Namesake

by Kate Stradling

  I hate myself right now, but what else am I supposed to do? “Everyone, repeat after me: The first fundamental of magic—”

  “The first fundamental of magic—”

  “—is that it flows like a river.”

  “—is that it flows like a river.”

  Their voices ring out in unison as I proceed through the rest of the recitation. Seven fledgling riverbeds before me align their minds with the fundamental. Four of them have steady flames flickering atop their fingertips before we finish the second sentence.

  Why has fate sent a volcano to teach these rivers how to flow? I am probably the worst possible person for this job.

  “You are the riverbed,” I finish on a mumble. “Say it: I am the riverbed.”

  “I am the riverbed,” seven voices intone together, the youngest piping an octave above the eldest. Seven flames burn bright. One by one, they open their eyes to the sight.

  The youngest yelps and breaks her grip, snuffing her power. The flames of the pair just older than her sputter out because of their surprise.

  The others maintain the flow, their eyes wide and fixed upon the dancing tongue of fire. Aitana is crying again, but with joy and wonder now.

  And I? In bitterness I pivot on the ball of my foot and walk away, past the Gate, up the hill to its apex.

  The hilltop spreads out before me, its other side gently sloping downward, the land undulating toward the horizon where a ribbon of ocean glitters in the afternoon sunlight.

  Why could I not be like them? Why should it come so innately to others when I struggled and muddled and shoved against a channel I did not fit?

  The dry wind rustles through my short hair, bringing the scent of late summer. The sun beats down upon my head, merciless. I stand alone, separate from the rest of the world.

  Stubborn. Defiant. Refusing to cooperate. My father’s accusations on my birthday eve rake across my mind. He might as well have been describing my brand of magic. It’s ingrained into me, this non-conformity. So it was from the beginning. I didn’t want to be different. It wasn’t a choice. It’s part of my nature, something I’m powerless to change. I am made of different stuff than my sister, than my magic tutors and the ragtag cluster of pupils down the hill.

  They are riverbeds. I am a volcano. They are tranquil. I am a beast.

  Afar off, a feral screech cuts through the air. I whirl, my hand ablaze, that beast within me responding before I’m really even aware. Afar off, a cluster of demon riders pursue a line of refugees, their weapons raised as they close the distance between them and their quarry.

  “Afar off” is nothing to magic. In an instant, my inner beast rockets across the gap, across the black-scarred valley to the plains beyond, piercing through the demon ranks with a precision that only hyper-heightened awareness makes possible. The magic connects, spiderwebs across the enemy raiders, and destroys them in a twisting executioner’s blow.

  The seventh intermediate of magic is that it governs temporal space. It connects every infinite point at once. Distance is but an illusion on the magical plane.

  The valley below echoes with cries of alarm. Demetrios bounds up the hill to join me as Aitana gathers my other pupils in a protective embrace. None of them can see past the rise of the land, but I, at the highest point of what will someday be Monument Hill, have a far-flung view. The cluster of refugees, two or three miles away yet, straggles out in a ragged line.

  The enemies I eradicated were only the first wave of pursuers.

  I focus on the distance, on the second wave, a larger cluster of demons perhaps a mile behind the first. They have slowed their pace. A few have turned back.

  In theory, the seventh intermediate should allow me to destroy them, because all space converges into one single point. In practice, the distance intervenes. My second attack flashes into their midst, but fails to connect with more than two or three of its targets. It’s like trying to catch a chain link with a hook on the end of a pole—an extremely long pole.

  “C’mon,” I mutter under my breath. I focus my concentration, my throat tight as I shove my captive beast among them yet again. The deadly blow cuts through the second wave, but those who turned back already gallop beyond its effect.

  I gulp air, a lance of pain shooting through my head. I shake it off. My arms tremble from the strain.

  “Goddess, it is enough,” says Demetrios with urgency in his voice. He is at my side, one hand hovering near my elbow as though ready to catch hold of me. Wary of his touch, I jerk away and focus again on the retreating demons.

  They can’t escape. I can’t let them.

  Even as I raise my hand for a final attempt, Demetrios catches my wrist and yanks it downward. “Goddess, they are too far.”

  I wrench free, shock racing through me.

  He doesn’t acknowledge the rebuff. “They’re not attacking anymore, Goddess. They’re running away.”

  “They’ll attack others fleeing to safety,” I retort with a flinging gesture that direction. “We have to destroy them while we have the chance!”

  He grabs my other arm, his large hand gripping just below my armpit, reining me in. “It is too far.”

  Again I twist free. My attention snaps to the cluster of fleeing demons, but they’re already at the horizon, barely visible in their retreat. My magic won’t focus anymore. I swallow, trying to force it.

  Distance is but an illusion.

  It’s a powerful illusion, though. My vision sparks and shudders. The enemies on the horizon, mere specks, are too far now and the distance increases with every passing second.

  “You should not overexert yourself when a battle is already won,” says Demetrios. He does not attempt to touch me again. I glare a mute accusation up at him.

  He’s not sorry. If anything, he’s fully resolute in his interference.

  I gather every last ounce of strength and pride within me and turn my back on him. Spine erect, I stride down the hillside toward my gaping pupils.

  “G-Goddess,” Aitana stammers, cringing in fear. From this angle on the hill, even the approaching line of asylum-seekers is beyond her sight.

  I ignore her terror and speak directly. “There are refugees on the plains, that direction. They have been chased by demons. Tell Etricos to prepare for their arrival: food, water, shelter, and healers ready to treat their injuries.”

  I continue down the hill before she can respond, my steps controlled so that I don’t slip and tumble like a fool into the gawking crowd below. Behind me, Aitana calls for my priestesses to gather up the offerings and return to camp. Before me, the spectating worshippers scramble to create a path. Demetrios treads close on my heels, though he has sense enough to hang back two steps as we progress to and through the basin. My worshippers fawn and prostrate themselves, awe in the few sets of eyes that dare to flit up toward me. I fix my gaze forward and focus all of my attention on the hillside yet for me to climb, and upon my tent perched atop it.

  The intermediate magic, its distance and intensity, has sapped my strength and meager stamina. The outer edge of my vision blurs as I mount the second hill. Static fizzles in my ears. I push stubbornly forward, my breath forced, my legs trembling. The blurred vision spreads. Darkness eats away at the nebulous colors.

  I crest the hill, and there my knees give out.

  Strong, solid arms catch me, sweep me up, and carry me the remaining several yards into my tent.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Darkness suffuses the area around me when I open my eyes. The fire at the center of my tent has burned to mere embers. Above, through the vent, a gauzy pattern of stars shines against the black sky.

  My head throbs like I’ve been run over by a truck. Gingerly I push away from my cot. The throbbing intensifies and my dim surroundings swim. “Huna,” I croak, but there is no response.

  She’s not here.

  A chill courses down my spine. I gather my blanket around my shoulders and stand on wobbling legs. “Huna,” I say again, my eyes
adjusting to the darkness. I stumble toward the tent’s exit.

  The flap parts, and a shadowed figure steps through. “Goddess, you should not be up.”

  Why is Demetrios here? I ignore his rebuke. “Where’s Huna?”

  “Tending to the sick among the newly arrived.” Without ceremony he scoops me up, blanket and all.

  I buck in his arms. “Put me down, you cretin!”

  He obliges by depositing me back on my cot. “You are to rest,” he commands, his voice as hard as stone.

  My face burns with indignation. He hovers too close, ready to catch me again if I should try to stand a second time. Not that I can. He’s effectively caged me in.

  Oh, he wants to be imposing? I tip my head in defiance. “How long was I asleep? How late is it?”

  “Second watch,” he replies, his guard never faltering.

  It’s close to midnight, then. I have already slept for eight or nine hours. “I’m rested.”

  “A goddess must not overexert herself.”

  My expression turns cynical. If he doesn’t already know the truth, he’s being awfully sarcastic in his address. “But I’m not really a goddess, Demetrios. I’m just an ordinary girl.”

  He scoffs, actually scoffs, derision upon his shadowed face. “Ordinary? You don’t come within two leagues of ‘ordinary.’ Lie down and rest, Anjeni.”

  I start to argue, but my name on his lips dismantles my senses. “Wh-what’s that supposed to mean?”

  His fingers close around my wrist. In the dimness he lifts my palm to eye level. “This is not the hand of anyone ordinary, Goddess. Ordinary hands are rough and callused. Your hands have never seen a day’s work. Who but a goddess can afford such luxury?”

  My heart sits in my throat, its erratic rhythm like a knot that binds my voice. Demetrios stares, waiting for my defiant rebuttal.

  But I have no words. My treacherous thoughts fixate on the intimacy of this exchange, the darkness around us, the warmth that emanates from his nearness.

  This man is supposed to be my inconstant lover.

  I have nowhere to retreat. Do I want to retreat? I can’t bring myself to push him away, lest I fail in the attempt and look completely pathetic. I can only meet his shadowed gaze, apprehension raising gooseflesh along my arms.

  Abruptly he releases his grip on my wrist and steps back. “Sleep, Goddess Anjeni. The Helenai need your strength, not your stubborn will.”

  Stubborn. Defiant. Are my faults really that obvious?

  I settle on my cot, lying on my side so that my back is to him. “Go away, Demetrios,” I say. “This goddess does not require your presence now or ever.”

  “Even goddesses have their limits. You would be wise to honor yours.”

  A rustle of fabric follows this remark. I wait three breaths and chance a look over my shoulder. He has left me to the dim interior. The blanket upon me is stifling, my earlier chill banished by the warmth of embarrassment and internal dismay.

  Butting heads with Demetrios is more fun than I expected, and much too dangerous a game for me to play.

  Huna returns near dawn, as the glimpse of sky through the top of the tent lightens to a grayish blue. I pretend to be asleep, my breathing steady and rhythmic. She settles on her cot with a groan. Two minutes later she is snoring softly.

  I’m going to have words with Etricos about keeping old women out until all hours of the night. Her lateness worries me, though. The refugees must have been in a dire state if they required such prolonged treatment.

  I roll over onto my back and stare up at the patch of fading night sky. The web of stars vanishes against the growing light. As Huna’s sleep deepens, I throw back my covers and rise. Someone—Huna, I sincerely hope—changed my clothing during my unconscious state. A quick check of my face reveals that the death-paint has been washed away as well.

  The encampment beyond my tent walls is silent. I venture to part the flap. Guards still stand beside the braziers that mark the entrance to my hilltop domain and more offerings litter the ground, but there is not a worshipper in sight.

  Boldly, I slip from the tent into the cold predawn air. One of the guards glances over his shoulder, stiffens, and immediately returns his attention forward again. He mutters something to his fellow under his breath. I straighten my spine and cross around to the back of the tent. I don’t need their permission to leave.

  I hop the fence but settle on the hillside just beyond, with a perfect view of the Eternity Gate. A breeze wisps around me, salt-laden from the ocean a mile away. The silent repose beneath a gradually lightening sky does wonders for my soul. I lean back on my elbows and drink in the tranquility.

  I am alone for maybe a quarter of an hour. Footsteps tread upon the grass. I look up as Etricos joins me. He sits cross-legged, much more formal than my languid position. “You should not be out here alone, Goddess Anjeni.”

  “I’m not alone anymore, am I?” I fix my gaze forward as I absently pluck at the scrubby grass.

  Etricos says nothing. A glance up at him reveals consternation upon his face.

  “The newest refugees, were they in such poor condition?”

  “It was mostly women and children. The men that escaped with them turned back to face the demons, to stop the tide of attacks. A good number were badly wounded. Even more were killed.”

  This disclosure sobers me. “There will be others, other groups coming to the safety of this place, with demons pursuing them, slaughtering them.”

  “Yes,” he says, the single word heavy in the chill around us.

  I give him my full attention. “What will you do?”

  He glances askance at me. “I need the spark-bearers fully trained, Goddess. How long will it take?”

  My brows shoot up. “That all depends on them. It can take years for full training. What will you do in the meantime?”

  “I cannot march our warriors beyond the protection of this place. We are too few, and the enemy too strong in their own domain. How far does your influence extend? If they learn of your weakness—”

  “My weakness?” I interrupt. “Excuse me?”

  His expression darkens. “Goddess, your power is great, but it comes at a high cost. If Agoros learns that you must sleep for half a day after an attack, all he need do is send two waves of soldiers upon us. You will sleep as the second wave slaughters us all. I need our spark-bearers fully trained.”

  “I will get stronger,” I say. “I will train the spark-bearers as well, but I do need all of them, Etricos, not only the seven from among the Helenai. All of them, do you understand?”

  His jaw tightens, but he curtly nods.

  “And you need to establish your city here.” He jerks, twisting around to stare at me in full. I continue. “This will be your stronghold. You cannot live forever in tents. You need to organize the people. They can work. One day, this city will cover this land as far as the eye can see.”

  “We wish to return to our homeland,” he says.

  I focus on him, my brows drawing together. Their homeland? The idea of the Helenai having a homeland beyond this place is foreign to me. They are refugees as well, though. They fled to the God’s Arch from afar.

  I temper my voice. “This is your homeland now, Etricos.” Denial flashes across his face. I emphasize my statement: “This is your homeland. You cannot gather other tribes under your protection and expect them to return with you to a place unknown to them. This is the meeting place, the rally point, the beginning. This is your homeland.”

  He blinks, shifting his gaze as he processes my words. “Our ancestors are buried elsewhere.”

  His thoughts are with his parents, grandparents, and loved ones. My memory flits to my family in another time, and that sense of separation floods through me. I wall it off, suppressing the instinctive tears that sting the corners of my eyes. “You must look forward, not back.”

  Silence stretches between us. He stares at his hands, contemplative and stubborn. I wait. If he is to become the great
uniter, this decision must be his. But he doesn’t have to make it today.

  A gust of wind streams around us, carrying crisp ocean air upon it. Etricos sighs and meets my steady gaze. “You know things, Anjeni—things that mortals should not know. Are you a soothsayer? Is that a power you bear?”

  For once he does not call me “Goddess”; for once he acknowledges my humanity.

  “My knowledge has its limits, Etricos, but this I can promise you: your name will be held in reverence and honor for generations to come if you let go of the past and work to establish the future instead.”

  He bucks his head and stares the opposite direction. I shift my attention to the Eternity Gate, its surface pale and golden in the first rays of the rising sun. In a way, his dilemma is my own. Since coming here, I have shoved aside my regrets, my grief and anxiety of separation from my family and everything I know, but it lurks within me. No one knows where the goddess Anjeni goes from here. I might never see my home or my family again.

  I cannot allow that grief to control me. In this moment, I have a purpose. So too does Etricos. I change the subject.

  “What will you do for food? You don’t have enough resources to feed all those who will flee here for safety, and they bring next to nothing with them.”

  “We have fish from the ocean,” he says. “All else is quickly depleting. We have only a small number of livestock. Milk and eggs were a luxury even before the others began to arrive.”

  “Is there no means to grow crops? You must establish a colony here, where people can live in safety.” It will do them no good to survive the attack of a demon army only to starve for lack of food.

  “There is another option, if our needs should outstretch our resources,” he says. To my questioning gaze he continues. “We can raid—send expeditions out to the nearest regions not to fight but to steal their livestock and their grain.”

  This guy, this wily, amoral opportunist. What am I supposed to do with him? “The word is ‘liberate,’ Etricos. You must liberate those regions, including the people in bondage, and gather them here. I can go with you—”