Namesake

by Kate Stradling

  Etricos thrusts the enemy’s correspondence toward me. “The message, Goddess.”

  A mere glance shows me the meticulously narrow script of ancient times. I can barely read that chicken-scratch when I have a side-by-side transliteration of it to reference. I’m certainly not attempting to decipher it in this crush, where the temperature rises with every breath.

  “Read it to me.”

  Surprise flashes across his face, but he obeys. His voice rings out in clear tones:

  Hail, Etricos of the Helenai and all those who cower under his protection.

  I am Agoros, of the mighty Bulokai. I seek the dominion that rightfully belongs to me, granted by divine ordination to govern all lands. The Bulokai offer you generous peace and freedom if you will accept my rule, but if you refuse, we come upon you by the sword.

  As a show of your submission and goodwill, we demand that you deliver to us your fire god who has so unrighteously misled you against us. Your god keeps you in suppression. Join us and be free.

  We descend upon you with sword and fire unless you submit to our offer of peace.

  Should you choose to fight, be forewarned: my divinely granted right to rule will carry the Bulokai to victory. I am Agoros, a mighty warrior and commander of the hallowed Bulokai. Etricos and the Helenai must submit or perish.

  Silence blankets the crowded space through this reading. All eyes fix upon me, awaiting my reaction.

  “He thinks quite a lot of himself, doesn’t he,” says Demetrios at my side.

  He would certainly know arrogance when he sees it. He’s snaked one of his arms behind me on the pretense of bracing himself against the corner joint, but with the slightest twist of his wrist he could have a hand around my waist. I suspect that Aitana has discerned this arrangement, because she’s staring hard at the minuscule gap behind me.

  I hazard a glance toward the enemy party beyond the walls. They remain on their horses, battle-ready as they wait for a response.

  “You may send me to the Bulokai, if you so choose,” I say lightly.

  A chorus of voices cries out in protest. Amid the uproar, the hand behind me twists and yanks me into a protective hold. My eyes bulge. I push a flattened palm against Demetrios to get away.

  He doesn’t budge, and I am left with the mortifyingly pleasant awareness of his muscled chest.

  The tribal leaders here and below cry out their objections.

  “Goddess, we will not submit!”

  “We will fight to the last man!”

  “Goddess, we trust in your power!”

  Etricos calls for silence.

  “Let go of me,” I hiss to Demetrios as the clamor dies. He obliges, but with a reproving frown. I’m grateful for my corner position beside the observation openings. It allows me a thread of air in this ridiculous crush of bodies. Another glance over my shoulder shows that some among the enemy party have angled their heads toward our watchtower.

  “Goddess Anjeni,” says Etricos, “we will not submit to this intimidation.” The leaders above and below utter their assent.

  “Craft your response as you see fit, then,” I say, maintaining my watch beyond the walls.

  “We will fight them to the death, if you will support us, Goddess,” says Moru.

  I meet his gaze with a short nod. Thus reassured, he descends the ladder, with the other tribal leaders following.

  Etricos hangs back. He whispers to me, “The Helenai would never abandon you. Do not think so poorly of us.”

  I keep my voice low as well. “I exist to protect your path to freedom, Etricos, but you must choose that path. If, for the good of the Helenai, you offered me to the Bulokai, I would go.”

  “The Bulokai would kill you.”

  “If I didn’t kill them first. I never said I would go peacefully.” I favor him with a faint smile. “But it was an easy bluff to make: I know you would never send me.” He meets my gaze, acknowledges my words with a grateful nod, and climbs down the ladder to the waiting group below.

  “You should not speak of submitting to the Bulokai, even as a bluff,” says Demetrios beside me, an edge of anger in his voice.

  I step away from him, to the opposite side of the tower as though searching for a different angle of the hills and plains that spread before my view.

  “Anjeni,” he says sharply.

  “We all do things we should not. You should not face a delegation of enemy riders on your own.”

  The flash of surprise on his face morphs into interest. “You were worried?”

  I’m well aware of our audience. The two guards shamelessly observe, and Aitana seethes in her corner, a resentful frown pulling at one side of her mouth. Demetrios is using me to needle her again.

  I refuse to acknowledge his question directly. “It was dangerous. Returning the Helenai’s response will be even more so. They will have no incentive to keep the messenger alive.”

  “I am not so easy to kill.”

  I slide a dry glance at him. “I suppose that depends on who is trying to kill you. Aitana, come here. We will practice the first superlative.”

  She sweeps past Demetrios with her head high. I keep my attention focused upon the riders outside as I recite the superlative principle to her and she recites it back in turn. After several rounds of this exchange, she has it memorized word for word.

  The enemy riders, for all their attempts not to move a muscle, have begun to sag beneath the rays of the bright sun amid the building clouds. I continue my instruction of Aitana.

  Half an hour later, Etricos climbs the ladder to the platform. “We have agreed on our response. Goddess, do you wish to read it?”

  “No. I trust you.”

  He nods and turns to his brother, who sulks in one corner, neglected. “Dima, are you willing to take it back to them? We discussed sending it out on an arrow, but they might regard that as an act of aggression.”

  “The response should be an act of aggression or it’s not worth giving to them,” Demetrios replies. “I will carry it to them if that is your desire, however.”

  “Not yet,” I say.

  The pair of brothers looks to me. I drag my attention from the armored riders to meet Etricos’s gaze. “Make them wait. From the formation they keep, they must have orders to appear as frightening as possible. The longer they’re out in the sun in that full armor, the more uncomfortable they will become. The longer it will delay Agoros from receiving your response, too.”

  Etricos smiles at his brother. “You should have some lunch. The message will hold until this afternoon. Goddess, are you hungry?”

  “No, but I could do with some water.”

  “I’ll get it for you,” says Demetrios before Etricos can offer.

  Aitana bolts from beside me. “I’ll go with you.”

  I have returned to my exterior observation. From the corner of my eyes I see Demetrios glance my direction. When I make no objection, he nods. Aitana precedes him down the ladder.

  In their retreat, Etricos joins me at the platform’s edge. “Is there a quarrel between you and Dima?” he asks, his voice pitched low enough that the tower guards would have to strain their ears to eavesdrop.

  “No. Why?”

  “You are on edge.”

  “Bulokai scouts stand without your city walls, with a spark-bearer of unknown prowess among them. Should I not be on edge?”

  He dips his head in quiet acknowledgement.

  I could let the subject drop, but my self-consciousness presses me to continue. “Why would you expect my being on edge to have anything to do with your brother?”

  “Dima was brooding when I came up,” Etricos says, with no indication of guile about him. “With you both off your usual humor, I assumed it was connected. It seems I was wrong.”

  I study his shuttered expression, searching for any gaps that might betray his motives for this discussion. “What about Aitana?”

  “What about her?” he says negligently.

  “Was she on edge or broo
ding?”

  He meets my gaze with a grim smile. “I never observe Aitana, if I can help it.” Before I can recover from my surprise, he switches to a different topic. “The tribal leaders are in disagreement for how to treat this Bulokai delegation. Moru suggests that it only requires one man to return the message that we send.”

  Smooth transition. He doesn’t want me asking anything else about Aitana—not that I can blame him. He already knows my favoritism for Tora. “You wish to execute the other riders? Surely you don’t mean to take them as captives.”

  “No. We could use their horses, though, and their armor and weapons.”

  “I thought you would not attack those who bear the white flag.”

  He scans the horizon beyond the delegation. “There is reason to suspect they will attack us. It seems these delegations deliver an act of destruction upon the tribes they treat with, as a symbol of their greater power.”

  Among the tribal remnants that found refuge with us are many who treated with the Bulokai. Their insight now is a boon. “What kind of destruction?”

  “It has been different for different tribes: executions, buildings burned, kidnappings. From the message the Bulokai sent, from our stands against them before this, they cannot expect us to agree. It is likely they sent their strongest warriors to strike a preemptive blow when we refuse this demand for surrender.”

  I survey him through half-lidded eyes. “And yet you send your own brother out to meet them.”

  He tips his head in acknowledgment. “I trust you to keep him alive.”

  “Ah. You wish for me to kill all but one of the messengers.”

  Etricos doesn’t bat an eyelash. “The majority of the tribal council agrees that only one should be permitted to leave this place alive. Who kills them doesn’t concern us, as long as they die. I will tell Dima as well.”

  The danger of our situation strikes me anew, churning my nerves into a snarled mess. But this is why I am here, to help the Helenai meet and overcome the threats that seek to wipe them from the face of the earth.

  If Etricos senses my misgivings, he makes no indication of it. He claps me on the shoulder and moves to the ladder, leaving me on the platform.

  Chapter Twenty

  Soon after Etricos goes, a change of guard occurs. The pair who has observed me through the morning descends and another set comes up. I step to the back of the platform during the transition. My vantage point here overlooks the city and a most unsettling scene.

  Demetrios and Aitana stand together in the street below. She clutches his sleeve with one hand, pleading on her face as she speaks. His back is to me. When he glances at a passerby, I withdraw a pace, still watching but less visible should he check this direction.

  He gestures toward the tower, a water-skin gripped within the hand that points. Aitana shakes her head. Is she crying? She crumples against him, resting her forehead on his chest. Again he looks around, and then he wraps one arm around her shoulder, tucking her close to him.

  In that cozy position, he guides her out of view.

  Where they go together is none of my business. This leaden knot in my chest means nothing.

  The guards’ transition has finished. I resume my observation of the enemy messengers, my thoughts far from attentive to the task. What excuse will Demetrios and Aitana give for how long it takes them to retrieve water? There are probably half a dozen wells within three minutes of here.

  When at last the ladder creaks behind me, I move not a muscle. The sun beats high overhead, and our unwelcome visitors are wilting. They have begun muttering to one another as their restless horses paw their hoofs against the ground.

  The newcomer is neither Demetrios nor Aitana. It is Moru, and he bears a cloth-wrapped bowl.

  “Goddess, for you,” he says, proffering the food without asking whether I want it.

  I can’t stop a smile, faint though it is, from lighting my face. A savory scent rises from within the bundle.

  But offerings such as this always come with strings attached. “What do you wish of me, Moru?”

  He dips his head, apologetic. “I wish to have a word about the Bulokai riders, Goddess.”

  “Etricos has told me that you feel their numbers are unnecessary.”

  “They will attack us, a taste of the army yet to come.”

  “You wish for me to attack them first?”

  Sometimes I forget that Moru is just as much a politician as Etricos. The practiced innocence on his face right now serves as a sharp reminder. “I would not presume to make such a request, Goddess. You are our divine protector and can fulfill your office without my guidance.”

  He knows I recognize his bald attempts at manipulation. It’s his open manner that draws me in. I smile despite myself.

  And Demetrios surfaces upon the ladder at this exact moment, my requested water slung over his shoulder. A scowl deepens on his face as I assume a more neutral mien.

  “Thank you,” I say to Moru, cradling the food he has brought me. He bows and retreats with no further requests.

  Demetrios holds his peace until the elder of the Terasanai has fully descended to the ground. Only then does he shift an accusing gaze upon me. “I thought you weren’t hungry.”

  I ignore the remark. I don’t owe him an explanation for my caprice. “Where’s Aitana?”

  “She went to check on the other spark-bearers,” he says. I mentally record the flicker of his eyes, the only visual cue that he is lying to me.

  “I see.” I attend instead to the covered bowl in my hands. Beneath the cloth I discover round, savory dumplings: vegetables and bits of seafood tossed with spices and fried in a batter. I pop the first one in my mouth as I resume my watch of the Bulokai delegation.

  But I pause to revel in the explosion of flavor on my tongue. It’s akin to the dumplings I sometimes bought from a street vendor on my way home from school. Silently I thank the Terasanai for their untold influence upon the traditional cuisine of Helenia. Under the stress of my current circumstances, I could probably eat a truckload of these.

  The bowl in my hands dips, jerking me back to the present. Demetrios helps himself to its contents. I glower up at him as he thoughtfully chews, but he never even looks at me. Instead he stares outward in careful surveillance of our visitors.

  “Too many spices,” he says.

  I shove another dumpling into my mouth.

  He glances askance at me. “Do you have this kind of food in your world, Goddess?”

  I can’t answer without exposing a full mouth, so I only nod.

  “Strange food for a realm of gods,” he says, and he reaches for another.

  I pull the bowl out of his range. Hastily I swallow. “Don’t waste them if you don’t like them.”

  He stretches nimble fingers past me. “Don’t be stingy. I never said I didn’t like them.”

  “Moru brought them for me, not for you.”

  “You don’t have to be such a glutton, Anjeni. There’s enough to share.”

  Our squabble results in me hunched against a corner, shielding the offering from his grasp. Meanwhile, the two guards gape at the familiarity between us.

  “Don’t be so stingy,” Demetrios says again, trying to pry my arm back.

  I hunch even closer around the bowl. “Go away. I don’t share with liars.”

  He stiffens like a board, angry and offended. “When have I ever lied to you?”

  How rich. I could probably give half a dozen instances if I took the time to catalog them, but I only need one to drive home my point. “Where did you say Aitana went?”

  Rigid, he steps back, his mouth a hard line. I throw a challenging glance up at him, waiting for a response that does not come, that will not come.

  Because she didn’t go to check on any other spark-bearers.

  Chagrin reddens his face. “I didn’t lie.”

  “But you didn’t tell the whole truth, either. It’s the same as lying.”

  “I didn’t lie,” he insists. “
She will check on the other spark-bearers. It’s not my place to tell you Aitana’s business beyond that.” I scoff, and he bristles all the more. “Why do you always get this way after you have dealings with the Terasanai?”

  The accusation spears me. “Stop it.”

  But he presses on instead. “Moru is not the only one who seeks your favor, Anjeni. Why do you show him and his offerings such preference? Every time—”

  “Stop it. This has nothing to do with Moru or the Terasanai.”

  “Does it not? You care more for a bowl of dumplings than you do for the people who would die for you!”

  My temper snaps; I fling the bowl. Demetrios ducks to one side, wide-eyed. The pottery cracks against the wall behind him, scattering the half-dozen remaining dumplings across the floor amid the clatter of the falling bowl. Silence floods the platform.

  And I break it.

  “You don’t understand anything,” I utter. In one swift movement, I swing onto the ladder and descend, trembling with fury, my mind a wreck. He accuses me of colluding with the Terasanai? He, who wraps a protective arm around my waist and that same arm around Aitana’s shoulders all within the space of an hour? It doesn’t matter how strong I build my fortress. He keeps knocking down its walls and then injuring me in the aftermath.

  My feet hit the dirt. My shoes are up on the platform still, discarded early in my surveillance, but I don’t care. I’ll risk tetanus before I climb that ladder to retrieve them.

  Besides, the ladder is occupied. Demetrios is following me.

  “Anjeni,” he calls. “Anjeni, come back.”

  I ignore him, stalking through the fledgling city with every intention of taking refuge in my tent and staying there for the remainder of the day, the murderous Bulokai delegation notwithstanding.

  Demetrios catches up to me within ten steps, though. He blocks my way, his hands on my shoulders. “Please, Anjeni, I can’t deal with two crying women in one afternoon.”

  “I am not crying.”

  I want to—oh, how I want to! The tears sting my eyes but I keep my emotions at bay behind a stony façade.

  Demetrios glances around us. The area is mostly deserted—the people have orders to keep away from the gates while a Bulokai presence is so near—but the few souls in the vicinity goggle at the altercation between their tempestuous goddess and her sworn protector.