“I’m here. You don’t have to worry.”
I glance sidelong at him from beneath my arm, a blush traveling up my neck to my face. Why does he have to be so endearing even when he’s furious? In the broad light of day I can recognize that I wronged him. Is this the type of behavior that will drive him from me? My stomach flutters with pent up nerves—silly emotions I don’t have time for. If I’m only allowed to practice in his presence, I shouldn’t waste the opportunity on a bout of overactive hormones.
This was so much easier when Aitana was here and I didn’t care.
I force my consciousness outward and land beyond the tent wall, in the yard. Puffs of clouds billow against a backdrop of azure sky. The sea glitters afar on the horizon. The world is full of color, of green grasses sprouting up from the ground, of the white and umber mushroom-tents and huts that spread down the hill, with dabs of orange, brown, and red moving between them—people attending to their morning chores on this glorious day.
I absorb as much as I can, enjoying the vibrance around me.
For all the pain this technique causes, it brings immense pleasure as well. Everything and nothing in one universal whole. Is that what the ninth superlative means? Does the great enigma of this principle amount merely to finding balance in opposition?
But that concept is easier said than done. I jolt back into my body, my nerves aflame from the energy I’ve expended.
“You have gotten stronger, Goddess,” says Demetrios beside me.
“I have to get stronger still,” I reply.
He nods, his attention still trained upon the exit. “Soon you will leave us all behind.”
I roll my head to study his profile, that straight nose and strong jawline. Doubt twists through me. “I was always meant to leave the Helenai. You know that.”
“And yet I would petition the fates to make it otherwise.”
In this moment, I would almost petition them as well.
He turns at last to look at me, his dark eyes searching for answers I cannot give. My self-consciousness multiplies. I’m at a disadvantage, lying flat while he sits beside my cot. I rise and swing my legs around so that I perch on the edge of the thin mattress, higher than him now, the balance between us restored.
“Was Etricos with Huna and Tora again last night?” I ask.
“I don’t want to talk about Cosi,” says Demetrios.
That effectively shuts me down. What does he want to talk about? Or are we just to stare at one another until I conquer my sudden shyness for practicing this projection magic in his presence?
My attention drops to my hands that grip the edge of the cot. “Are you very angry with me?”
“Yes.”
Don’t ask a question unless you want an honest answer, I guess. I lift only my eyes to lock gazes with him. He dips his head, the better to meet my stare.
“Anjeni, you know what I feel for you. Why do you disregard my feelings? When you act so recklessly—”
“I only fascinate you.” I blurt these words as my heart attempts a desperate escape from my ribcage.
“What?” says Demetrios.
My nerves escalate. “I only fascinate you. That’s what you told me, that I fascinate you. What would my recklessness have to do—”
Frustration leaves his throat in a grunt. He rises to his knees and drags me forward into a solid, ardent kiss.
Like, a full-on-the-mouth, whistles-and-bells-ringing kiss. I can feel it all the way to my toes.
My senses ignite and my self-imposed restraints crack. I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him back. His hand presses against my spine, fingers spread, drawing me close as his mouth effectively—and I mean effectively—conveys that “fascination” doesn’t begin to describe what he feels for me.
It is too much and not enough at the same time. The kiss ends, but he rests his forehead against mine as if to savor how close we still are. His ragged breath matches my own. My heart must be racing a thousand beats a second.
“You should marry me,” he says.
I recoil, as though he dashed cold water in my face. Did we really go from a first kiss to a marriage proposal in the space of five seconds?
“What?” I croak.
He pins me with a determined gaze, deigning not to repeat himself.
“I—I can’t marry you! I’m not— You don’t— This doesn’t turn out like—”
Demetrios silences me with another kiss, but this one is quick and to the point. “You should marry me,” he says again, and then he withdraws.
I am a reeling, boneless wreck, more so than when I overextend myself. I sit hard upon the ground, dazed, my brain tracing his words over and over while my senses scrabble for equanimity. Demetrios, meanwhile, retreats to the door, scanning the world beyond, performing his ordinary duties as though nothing is amiss.
What is he trying to do? Ruin my focus? Throw my heart into turmoil?
Mission accomplished.
“Anjeni, if you love me, you should marry me,” he says over his shoulder.
Is it that simple? Maybe it is. I mean, if I’m destined for a broken heart, why not go whole hog?
Except that I don’t want to go back alone through the Eternity Gate as a married woman. Do they have divorces in this time period? Can I get a cross-dimensional divorce after everything is over, or would I just pretend that a marriage never took place? Should I commit to a lifetime of solitude?
Technically, in my time Demetrios is long dead. I would be widowed, free to date other men.
But I don’t want to date other men. I don’t want him to be dead. I want him to be alive and living, with his arms around me and his mouth against mine and—
If he runs away with Aitana, though, I might want him dead. Maybe that’s why the goddess Anjeni steps back through the Eternity Gate. Maybe that’s her method of legally killing her wayward husband.
Should I be plotting like this when all we’ve done is kissed each other?
At the wide-open tent exit, Demetrios ruefully shakes his head and steps into the full light of the morning sun. Did anyone outside see us? Do rumors of the goddess and her lover already ripple through the city?
Do I care? The closest I’ve ever come to making out with someone before was the time I dated a guy for three weeks and when I thought he was going to kiss me, he dumped me instead.
“Sorry, Jen. I expected you to be more like your sister.”
Demetrios has never even met my sister, and honestly, if he perfected his kissing with the Aitana of this era, it was time well spent.
“Are you going to practice more today?” he asks.
I sit in a disheveled heap upon the ground. It takes me a split-second to realize he’s talking about my magic. “I should,” I mumble. But I’ll need an hour just to regain my focus. Maybe I should go back to bed and sleep away this irresponsible interlude.
Not that I can sleep with Demetrios nearby. My nerves are practically singing.
Ridiculous, twitter-pated teenaged girl!
“I should,” I say again, and I pull my wits together.
So what? A man just kissed me and told me to marry him. Miracles happen every day, if one knows where to look for them.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The clouds don’t quite manage an afternoon storm. I wander beyond the confines of my tent for little spurts at a time, shadow-flames flickering from my projection. I can see evidence of the spitting rains, but I can’t feel anything aside from the cot against my back within the tent. Every time I notice that sensation, I get sucked inside again.
This whole process is like dreaming while I’m still awake. My energy and awareness come in waves.
Demetrios remains beyond the door, and I take my wanderings down the back of the hill because I can’t look at him right now. He sits, unaffected, and I get thrown into turmoil if I catch even a glimpse of his profile. So I avoid him.
A muddy sludge coats the valley between here and the Eternity Gate, with sprinkling droplets
that pepper the low puddles. Soon I’ll be strong enough to reach the Gate. I’ll have free rein of this area and become a regular terror to its inhabitants, the goddess who walks among them in a nest of black flames.
I can hardly wait.
From the city, a warning call blasts through the air. I spin, but my surprise and the quickness of my movement wrenches me into the dimness of my tent. Demetrios ducks through the opening.
As I sit up, a wave of nausea plows into me.
“You’re not to go, Anjeni.” He wraps his hands around my shoulders, moving me to lie down again.
I fight against his efforts. “I have to. What if it’s Agoros with his army?”
“It’s messengers or more refugees. You’ve outspent your strength. You won’t make it ten steps without collapsing.”
The truth of his words thrums through me. This is the double-edged sword of practicing heavy magic: I am not able to respond when I might be needed.
Whatever emotion Demetrios reads upon my face softens the hardness of his expression. “I’ll go. Promise me you’ll stay here and rest, and I’ll go and return with word of what’s happening.”
If I were stronger, I could go with him, a creature of shadow and flame.
“Promise,” he urges.
I nod, disappointment twisting through me.
“Keep your promise this time, Anjeni.” He squeezes my shoulder and leaves as another signal trumpets through the air.
My inward streak of rebellion prompts me to follow him, but I quash it. Lying back upon my cot, I close my eyes and listen to the noise beyond my tent. The trump blares intermittently. My restlessness grows the longer I wait, until I can’t take the suspense anymore.
Fifteen minutes after Demetrios has left, I sit up.
Deep breaths, Anjeni. Don’t pass out.
I stand, about as steady on my feet as a newborn calf. My head hangs low while a wave of dizziness rolls over me, fizzling my vision into nothingness and back again. I inhale deeply and step toward the tent door.
Demetrios is coming up the hill with Tora beside him. He sees me and scowls.
In my defense, I did rest.
He passes between my guards. I straighten my spine, waiting in dignified silence within the canopy of my tent.
Before he says anything, he tugs on the restraints that hold the doorway open. “The tribal leaders are coming to you. Tora will help you get ready.”
Tora slips inside. The flaps fall into place, cutting both Demetrios and the outside light from view.
“What’s happened?” I ask.
She rummages through the trunk that holds my clothes. “More injured are making their way across the plains to us.”
“Why are the tribal leaders coming to me?”
“Because they are divided about what to do.” She extracts a flowy dress from amid the pile of clothing and offers it to me, a question in her eyes.
I retreat behind my dressing screen and strip the shirt I’m wearing. I quickly wash with water from the pitcher and basin. As I slip into the dress, Tora appears with my jewelry ready.
I balk. “They’ve all seen me without my ornaments.”
“The more official you look, the better,” she says.
Reluctantly, I slip a bracelet over my hand to dangle at my wrist.
“Goddess, they intend to leave the injured outside our walls to die.” Sickness darts through me. Tora continues in a whisper. “Please. Please, intervene.”
My gut twists. I partition my emotions behind a fortress of logic. “If it’s like last time, most of these people will die. All of them may die.”
“But some may survive,” Tora says. She positions my golden headpiece in its proper place. It digs into my skull. “Please, we cannot be monsters and refuse aid to those who suffer.”
“Which leaders are in favor of helping them?”
She rattles off three names, men with whom I am only vaguely familiar.
“Not Etricos? Not Moru?”
Tora shakes her head. Bitterness taints her voice. “They claim we cannot waste our meager resources.”
The excuse sits no better with me than it does with her. What resources we expend will be minimal if, like last time, most of the refugees die within hours of their arrival. “If there are more tribal leaders against helping than for, why do they come to me?”
“Because a goddess should have final say in matters of life and death.”
I quell my instinct to scream. I’m not a goddess. I’m an eighteen-year-old, barely an adult, barely able to take care of myself, let alone determine what to do with other people.
But the thought of leaving the injured to die exposed to the elements violates every sensibility I have.
From outside the tent, Demetrios hisses a warning. The tribal leaders are ascending the hill.
Tora motions me to sit and quickly applies the death-paint around my eyes, a simple outline. Demetrios pokes his head inside to check our progress.
“Put a cushion for her by the door,” he says.
She obeys and motions for me to sit. The skirt of my dress is ample enough that I settle cross-legged. She steps back, regards me speculatively, and adjusts my crown a degree to the left. Then she exits the tent.
The curtains draw back. The afternoon light, diffused by clouds though it is, pierces my eyes. I flinch and refocus my gaze as Demetrios and Tora secure the opening. Before me, within the fenced yard of my hill, the tribal leaders stand in a line. They bow in a sign of obeisance.
Etricos steps from their midst to address me. “Goddess, the Bulokai have sent more injured into our territory. We seek your counsel.”
His expression, hidden from the others, holds a warning that I should not overstep my bounds to contradict him.
He should know better by now than to attempt intimidation.
I tip my head at an angle. “How many injured are there?”
“Between fifty and eighty. Many have already died on the plains.”
Agoros has been busy, the sadistic ghoul. “What will you do with the dead?”
Etricos frowns. Behind him, the tribal leaders exchange uncertain glances. Their concern has been with those yet living, those who bear down upon our safe haven in search of sanctuary.
I lean forward, pinning him with a hard stare. “What will you do with the dead, Etricos? Will you bury them in a mass grave? Throw them in the river to be carried out to sea? Burn them to ashes? You cannot leave them to rot on the plains. They will draw scavengers, and disease will follow.”
“We have buried those who came the first time,” says Moru.
“Burial is not the issue,” says one of the other leaders. “These people have suffered. They are yet alive. We must do what we can to keep them that way. For all we know, some of our kinsmen may be among them.”
“It would require too many of our resources,” Etricos argues. “If we bring them into our walls, use our supplies to treat them, watch as they die one by one, what good does it do us? The brutality they have endured will weaken our people’s morale should they have to witness it.”
At the opening of my tent, Tora trembles with tightly bound emotion. Her hands clasp one another in a death grip, as though that alone restrains her from crying out. Etricos avoids meeting her gaze, and little can I blame him.
“Isn’t your morale weakened already?” I ask. The leaders start, their expressions troubled. “Do you exult in leaving people to die beyond your city walls? Will that inspire confidence among the Helenai and her sister tribes? Does it send a message of strength to Agoros, and to those who yet labor under his captivity? And what if there are tribal kinsmen in the midst of these injured? Will you alienate your own people when they discover their kindred were left to die in the elements rather than being treated with dignity in the final hours of their life?”
Etricos presses his lips into a thin line. “Goddess, I fear that—”
“Fear has no place among the Helenai, Etricos. You did not come to the ends of the e
arth to cower, but to stand in defiance to your last breath.”
Several of the men shift in their stances. I have successfully shamed them. Etricos looks to one side, his jaw clenched as he contemplates my words—and possibly how he can weasel out of their implications.
“You are correct,” he says at last, the statement tight in his throat. “We cannot lose our humanity.”
Moru opens his mouth as though he would speak, but he catches himself. He glances my direction, a plea in his eyes.
“Do we agree to treat those injured who travel here, then?” asks one of the three who stood in favor all along. A cluster of voices answers in the reluctant affirmative. Moru remains silent, observing me as I observe him.
“Does this please you, Goddess?” someone asks, jarring me from my study of the Terasanai elder.
“If it pleases you,” I say, a self-conscious blush rising to my face.
They bow in homage and start back down the hill, discussing the arrangements required to meet the needs of so many. Etricos walks mute and stiff-backed in their midst. Moru lingers.
“Speak,” I command him when his peers are out of earshot.
He approaches the entrance to my tent, his gaze flitting from Tora to Demetrios. “Goddess,” he says in a low voice, “it is possible that Agoros would hide his agents among these refugees.”
Agoros doesn’t need to hide agents. He can walk through the city on his own power, if he so desires. Moru is better acquainted with his tactics than I am, however, so I cannot dismiss this counsel. “How can you determine one way or another? Would he injure his own people? Would they remain loyal to him afterward?”
Moru only shakes his head. He doesn’t know the answer.
“Treat them as though they are allies. Guard them as though they are enemies,” I say. “What more can we do?”
“What more, indeed?” His echo whispers across my ears as he bows before me. The resignation of his tone—more than anything else from this afternoon’s encounter—sends a chill of misgivings up my spine.
Have I acted foolishly? Did I choose wrong?
As Moru retreats in the wake of his fellow leaders, Demetrios sweeps the opening of my tent back into place—but not before Tora darts inside. Shadows fall with the curtains. Tora drops to her knees and engulfs me in an embrace, nearly bowling me off my cushion.
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