Namesake

by Kate Stradling

  “Where will you train with your priestesses today, little goddess?” she asks, and with good reason. The basin between here and the Eternity Gate is awash with rainwater. In my day there are culverts and drainage systems to divert the runoff toward the ocean; in this era it can only take its natural course to that ultimate destination. A mile away, the river will have swollen in its banks.

  “Here, perhaps. We need someplace dry. The rains will start again this afternoon.”

  The expression that crosses her face speaks of discomfort. However accustomed I am to the wet and dry seasons of this area, the Helenai are not. Their homeland must be somewhere to the north, in the more temperate regions.

  I swallow the last dregs of my broth and wipe the corners of my mouth. “I should start. Practicing magic in the rain becomes difficult, even when you’re sheltered.” Or so I’ve heard. Tana used to complain about it all the time, how even the sight of a downpour disrupted her concentration. Fall and winter magic classes always focused more on theory than application.

  One would think that riverbeds would receive strength from rain, but apparently the first fundamental’s metaphor doesn’t carry that far.

  “Don’t overdo it,” Huna admonishes me. She holds aloft my sandals, returned by who-knows-whom. I receive them from her but sling them over my shoulder by their laces. Her disapproving grunt follows me from the tent into the muggy morning air.

  Thick clouds obscure the sun. Its luminous disk hangs near the eastern horizon, its light diffused into gray stillness across the fledgling city before me. Mist veils the grid of houses and tents, with smoke from home fires rising into its ranks. Even this early, the city is rife with activity.

  The guards outside my fence nod in deference as I pass. I spare them a grateful glance. These men stand sentinel outside my tent regardless of weather or time of day. Unlike my father’s security detail, they receive no pay for their work. Payment is a luxury. Here, only survival matters.

  But why does my mind keep drifting toward home? I did not expect the rains to trigger such nostalgia.

  Dew plasters broken strands of grass against my feet as I descend to the village. My heart jitters in my chest with every step. Ignorance of the Helenai might be my undoing: for all the time I have been here, I do not know where anyone else lives. Today’s practice makes me nervous enough, but I have to track down my students from among the residents of our half-walled city.

  If Demetrios were here, he could guide me. There are plenty of other people to ask, though. Not all of them are terrified of me.

  I cross into their midst. Those attending to morning tasks—chopping wood, washing clothes—stop to eye me with uncertainty through the morning haze. I might speak to any one of them, but instead I walk onward, head high and shoulders back.

  And I recall that I do know where someone lives: Tora’s house lies just up the road.

  (At least, I hope it’s hers. These huts are remarkably similar.)

  The door stands ajar as I step into the yard. Tora herself slips through the opening, a bucket in one hand and worry upon her face. She stops short upon seeing me, her hand falling from the door pull so that it does not shut. Within, a woman’s voice takes on a keening note.

  Tora glances self-consciously over her shoulder and hurries to intercept me. “Goddess, what brings you here?” she asks, her voice hushed.

  Whatever altercation is happening within, she would rather I not be party to it. I’d rather not myself, actually.

  “I came to gather my students, but I don’t know where they might be. Can you point me to their houses?”

  She raises a hand as though to lead me away but catches herself before she touches me, ever wary of causing offense. “I know where some of them live. If you’ll come—”

  “Dima, don’t leave me! Please!”

  This cry from the open door cuts through whatever Tora meant to say. She freezes, a blush flooding her face. My stomach drops into my feet. As I look instinctively to the house, Tora clears her throat.

  “Aitana is here, Goddess. I don’t know if she is well enough yet for training.”

  Demetrios’s voice answers the plaintive request within. “Aitana, let go of me. I’ve stayed too long already. It is my duty—”

  “Goddess Anjeni doesn’t need you, Dima. I do.”

  So Demetrios spent the night here. My anxiety deadens in my chest. What did Huna say yesterday? Something about it being improper for a man to linger in an unmarried woman’s home because of the rumors that would result?

  “Aitana was too upset to go to her own home last night,” Tora says. “I kept her here with me and the children.”

  Tora’s orphans. I had completely forgotten about them. This house has two or three rooms at best, and none of them large. There’s no privacy to be had under its roof. “Where are the children now?”

  “Gone to the fields to help with planting. Yesterday’s rain will have softened the earth enough to plow more land.” She is desperately trying to divert my attention, and I am trying to be courteous enough to listen, but my mind remains keyed upon the argument that has continued within the house. Aitana has launched into the screed of an injured female.

  “You promised, Dima! You promised you would always watch over me! You promised by the moon and the stars and the sun in the sky!”

  “We were children, Aitana.”

  She barks a laugh. “Is that the extent of your word? You can abandon it if you gave it as a child? Not even a year ago you told me you loved me.”

  “And you said you loved my brother.”

  Beside me, Tora flinches. Her fingers tighten around the handle of her bucket.

  “Does your love mean nothing? Or are you only concerned with power?”

  “You’re being ridiculous, Aitana.”

  “Cosi at least is true to his declarations of love. Even if his heart has changed, he remains true to his promise—a promise made when he was only a child.”

  Tora’s face turns ashen, guilt chasing through her haunted eyes.

  “Did you need to fetch some water?” I ask her, my voice low. “There’s a well nearby, isn’t there? Don’t let me waylay you.”

  Despite her relief that I would give her the opportunity to escape, she holds her ground. “You should come too.”

  “I should,” I say, “but I will remain here.”

  Tora, the lovely soul, does not press her goddess further. Instead she passes into the street with only a worried backward glance. She does not have to listen to this quarrel and its damning implications, but it’s good for me, good for my runaway emotions.

  So Demetrios has confessed his love to Aitana. He only confessed his fascination to me.

  Within the house, Aitana has resorted to a blubbering moan that masks her words in gibberish. Perhaps I should have gone with Tora after all. I ease closer to the door, peering inward through the narrow gap. She crouches upon the ground, her head buried in her bandaged hands as she sobs.

  “You’re going to make yourself sick again if you keep crying like that.” Demetrios, beyond my sliver of sight, sounds less compassionate and more put upon. “Tora will be back soon. You should rest.”

  And the door swings open. I start like a child caught in mischief, but quell my instinct to hide. Demetrios, halfway across the threshold, halts in surprise to see me standing in his path. A frown pulls his brows together. He shuts the door behind him, muffling the high-pitched wailing that escalates within.

  “You should be wearing your shoes, Anjeni.”

  My sandals dangle from one hand at my side. Of course he would hone in on that detail.

  “I probably should,” I say, numbness infusing my spirit. I cast my mind about for how to act natural in front of this man, especially after the conversation I just overheard. “Is Aitana too injured to resume training today?”

  His frown deepens into a scowl. I have no chance to collect my wits before he wordlessly sweeps me off my feet and carries me from the yard to the roa
d.

  “What’re you doing? Put me down!”

  “If you won’t wear your shoes in the village, Goddess, you will be carried. We cannot afford your injury, even if it’s only to your feet.”

  My heartbeat pounds like a drum in my ears. “I have them. I’ll wear them. Put me down.”

  The morning haze is nowhere near thick enough to obscure us from onlookers. Luckily for my dignity, Demetrios deposits me on a low stone fence some twenty yards down the road from Tora’s house. He looms over me, waiting for me to comply.

  I glare up at him as I slip my right foot into its leather sandal.

  “How long were you there?” he asks.

  I’m in no mood to play along. “How long was I where? I’ve come to collect my students and crossed paths with Tora. She said Aitana stayed with her last night.”

  His lips press together in a thin line. Has he kissed Aitana with that mouth? He declared his love to her with it. What other ties lie between them?

  And since when did I become such a jealous shrew? I divert the conversation elsewhere.

  “Etricos has asked me to redouble my students’ training. Now that the rains are here, morning practice will be even more important.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t return.”

  His blunt statement catches me off-guard. “What?”

  Demetrios looks me straight in the eyes. “I promised you I would return last night. I meant to, but I didn’t. I’m sorry.”

  I ignore the fluttering rhythm in my chest. “I’m sure you had duties to attend. I have mine to attend now. Do you know where my other students are?”

  I plant my newly shod feet on the earth and stand. Demetrios holds his ground, which puts us at an uncomfortably close proximity. I skirt to one side, but he catches my arm.

  And I jerk away from him as though burned.

  What is wrong with me? So he once told Aitana he loved her. So he spent last night watching over her. Tora was there. Half a dozen or more children would have been there too. It doesn’t mean anything.

  Except that I wanted him to come back, and he didn’t, and no candid apology now will change that. It was a selfish wish on my part, the peace of mind that came from having him in my sight. I survived on my own last night, and I’ll continue to do so from now on.

  “Anjeni—” he says.

  “I need to start training again before the weather breaks,” I interrupt. “Magic is more difficult to handle when it rains.”

  He snaps his mouth shut and nods. With his spine stiff, he leads me through the grid of homes to collect my magic students.

  Not a word passes between us for the remainder of the morning. Demetrios keeps watch over the group as I instruct, but he never looks directly at me. The set of his jaw tells me he is angry.

  Good. He can’t always get what he wants. I certainly don’t.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The afternoon rains drive us to theory lessons—my specialty, except that I can’t always find the correct words in this ancient dialect. I instruct in my own tent, with my students seated around the fire pit as the storm patters above and the winds press against the fabric walls.

  The air here is close. Huna has taken refuge with Tora down the hill. Only ten of my forty students can fit comfortably into the tent’s confines, so I have to train in shifts. The others practice in the nearest houses, which Etricos has transferred to us for the cause. They sleep there as well, a cluster of dormitories for students of magic.

  Two days have passed since the skirmish with the Bulokai magicians. Aitana, her hands bound in salve and cloth strips, has recovered well enough to join us. Tora tells me that her burns are severe, but I have seen no evidence of them beyond the bandages. I suspect Aitana’s presence has more to do with the guard who watches over our training sessions. She sticks to Demetrios like glue, her gaze defiant whenever I glance in her direction.

  Demetrios doesn’t look happy either. In two days, he and I have exchanged only a handful of words. He makes no attempt when my students are present, and when lessons conclude, he has the task of escorting everyone back to their new dormitories in safety. He has yet to return afterward.

  Maybe he remains with Aitana. I’m too proud to ask.

  The rain does interfere with magic, but not to the degree that Tana always complained. I manipulate a spell around my fingers as I instruct on the intermediate theories. The bright-burning ball twists a golden path from my knuckles to my palm. The longer I manipulate it, the easier it is to maintain.

  Which makes me wonder if Tana simply didn’t practice enough.

  “The intermediates govern the relationship between magic and the space around it,” I say, my hand outstretched and the ball perched on the tip of my middle finger. “Some believe that the magic itself never moves, but that space moves around it, or that space itself is an illusion.”

  From beyond my tent walls, a horn trumpets through the storm. I palm the ball of magic, squashing it from existence as Demetrios pulls open the tent flap to peer into the rain.

  “What is it?” Aitana asks, her voice strained.

  “A warning from the watchtower,” he replies.

  I already have one sandal on. “Goddess,” Demetrios begins.

  I yank the other shoe in place. “You may escort everyone home,” I say, snatching up my cloak. I flip it around my shoulders as I bolt for the door, but Demetrios blocks my way.

  “It is only a warning signal,” he says. “They will signal again if there is a true threat.”

  “I’m going to the watchtower.”

  He gives in to my resolve. “Aitana, take the others back to their homes.”

  She starts to protest the order. Their quarrel has nothing to do with me, so I sweep past the pair into the downpour, pulling my hood up over my head as I go.

  Demetrios falls in step beside me. Faces peer at us from open doors, the sodden streets devoid of any other activity. Closer to the walls, soldiers dart from eave to eave. A second blast sounds from the nearest watchtower.

  “That’s the warning signal again,” Demetrios says.

  I have to take his word for it; I can’t tell one call from another.

  From between two houses Etricos dashes to our side, a messenger boy in his wake. “They’ve spotted people beyond the walls. They cannot tell whether they are friend or foe.”

  He mounts the tower ladder ahead of me, with Demetrios and the messenger boy behind. Moru has preceded us.

  “Goddess, come look.” He gestures me to his observation point. Wind sweeps the rain in sheets, obscuring the horizon in gray. Visibility is less than half a mile. Across the landscape, water runs in rivulets headed for the basin to the south or the river to the north. Amid the rocks and tall grass, a handful of figures straggle out in an uneven line.

  A more pathetic sight I have never seen. “Who are they?”

  Moru shakes his head. They have sent no one to intercept these newcomers.

  I pivot toward the ladder. Demetrios catches me by the elbow.

  “Someone has to go out there,” I say. “We can’t leave them on the plain in this weather.”

  He looks to his brother, who nods his curt agreement.

  “I’ll come with you,” says Demetrios. “Let me call for horses.”

  “We will send others with you,” says Moru. “If these are enemies, we should have strength in numbers. If they are friends, they may be injured and need help.”

  Anxiety thrums through me. “Be quick about it.”

  Within five minutes they assemble a dozen men to accompany me beyond the walls. Thankfully they opt against horses. The newcomers are within a quarter mile. It would take longer to fetch and saddle our mounts than it will to walk the distance.

  (Which is lucky for me because—confession—I’ve never actually ridden a horse, and I don’t particularly want to admit it to anyone here.)

  As the gate swings open, the second watchtower sounds another warning signal. I look to Demetrios beside me.
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  “They must have sighted more people,” he says, his eyes sharp beneath the hood of his cloak. He steps past the city walls, leading the way into the full brunt of the storm.

  The spongy ground squishes beneath the soles of my shoes. Water splashes against my bare ankles, my sandals sodden as we trek through the frigid downpour. The newcomers loom like spectral shadows, obscured by sheets of rain that flutter on the wind. Demetrios draws his sword as we approach. The other warriors do the same. The storm around us muffles the sounds.

  The nearest figure is not one person. It is two women huddled together as they stagger forward step by step. One leans heavily upon the other, head downcast and limbs all but limp. The second woman looks up. Shock flashes through her hollow eyes. The pair stumbles and falls to their knees, and the first woman sinks to the ground, her face ashen.

  The second woman speaks through blue-tinged lips. “Please. Please, have mercy.”

  She gathers up her companion to shield her from the rain. A streak of red seeps from their dark clothes into the puddling water around them.

  Alarm claws up my throat. I shove past Demetrios. “They’re injured. Fetch a cart to carry them back.”

  The ashen-faced woman’s eyes flutter. She has only a sluggish pulse. Her companion clutches a tightly bound arm to one side—an arm not long enough to have a hand at the end of it. Blood stains the pale, soaked bandages almost black.

  A chill sweeps through me as the warriors around me move into action. My gaze travels further up the straggling line. The next nearest figure presses a hand into his gut as he trudges through the elements. Behind him, another person crawls across the water-logged earth. Through the mist, someone stumbles and pitches forward.

  They are all injured—horrifically, terribly injured.

  “Please,” the woman at my side says, drawing my attention back to her and her unconscious friend. “Please, we beg of you to spare us from your fire god.”