Ever

by Gail Carson Levine

  Arduk coughs. Olus and I separate.

  I taste the therka. The flavor is fruity and nutty. I roll it around in my mouth, savoring it. Then I try to swallow, but my throat closes. I try again, but I can’t swallow. I see Olus’s face. This is the test!

  61

  OLUS

  KEZI’S FACE TURNS red. Her eyes bulge.

  I must do something! I thread my thinnest wind between her lips into her mouth to ease her throat open.

  Her cheeks puff with my wind, but she seems unable to swallow. She spits the therka out. Therka runs down her chin.

  She cannot become immortal.

  62

  KEZI

  URSAG APPROACHES, HOLDING his hand out for my goblet.

  “No!” I hold the goblet against my chest. “Puru, I long for a happy outcome.”

  “Kezi . . .”

  “Yes?” Hannu says.

  “It . . . is . . . over. . . .”

  Ursag comes closer.

  “No!” Olus cries.

  I feel his wind whirl around me, keeping the others away. I put the goblet to my lips. Fate may be thwarted.

  Again I take in therka and cannot swallow. As I hold it in my mouth, I imagine Admat’s altar and the altar flame. In my mind I look directly into the flame.

  With therka in my mouth and Olus’s wind swirling, I bend my right knee and point my toes. I lean back on my left hip and glide into the next step.

  As I dance I spit out the therka. But I don’t give up the goblet.

  Hannu begins to clap. Arduk joins in. I have my beat. I thrust my right shoulder forward, then my left. Right hip forward, left. I raise my arms, still holding the goblet.

  I chose the wrong kind of goddess to be. Puru’s slumping shoulders told me so.

  Sway. Turn.

  People need an uncertainty deity. They should question the gods. The people of Hyte should doubt Admat’s holy text and his wrath against his worshipers who love him.

  Lower my arms. Don’t spill the therka.

  Hannu quickens the beat.

  Dip. Step.

  Hannu is the goddess of earth and pottery. Cala is the goddess of wild and tame animals. Abdi is the god of cleanliness and laundry. I can have more than one power.

  Bend. Straighten.

  Olus claps. Thank you, my love.

  What else do mortals need that I can give them?

  I remember Belet’s wedding, the ecstasy of the dance, the sound of the copper rattle, the taste of the food. I remember Olus’s lips in our first kiss.

  Dip, step.

  I remember Wadir, where the sleepy mice dulled me, where I savored nothing and where I lost count of my days and nights.

  Dip, slide.

  Ursag claps. Puru taps his feet.

  I know what else I can give.

  63

  OLUS

  SHE STOPS DANCING, but I continue to clap. “Dance, love!” I shout. “Don’t give up!”

  Looking at Puru, she raises the goblet and announces, “My power . . .”

  I stop clapping.

  “. . . will be to save mortals from dreaming away their days. When people are forgetful, I’ll bring them a color, a song, a scent, a face. I will especially help those whose end is near. I will be the goddess of awareness and of uncertainty.”

  She tilts the chalice and drinks. I see her swallow. She staggers as the drink runs through her, but my protecting wind keeps her from falling.

  I am reeling myself. Kezi is safe. She comes into my arms—

  But doesn’t stay. Hannu dances to us and takes her hand. They dance into the aisles of tablets. I clasp Arduk’s hand. We dance too, with Ursag joining in, then Puru, not holding anyone’s hand, but following us in time with the rhythm of our feet, singing, “Fate . . . may . . . be . . . thwarted. Happy outcome. Glad fate. Fortunate Akka.”

  64

  KEZI

  OUR DANCING FEET ARE loudest, but beyond them I hear voices, which I take to be the voices of the other gods. I even hear their breathing. I hear the winged steeds munching hay in the stable. Farther off are more voices. “Please . . .” “. . . rain . . .” “. . . old . . .” “Forgive. . .” They are prayers of Akkan mortals! So many I can’t sort them out.

  I see vast distances, too! It’s hard to dance and see. A woman alone in a hut. A flock of sheep. Ursag’s temple in Neme. I cling to Hannu’s hand. I’m half blind with seeing and half deaf with hearing.

  My nose is flooded. Familiar odors and odors I don’t know. Most of all, the stinging scent of pine trees.

  Hannu stops dancing and hugs me. “My daughter!”

  When she lets me go, Olus tells everyone we must leave.

  I do not ride Kastu. A winged horse would frighten the people of Hyte. On Olus’s wind I teach myself to direct my eyes and ears.

  Night is falling. Olus brings us to earth in a glade surrounded by evergreens. Twigs crack. Leaves rustle. Daytime animals are settling down.

  We settle too, Olus a few inches away from me. I stare at the stars, which seem no closer than they ever did.

  “How do you sleep through all the sounds?” I hear every night creature. I haven’t stopped hearing Akkan voices, and now I hear snores and people rolling over.

  “I’m accustomed to them; but when I was little, I imagined they were in my winds, and they put me to sleep.”

  After a few minutes of not falling asleep, I say, “I’m still afraid of the priest’s knife. It will hurt, won’t it, even though I’ll live?”

  “Yes. But the wound will heal quickly.”

  I wonder if Pado and Mati will be able to bear bringing me to the temple. Maybe they will decide to let me live.

  They mustn’t! If I’m not sacrificed, Pado’s oath will become empty. Braving Wadir, becoming immortal, even saving Aunt Fedo will have been for nothing.

  Olus says, “Kezi . . . we can’t live in Hyte.”

  “No?” I think. “No. We can’t.” The priests and priestesses mustn’t see me alive after my sacrifice. My family mustn’t know, or they’ll be terrified. So tomorrow will be my last time in Hyte with my family.

  “You can knot rugs on Enshi Rock.”

  But my loom won’t be next to Mati’s. Aunt Fedo won’t be sitting with us, describing what her owl eyes have seen. Pado won’t be nearby in his counting room.

  I’m being ungrateful. I say, “We’ll be happy.”

  “We will.” He adds, “But you’ll miss them.”

  “Yes.” I always will.

  I listen to the notes and rhythms in the night. I picture a line of all the animals and people in Akka, dancing. In the middle of the imaginary line, stepping and gliding, are Mati and Pado and Aunt Fedo. I join them and slide into a dream.

  When I wake up, it is my last day—would have been my last day. I awaken with an idea. I’m not a goddess of Hyte, but I can do something for the people of my city. The city that used to be mine.

  As soon as we cross over the falls of Zago, I can see and hear as far as Hyte. I find my street. In the alley behind my pado’s house, while beating rugs, Nia is praying that my sacrifice will be glorious. In his counting room Pado lies prostrate, praying for a sign that I may be spared. In our courtyard Mati and Aunt Fedo simply weep. None seem to doubt that I will return. Thank you for your faith in me.

  Olus sets us down outside the city gates. No fire in the market today. No music. No pretend wool merchant to cause a miracle. We walk to my street. I am home.

  65

  OLUS

  KEZI LEANS HER FOREHEAD against the painted wood of her pado’s door, then presses her whole body against it. Her hand finds mine as she pushes open the door. “Pado? Mati? Aunt Fedo?”

  Merem is first into the reception room, then Senat, and last Aunt Fedo, who is the only one to see me. They engulf Kezi. The mass of them rocks back and forth. Senat’s bass voice rumbles “Kezi” over and over. The reception room is small. I back into a corner next to the altar. In the faces of Kezi’s parents and her aunt I see
the lines of grief.

  Finally they separate.

  Senat says, “We searched everywhere for you.”

  Merem touches Kezi’s hair. Then “Your tunic . . .” She bends down to examine the hem. “Gold—”

  “You brought a guest,” Aunt Fedo says.

  Senat sees me. “Olus? Olus, the goatherd? Is that you?”

  I nod. Merem and Aunt Fedo bow their heads politely to me. I raise my fist to my forehead.

  “He knows,” Kezi says. “Everything.”

  I feel my face redden.

  Senat flushes too. “You know my shame.”

  “Kezi,” Merem says, “why did you leave us?”

  It’s Kezi’s turn to blush. “We were so sad. I had only a month. I didn’t want to be sad every minute of my last month.”

  Merem nods. “Are you hungry?” She laughs, the same pained, ironic laugh as when she was sick. “You might as well eat.” She addresses me. “Olus, have you broken your fast? We are hospitable to guests”—she laughs again—“no matter what.”

  Without waiting for an answer, she leads the way into the courtyard and from there to the eating room at the back of the house. Three chairs are pulled up to a square table from which the remains of breakfast have not yet been removed. Two servants bustle in from the kitchen. One clears the table. The other opens the doors to the alley behind the house. In wafts my mischievous breeze, stinking of refuse.

  “Bring food for our guest and Kezi,” Merem says.

  “Bring chairs,” Aunt Fedo adds. “Sit, Olus.”

  I look to Kezi to see if I should sit when there aren’t enough chairs for all, but her eyes are on her family.

  “Sit, Olus,” Senat says.

  “Thank you for your kindness.” I sit and wish someone else would sit too, but they all stand. How can everything be so ordinary: the hospitality, the awkwardness of strangers?

  A servant brings in a large barley cake, goat cheese, dates. Another servant carries in chairs. Everyone sits at last, Merem and Aunt Fedo on either side of Kezi. Senat rises immediately. He tells the servants to leave and gives each a task in a distant room of the house. Then he goes to the kitchen and sends the cook and his helper to the market. When he returns, Merem fills a plate for Kezi and me.

  “Olus,” Senat says, seating himself, “how do you come to be here with my daughter?”

  We should have thought this out and decided what to say. “I was at your brother’s wedding. I met Kezi there.”

  “I want to hear everything,” Aunt Fedo says. “Olus and Kezi, speak slowly. There’s no hurry.”

  “Yes, slowly,” Mati says. “The priest can wait.”

  Senat glances obliquely at the altar flame and says nothing.

  Mati moves her chair close to Kezi’s and touches her cheek. “Nothing is as soft.”

  Kezi catches her mati’s hand and holds it.

  Senat says, “My eyes have ached from not seeing my Kezi.”

  “Aren’t you going to eat, Pado? Mati? Aunt Fedo?” Kezi leans over the table and puts food on a plate for each of them. “A large slice of barley cake for Aunt Fedo.”

  Aunt Fedo says, “Your voice is different, Kezi. My rabbit ears hear—I’m not certain—an echo. Why is that?”

  Kezi shrugs. It’s the goddess in her voice.

  No one eats.

  “Speak, daughter,” Senat says.

  She nods. “Aunt Fedo introduced me to Elon. Remember?”

  “I remember. He was so eager to meet you!”

  I hear people in the street outside the red door. A dozen priests are coming.

  “He persuaded me to walk—”

  “Go on,” Merem says.

  “Listen . . . do you hear?”

  The street door opens. The priests hurry across the courtyard. A priest knocks over a potted fern. Everyone hears the crash.

  66

  KEZI

  THE PRIESTS ARE CLAD in yellow tunics. The first one to enter wears a silver necklace. A high priest. He has a squared-off black beard and wears a curled wig as the asupu did.

  Pado stands. Mati moves her chair closer to mine and doesn’t let my hand go.

  “Senat . . .” the high priest says. He knows Pado. “We’ve come for your daughter.”

  Mati’s grip tightens. “Take me! I shouldn’t have—”

  Aunt Fedo pounds her cane. “Take me. I would—”

  Pado commands, “Hush!” To the high priest he says, “Wait, Lesu,” and goes to the eating-room altar. “Admat, send a sign. We beg your mercy.” He prostrates himself. “Send a sign that my daughter need not die. Send a sign that no one need die. As you wish, so it will be.”

  I feel a breeze. The flame flares. Dies down. Flares again. Dies down.

  I look at Olus and know. He is causing the flares.

  The flame brightens a third time. Maybe I can escape this Lesu’s knife and we can stay in Hyte. I look at Mati, whose face is awed.

  Pado rises. “Admat—”

  Lesu intones, “Admat has revealed himself. Admat accepts the sacrifice.”

  Oh no!

  Does Lesu have a way of understanding Admat? Or does he himself want me sacrificed?

  Pado says, “Lesu—”

  He interrupts. “As he wishes, so it shall be. Senat, it is Admat’s wish. You know, or you wouldn’t have told me to come today.”

  The breath flies out of me.

  “You called him?” Mati yells.

  “I knew I wouldn’t be able to send for the priest after you came,” Pado tells me. “I had to do it before.” He’s weeping. “Kezi, ‘Admat’s wrath is worse than death.’”

  I nod. He is quoting the holy text. The words that follow are Admat’s love is better than life. Pado loves me. He just believes what I used to believe. I remind myself that we came home for me to be sacrificed.

  Olus’s face is furious. I fear he will do something terrible with his winds. I say, “I accept my sacrifice,” and catch his eye.

  His expression softens. “So it will be.”

  Lesu says, “Admat is pleased.”

  How does he know?

  I strengthen the echo Aunt Fedo heard in my voice. Louder than I used to be able to speak, I pronounce, “So it will be, but remember these words: Admat hates human sacrifice.” This was my idea when I awoke this morning. “My sacrifice will be the last. Admat loves the people of Hyte. He is not a punishing god. He never brings anyone suffering.”

  “I will not argue theology with the sacrifice,” Lesu says. “Come.”

  67

  OLUS

  LESU LEADS US OUT of Senat’s house as if he owned it. In the street Kezi walks with her mati and aunt. Aunt Fedo leans heavily on her cane, her limp worse than usual. Merem’s arm is around her daughter. Senat and I follow them. Lesu and the other priests form a loose circle around us.

  People stare. A stray dog trots at Lesu’s side.

  I have to restrain my winds, which want what I want: to cast the priests and even Senat into the desert, to blind them with sand, to deafen them, to make them feel the wrath of this god.

  The temple rises ahead, blocky and graceless. We enter through groaning bronze doors into a vestibule, and from there into a windowless room hardly big enough to contain us. I wouldn’t have been able to stay here for even a moment before my trial.

  Lesu asks Senat, “What is the sacrifice’s name?”

  “My name”—she waits until he meets her eyes—“is Kezi. I am a weaver. I love to dance.” She raises her arms. There’s no space to dance, but she kicks out her left foot, then her right.

  Merem sobs.

  Senat says, “When I swore the oath, I thought—”

  “Kezi will come with me now. It won’t—”

  “I’m her mati,” Merem says. “Her mati should be by her—”

  “Quiet!”

  “I gave her life. I—”

  “Quiet. Senat may stay during the ceremony . . .” His voice becomes less formal. Briefly, he stops being his
office. “Although I think you’d best not.”

  I can come too. If I use my winds, no one can prevent me. But I do nothing. I’ll see and hear everything. She knows I’ll be with her from here.

  “Will it . . .” Aunt Fedo raps her cane on the floor. “Will it . . .” She raps the cane again to make her words come out. “Will it . . . hurt?”

  “Admat will dull the pain,” Lesu says.

  Perhaps when this is over, I will kill him and Admat will dull his pain.

  Kezi rushes into her aunt’s arms. “Don’t worry, Aunt Fedo. Good-bye.” She embraces her mati. “Good-bye, Mati.” She holds her hands out to me. “I must tell you good-bye.” So softly that no one but a god can hear, she whispers, “Can Admat kill a god?”

  I shout, “No!”

  Kezi nods. To Lesu she says, “The sacrifice is ready.”

  Yet an all-powerful god probably can kill an Akkan god anywhere, any time. If Admat exists and if he is wrathful, there is no escape.

  68

  KEZI

  I CAN TELL OLUS ISN’T certain. In spite of everything, I may die.

  Admat, don’t kill me! Don’t be wrathful. Don’t exist!

  Lesu takes Pado and me to the liver-shaped central prayer room. We enter through the small door behind the altar. Across the room are the double doors that are opened only twice a year.

  A screen stands between the altar and the wall. Lesu tells me to go behind it.

  A priestess waits there. She raises my tunic and examines me without saying a word. She seems unaware of the blush that covers every inch of my skin.

  Let her find something wrong. Make me unfit to be a sacrifice. I point out a birthmark on my ankle. She runs her thumb across it, presses it, and then continues her inspection. Her hands turn me, lift my right leg, lift my left, while I try to think of another flaw. I show her the scar of an old cut on my forearm. This she barely looks at. She isn’t gentle or rough. I am simply a task.