Namesake

by Kate Stradling

  This is not the Etricos of legends, a self-serving, inconstant lover. I squelch my burgeoning dissatisfaction. Our legends, romanticized as they are, hold no meaning here. But I do have truth to anchor me.

  “He will not leave her. He will become a great leader, with Tora beside him.”

  Huna regards me, skepticism and hope mingling upon her wizened face. “Is that so?”

  “Yes.”

  She does not question how I know such things. She understands that, though I am no goddess, I am no mere commoner either. Whether she believes my words or not, she does not say.

  Instead, she pats my shoulder. “Sleep now. You need more rest, Goddess Anjeni.”

  I don’t argue. Not only is she right, but fools alone would challenge her commands. I like Huna. It’s a shame that her legacy did not carry down through the centuries.

  If I ever make it home again, I will correct the omission.

  A week more has passed. I long to see the world beyond these tent walls, even if it is only the expanse of barren fields and sun-blasted grasses. At night, I can glimpse the stars through the chimney hole at the center. I reek of campfire smoke and body odor.

  That’s actually my cue that I’m better. In the throes of illness, I couldn’t have cared less about my hygiene.

  Huna still makes me drink her herbal brew every hour or so, but she no longer has to hold the cup. I can sit up on my own. For the first time in days, I can walk, even. Weak as I am, I pace the tent under her watchful eye. I linger in the shaft of morning sunlight from above. She sews a length of pretty crimson fabric, her stitches small and precise.

  I can’t imagine where she got the overly-fine material, but she’s been working with it for the past two or three days. If the resulting garment is meant for my use, I’m in no condition to receive it.

  “I need a bath,” I say. She has done well enough to sponge my arms and face clean, yet the stink of illness still clings to me. Resources are limited, especially where water is concerned, but a possible alternative exists. “The ocean is only a mile or two away, is it not? Can I go?”

  The Eternity Gate stands at the end of the world, as the legends say. Etricos and his tribe fled to the furthest extremities of the land, and the nation of Helenia sprang from there.

  A day at the beach would do me well.

  “You are too weak for the journey,” says Huna, but her voice harbors a hint of uncertainty, as if she doesn’t believe her own words.

  I stare.

  “Cosi would have to arrange it,” she reluctantly says.

  Etricos has not been to see me yet today. Huna is hardly one to advocate for his authority, though.

  “Why?”

  “Because you are a goddess.” The customary twinkle in her eyes does not accompany this reference to my supposed divinity.

  My scalp prickles with suspicion. “What has Etricos done?”

  Huna tips her head, a sardonic expression on her face as she draws her needle through another stitch. “It is your doing as much as his, Anjeni. I told you he serves his own needs.”

  As I muddle over the possible meaning of this, the tent flap parts and Etricos himself enters, a welcome breath of wind around him.

  He greets me with a deep-swept bow. “Goddess Anjeni.”

  “I want to go to the ocean,” I tell him without preamble. “Can you arrange it?”

  He shifts from one foot to the other, his gaze flitting toward where Huna sits beside the exit. He looks almost squeamish. “Why should you want to go to the ocean?”

  “Because I need a bath.”

  The squeamish expression lifts into charm. “But we can bring you a bath here. A tub, and water heated by the fire and—“

  “With water dragged from the nearest river?” I interrupt. “That’s more than a mile away, and you need the water for drinking and cooking.” I could have asked to bathe at the river instead of the ocean, but it would be crowded with people fetching their daily supply.

  “We will bring you a bath, Goddess Anjeni,” Etricos says, dismissive of my objections. He turns to leave, and I start after him.

  From beside the door, Huna hisses a warning. Etricos whirls, hands raised in a placatory stance.

  “Please, Goddess Anjeni. Please remain here for now. We will bring a bath to you.”

  He backs out of the tent door, bowing as he goes.

  I should here clarify: Etricos also knows I’m not a goddess. His visits during my illness confirmed as much. However, while Huna addresses me in good-natured sarcasm, he addresses me in appeasement, as if by treating me as a deity I might actually fulfill the role.

  Today’s apparent collaboration between him and Huna has my hackles raised. She tolerates him, but she doesn’t buy into his nonsense.

  Although, she’s been sitting by the door all morning. My suspicions redouble. For whatever reason, she guards me from leaving.

  “What is going on?”

  Frankness settles upon her wrinkled face. “We need a goddess right now, Anjeni.”

  “We?” I echo. “You and Etricos?”

  “Everyone,” she replies.

  “You’re not going to let me go outside, are you.”

  “I am sorry. Cosi and Dima are doing their best to keep order. If you leave, it may cause a frenzy.”

  What frenzy? Everyone’s already seen me in my divine worst. “I’m not going to hurl any more fireballs into the sky, if that’s what you mean,” I say, embarrassment staining my cheeks.

  She chuckles. “You might have to.” Then, with a secretive expression, she beckons me forward. Furtively she grips the edge of the tent flap. “Have a look, little goddess, but be careful not to show yourself.”

  Misgivings rise as I ease toward the opening. Huna holds it taut, so that I can only pry free a small slit, to which I put my eye.

  There is a yard around my tent, with a low wooden fence to mark its boundary. Two braziers stand on either side of the gap that allows passage. Flames lick upward from their confines, their heat blurring the air. A warrior stands guard on either side of them.

  “What on earth…?” I start. Beyond the fence, cloth bundles litter the ground in clusters and piles. Further down the hill, the mushroom-like tents extend across the valley.

  I move my head for a different angle in the slit. More tents. It’s the same in the other direction. The mushrooms are multiplying.

  “Where did they all come from?” I ask, bewildered.

  “Word of the goddess has spread. It was a few people at first, but more join us every day. They flee their homes and overlords to come here. Last night, over three hundred arrived—men, women, and children seeking refuge. They leave offerings at the fence, hoping to win the goddess’s favor. Cosi has told them they cannot worship in person until the Hour of Fire, but they will come.”

  I back away from the flap, terror welling in my throat. The Hour of Fire refers to noon, when the sun is directly overhead.

  “Huna,” I say, “I am not a goddess.”

  She peers at me with knowing eyes, but a faint smile touches her lips. “You killed the demon champion and half the host behind him. The enemy scattered and fled. We came to the God’s Arch not for a goddess, but for a miracle. And we received it.”

  “The God’s Arch?” I repeat. “You mean the Eternity Gate?”

  She frowns at this name.

  I cast one hand behind me. “The stone arch out on the hill—you call that the ‘God’s Arch’?”

  “It was put there by God long ago, Anjeni,” she says. “It connects to the realm of the gods. You are not the first to come.”

  I swallow. “I’m not?”

  “The Goddess Aitana came centuries ago,” says Huna.

  My stomach drops. Perhaps my sister followed me through the Gate after all. Perhaps she simply ended up somewhere else. “And what did she do?”

  “She brought the sacred lore to our ancestors.”

  “What sacred lore?”

  “The power of the gods
, passed to humans.”

  “You mean magic? You’re telling me that Tana’s the one I get to blame for that ridiculous first fundamental?”

  Huna tilts her head to one side in confusion. She doesn’t understand my sarcastic question, so she mostly ignores it. “The lore is lost, Anjeni. Our enemies hunted and killed its bearers decades ago and burned all the records. Only a few still have the spark, but they have no teacher to help them harness it.”

  Why is my mouth so dry? I know the legends of this time like I know the back of my hand. “And what if I can teach them?” I ask, wetting my lips. That sentient magic within me thrums.

  Her wrinkled mouth turns upward ever so slightly. “Then perhaps you are more of a goddess than you believe.”

  I let her words sink in. They sound nice. They flatter me.

  They are, in short, ridiculous.

  I change the subject. “You came to the God’s Arch for a miracle? Is that why you did nothing when I first appeared?”

  Huna regards me with narrowed eyes. “What do you mean?”

  “When I passed through the arch and tumbled down the hill, when the demon champion attacked me, your people only watched from afar. You did nothing.”

  She leans forward, elbows resting on her knees and a stern expression on her face. “We prayed for your victory.”

  A scoff erupts from my throat. “That does nothing.”

  “The demon horde demanded for a champion to meet theirs. We answered that we would send one. Dima was to go, but you appeared before he could mount his horse. What could we do then but pray? For another to step on the battlefield when two champions meet signals an attack. The demon hordes outnumbered us seven to one.”

  My mouth hangs open. I shut it with an audible click. From the way she talks, I’m the one who inconvenienced them in that moment I appeared.

  Not that I could help it.

  She leans in even closer, a grin lighting her face. “And our prayers were heard, Goddess Anjeni. You won the battle, did you not? Though you gave us quite the scare.”

  Doubtless I did. “What would have happened had I lost?”

  She sits back. “Death for the warriors. Enslavement for the elderly, the women, and the children, as with other tribes. It may yet come. Those gathering to us will bring more demons in pursuit.”

  Again the magic within me thrums. It’s brash of me, but I already know the outcome. “It won’t happen, Huna. You have a goddess to protect you now.”

  The old woman smiles. I have earned her approval.

  Chapter Ten

  Of all the modern conveniences I miss, I might miss running water the most. The bath, in a beaten metal tub that looks suspiciously like a repurposed enemy shield, spikes and all, is glorious, if rudimentary. Huna kindly leaves me to it. I barely fit, but I can wash away my acquired grime.

  The lye soap is harsh. I take care not to get any in my eyes as I scrub my short hair clean. I’m thankful once again for Renado’s superb skills, and for my own boldness in hacking off my hair to start. Washing it long under these circumstances would be a nightmare.

  I rinse with the extra pitcher of water that was left for this purpose. Etricos called the whole lot a water offering and assured me that the people are only too glad to give it. And really, with as many people as there are in the valley below, they need only have donated a thimbleful each.

  I dry my skin with a cloth and wrap my hair atop my head. Huna has left me a clean set of clothes. I slip into them and feel, for the first time in ages, something like myself again.

  The sun, directly overhead, shines through the hole in the top of the tent. The Hour of Fire is upon us. Noise beyond the tent walls has steadily escalated, fervent murmurs like the drone of a hive of bees. I rub the excess water from my hair and comb it with a narrow-toothed comb that Huna has left me. In the heat of the day, my hair dries quickly.

  Someone outside wails, their ululation more ceremonial than frantic. Even so, it draws my nerves taut. These people, wrapped in their worship, expect favor in return. They are placing all their hope in an unseen, unknown goddess.

  If I’m to fulfill that role, I must learn control over my beastly magic. Should they discover I’m a fraud, Etricos is not the only one who will suffer.

  On impulse, I point my index finger toward the hole in the top of the tent, as though aiming a gun. I focus on the sky beyond, one eye shut, three fingers curled back toward me as I sight my target among the wispy clouds.

  Calmness. Control. Hundreds of lives depend upon me.

  “Bang,” I whisper, and I flick my thumb.

  A fireball whips through the opening and explodes in the sky above. It’s not the miniature sun I produced on my first night here, but it’s also not the tiny spark I intended.

  On the bright side, I now know how to stop that ceremonial wailing.

  The shocked, deathly silence outside breaks with a renewed murmur of voices. From beyond my tent’s entrance someone speaks.

  “I, Etricos of the Helenai, request an audience with the goddess Anjeni.”

  Insofar as I’m aware, Huna is sitting just outside the door. She was kind enough to give me privacy, but I can’t imagine that she would stray far.

  Sure enough, her voice carries inward. “Does this request please the Goddess?”

  There must be quite a crowd out there if they’re putting on such a show.

  I play along. “Etricos of the Helenai may enter.”

  The tent flap opens. Huna comes in alongside Etricos, her crimson sewing bundled in her hands. Stricken masses cluster beyond the wooden fence, their hands clasped as though in prayer, their eyes seeking even a glimpse of divinity. The interior of the tent is dark, and the flap falls back into place as quickly as it moved aside. I am hidden well enough from prying eyes.

  I kneel upon a rug next to the banked coals of a smoldering fire. From this position I lift challenging eyes to Etricos, waiting to hear if he will rebuke me for my small show of power.

  If he’s using me as a stage prop, he should be grateful for the spectacle.

  “Goddess Anjeni,” he begins, and he tips his chin in a perfunctory sign of respect, “we have received many refugees who desire your protection. They seek your good favor, not your wrath.”

  “Does a fireball in the sky signal wrath to your people?” I ask.

  Amusement flashes across his face. He checks it, pursing his lips together until he can answer me seriously. “It alarms the faithful.”

  “If I leave this tent, will it also alarm them? I need to get out, to have fresh air and open space. And I need a place I can practice my magic.”

  He blinks. Instinctively he looks to Huna.

  “You cannot keep a goddess like a prisoner,” the old woman says, a hint of satisfaction hovering around the wrinkled corners of her mouth.

  “For a goddess to appear among mortals…” says Etricos, hesitation thick on his voice. He does not finish the sentence, but I can guess the direction of his thoughts. I’ve grown up around politicians, and Etricos practically bleeds politics. If I’m out among the people, he cannot control the narrative.

  “There will be more demons,” I tell him. “How can I protect your people if they fear the very sight of me? And how can I teach those who bear the spark, if you keep me here?”

  “We will appoint a high priestess to precede you,” says Etricos.

  Confusion draws my brows together. “Is not Huna my high priestess?”

  “She is your attendant. If it be to your liking, Aitana shall fill the role of priestess.”

  Instinctively I scowl. My expression is fierce enough that he steps back, surprised. I can’t help it, even if they’re not talking about Aitana my sister. They’re talking about the Aitana who loves Demetrios, the Aitana whose superior feminine wiles render me a tragic, jilted figure for centuries to come. I’m supposed to accept her as an acolyte?

  “Goddess Anjeni,” says Huna with delicate tact, “Aitana bears the spark. As a child she was cons
ecrated to the Goddess Aitana, her namesake.”

  My annoyance surges. “The Goddess Aitana is my sister. I should not take those who have consecrated themselves to her.”

  I don’t know for a fact that Tana is the goddess they’re talking about, but it’s a logical enough guess. Part of me wants desperately to strip her of every last follower she has, but I don’t want her namesake for a priestess.

  “The Goddess Aitana is not here,” says Etricos. “Unless Goddess Anjeni would like to summon her, we will worship the goddess we have, not the goddess of our ancestors.”

  Oh, he’s good. Like an eely politician, backing me into a rhetorical corner. If I could summon Aitana, would I?

  If it meant she’d end up with the same dysentery I’ve just survived, I might.

  “Why not Tora?” I ask. “Can she not be my high priestess?”

  Huna arches her brows. Etricos frowns, but he schools it away with an apologetic expression. “Tora has no spark. She cannot be a priestess.”

  I look to Huna for confirmation. She nods briefly, almost imperceptibly. Tora is no magician.

  “Aitana will make a fine priestess,” Etricos continues. “She is willing, obedient, loyal—”

  “She is someone you can control, in other words,” I interject.

  “She is someone you can control,” he retorts. “Tora is mine. I don’t want to share her.”

  Huna glares, but his childish candor pleases me. I press the point. “She is your plaything?”

  His jaw tightens. A telltale glance toward Huna conveys that he knows from whence I’ve received this impression. “Tora is mine.” Almost as an afterthought, he tips his attention toward the old woman at his side. “Baba, I have told you I will be faithful,” he says in an under-voice.

  “I’ve seen many miracles in my day,” says Huna dryly. “That one would eclipse them all.” He bristles, but she continues to speak. “Goddess Anjeni believes that you love Tora, Cosi. She was concerned throughout her illness. She does not wish to separate you.”

  An unspoken addendum hangs in the air: “As I do.” Though Huna does not say these words, Etricos and I both understand her meaning.