq curious and innocent while the man sorrowed, filled with regret. She remembered the illusion of birds she had used to distract him, and blushed.
He shrugged. “After the great war. Ogodai stayed beside me for days. Although he would never speak of the calamities he had seen, he had many stories to share. He was the last of his kind—an adherent of the old ways, aligned to one of the great spirits and subject to their strengths and weaknesses.”
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