Chapter 4
Iyana
As the star streaked across the sky, the fighting stopped. Everyone—Athusans and Istorians alike—had a momentary unspoken armistice to follow the path of the star that was falling to the earth.
Remember the face of that man.
The thought threaded through Iyana’s mind in a whisper of smoke. She whipped her head around, but nobody was near her. In fact, all the chaos was avoiding her completely. The man painted with the blood of her people caught her attention. There was no reason for him to stand out from the rest of the Athusans, but he did. He stood directly in the carnage, bodies sprawled around him, with one of his swords hanging limply at his side. The two strangers made direct eye contact for a split second before the star crashed into the earth in a blast of white light.
The impact threw everyone but Iyana off their feet. The soldier flew backwards into the wall of a hut and appeared to be unconscious. Iyana winced; that would be a concussion. Another man, who must have been Crown Prince Zane—recognizable only from his officer’s uniform, and his fabled dark and wavy hair which apparently made all the ladies swoon—fell into the nearest hut also hitting his head, but remained awake, searching around in confusion. The bodies of her people, her family, rolled away from the blast and the Athusans. She stood in shock and awe while the crash affected all others but her.
Run
She ran.
Every fiber of her being was screaming for her to stay in the village. To pick up the survivors—is Grandmother alive?—and help them escape out into the desert. They could live out there for a few days. There was a place no Athusan soldier would find them, outfitted in case of a circumstance exactly like this one, but the whispering in her head was incessant. Iyana prayed they’d find their way, and someone had recently restocked the provisions.
Run. Come to us. Run.
Iyana ran far longer and farther than she had ever run before, her bare feet pounding against the desert sand. Lungs unused to exercise burned with the exertion, but still she persisted, losing track of time. No idea where the stars were leading her or how far she had to go. She just ran.
After what seemed like hours but might have also been mere minutes, she slowed. All her muscles screamed at her. Muscles she didn’t even know she had. Iyana desperately wanted to lie down and sleep forever. Not of her own volition, she stumbled forward a few steps more, only because that whispering voice was persistent.
Run. Run. Run. Run.
Then her mind was blessedly silent.
Iyana collapsed, completely spent. Her body could go no further. The voice disappeared, leaving her brain mercifully quiet. Too tired to form any coherent thoughts, she didn’t question why the commanding whispers had stopped so suddenly. As the sun rose, she closed her eyes against the pinkening sky and slept like the dead.
When Iyana awoke, she was confused and thirsty, her eyes crusted together with sand. Reaching for the supply pack she always brought with her during excursions into the desert to pour some water over her tired face, she realized it wasn’t there. Iyana stood quickly—now fully awake. The events of the night before thudded back into place as she took in her surroundings. She was in the middle of the desert—no trees, no water, no familiar landmarks. The sun was on the opposite side of the earth, telling her she had slept all day and well into the afternoon. It would be dusk in a few hours; at least then it would be cooler. There was a reason most people didn’t go out in the middle of the day. Although summer was exiting to make way for autumn, the sun beat down on everything, creating an unbearable heat. Waves emanated up from the sand, distorting the horizon.
She blocked out the sun with her hand and peered off into the distance, seeing nothing but never-ending sand and dunes. Turning in a slow circle, trying to find anything that might appear familiar or lead to water, Iyana could not immediately pinpoint her location. She wouldn’t last long out here without water. There were no signs of an oasis anywhere near. Panic bubbled up in her chest, threatening to overtake her senses.
She forced herself to take a deep breath and sit back down, crossing her legs and closing her eyes. Her best ideas always came to her when she meditated quietly. She thought about the voice urging her ever forward. Any advice or direction would be fantastic right now, she projected outward to the universe. Her ears strained from how intensely she listened for a response. Nothing. Did she have to ask out loud?
“Seriously. Anything would be helpful. Unless you’ve guided me into the godsdamn desert to die?” She cocked her head to the side and scrunched her eyes tighter, hoping it would help her hear better. Still no response, only a faint ringing between her ears. She sighed, exasperated.
Absentmindedly, Iyana brushed out her hair with her fingers—it was knotted beyond belief. How was it her hair tied itself together so easily? The familiar motions and ritual were calming. She’d sell her soul for a brush, though. Her mind wandered to her grandmother, but no—the thought that Imo’s gorgeously wrinkled face may never smile at her again was too much to consider. The previous night’s events replayed through her head:
She was asleep in her small hut on the edge of the village when the wailing began. Iyana woke with a jolt, briefly confused what was real and what was a dream. Maybe there was some sort of medical emergency, but, no, there were too many people screaming. Then the shouts of the Athusans and the crackle of fire could be heard amidst the noise of her people, and she realized what was happening. Why was this particular village being attacked? Imothia was small, independent, and did not rely on the government for any money or trade goods. They weren’t even expected to pay taxes; honestly, they assumed the kingdom had forgotten about them. So why here? Why were the Athusans massacring Imothians when there were larger towns that would provide more leverage or goods to the Empire?
Running outside, she found the village in flames. She ducked into her grandmother’s hut to get her to safety, but she was not inside. “Grandmother! Mata Imo!” she shouted at the top of her lungs. But in all the chaos, her grandmother either did not hear or was choosing not to listen. Knowing Mata Imo, she was probably trying to evacuate the village. Iyana did the same, shoving anyone near her toward the desert. “Go! To the oasis! Everyone! Go!” Mothers with wailing children clutching onto their skirts ran past. Squinting towards the blazing huts, she saw a man, unable to tell who it was, try to assault a soldier with a broom. The Athusan immediately cut him down. His wife ran to his side, and the soldier turned away. Iyana registered the oddity of him appearing to spare the tribeswoman seconds before another soldier killed her. There was no time to mourn; that would come later, if she survived this. As she searched for her grandmother, she saw more Athusans killing her people and spreading fire, which was consuming the village. She felt so desperate to save everybody, she did the only thing she could think of at that moment. The one thing her grandmother had told her over and over, never to do.
Iyana looked to the stars.
She shouted at them for assistance, feeling foolish, screaming to the point of pain. Iyana was no longer a young girl; she did not truly believe wishing on a star would bring any sort of good fortune. But there were no other options. The small village of Imothia was overrun and wholly unprepared for an invasion. They had become complacent in their remoteness. She yelled with all her might, even as her throat was shredding, with no idea if they heard—or would even listen. Then a small vibration reverberated through her entire body, and that was when the whispering began.
Iyana.
She stilled abruptly and listened intently, her eyes still glued to the sky.
We hear you. We will help.
The falling star appeared bright in the sky, stopping them all in their tracks. They told her to remember the face of that man. She had only seen him for a second before the impact, but if the voice said to remember him, he must be important. Though gods only knew why. She tried to recall every detail of him.
He was tall and broad-shouldered, with the light skin tone that came from living in the north. There was a light, overlying golden tan speaking to the fact he had been in the desert for at least a couple of weeks. Enough time to burn, peel, and then develop the tan. His muscular arms were bare because of the hot summer nights, but he had leather vambraces on his forearms and a large tattoo swirling down his left shoulder all the way to his wrist. He had short but shaggy black hair and piercing blue eyes. The contrast between the two was striking. She had also noticed a pair of full lips…
Iyana shook her head, disrupting the vision. You’re trying to figure out why you’re out here, Iyana. Plus, he’s Athusan. He’s the enemy, she disparaged herself. Focus. The last thing she remembered was running in the desert until sunrise, which was when the voice disappeared.
Sudden clarity hit her. Sunrise. Of course! The whispers stopped because the sun rose. If the voice belonged to a star, which was appearing more and more likely, maybe they were unable to communicate during the day. If Iyana was telling time correctly, it was currently less than an hour to sunset. She would stay put until then and hopefully get more direction on where to go. If not, well, Iyana would figure out how to get home if she absolutely had to. Besides, it was easier to travel at night and, according to the sun’s position, she’d only need to head west to find Imothia.
Emmeric
Emmeric woke up slowly with a raging headache. His eyes refused to focus, but he could hear murmuring.
“I say we kill him now and get it over with,” a male said, voice cracking. A teenager, then.
“No, no, we keep him tied up and use him for ransom,” another boy replied. “That way we can bargain with Emperor Uther to leave us alone in exchange for his life.”
“That won’t work,” the first voice countered, exasperated. “Look at him. He doesn’t have any decoration on his uniform; he isn’t even an officer! They won’t bargain anything for him.”
“He doesn’t have sleeves! How would you know if he had any decorations?”
Without opening his eyes too much, he tried to take a mental stock of any injuries. Dried blood on the back of his neck created an itch while his head pounded. Hopefully nothing too serious, maybe only a minor concussion, although that was hard to determine, as he was uncertain how long he had been unconscious. For a moment he wondered if he was paralyzed, but he soon discovered his arms were bound behind his back, rendering them immobile. He wiggled his fingers, which eased his mind, but they were numb from the tightly knotted rope. As the blood rushed back into his fingertips, he had to swallow a hiss of pain lest he give himself away.
“Well, we won’t really know unless we try, right?”
“You’re such an idiot, Ialo, you know that, yeah?”
“Oh, and I suppose you’re an expert in Athusan politics now?”
Emmeric kept his eyes closed, listening to the bickering between what sounded like brothers. There was a sharp pang of fear and yearning when he thought of Talon and how they used to argue. One time they had fought each other so hard that Emmeric came away with a black eye and Talon had split his lip. Their mothers had been furious, and they weren’t allowed to play with each other for an entire week. They must have been around ten years old; it was the longest week of his life. There were plenty of fights since, but none ever escalated again like that one had, their lesson learned. He wondered if Talon was alive. Time to think of those things later. Now he needed to figure out a way to escape without being noticed. Although his hands were bound, he thought he could loosen them enough to slip out, with a bit of work. Then he would just need to knock these two fools unconscious, figure out where he was, and escape to the wagon. Easy. Except he didn’t know how much time had passed since the battle. He held back a wince. Since the massacre. He didn’t even want to think about what would happen if the wagon had already left. But in the back of his mind, he knew that was wishful thinking.
“Ialo, Iote, stop fighting with each other,” a third, older voice broke into the din of the two brothers. Emmeric stilled his fidgeting. “We won’t be doing either of those idiotic ideas. And stop name-calling, Iote, you’re much too old for that.”
“Sorry, Mata Imo,” both said in unison.
“Get out of my house, both of you. You have tied our guest up enough that I am in no danger from him.”
There was shuffling on the sand as the two boys left. They continued ribbing on each other as they walked away. A minor scuffle ensued outside, but Mata Imo seemed nonplussed. She chuckled softly as she went about her business inside. There was the sound of water pouring into a metal container and then a tin opening, followed by steel striking flint. Was she making tea?
“You can quit the act now, boy. We’re alone.”
Emmeric winced, but opened his eyes, immediately squinting against the brightness. His headache intensified. As his vision cleared, his captor came into focus. Mata Imo was a squat old woman with leather-tanned skin and long gray hair contained in a braid. Her back was bent, but her arms portrayed a silent strength. Turquoise jewelry apparently was a favorite of hers, as she wore it in her ears, as well as around her neck and wrists. She had to be around eighty years old, which was rarely heard of in this part of the continent. Her brown eyes were sharp, though, and Emmeric thought there was little she didn’t see. She gestured towards a kettle that was whistling. “Would you like some tea?”
“Some water would be great,” Emmeric rasped. Grit coated his throat like he had swallowed a fistful of sand; which, for all he knew, he had. He tried to clear his throat, but he only succeeded in creating a coughing fit. He twisted his body upright into a sitting position so he might cough easier—it was still difficult with his hands behind his back. Mata Imo leisurely poured a cup of tea while he coughed. She’s going to watch me die while drinking her tea, he thought. Just when Emmeric was on the verge of passing out from oxygen deprivation, she pressed a cup of tea against his lips and gently lifted it. He choked down the first few sips as his body was fighting the racking cough, and as those calmed, he finished the whole cup as quickly as she would let him.
“Thank you, Mata Imo,” Emmeric sighed.
She grunted. “You may call me Imo. Mata is a term of endearment I earned from my tribe. You are not of my tribe and have not yet earned the right to use the word.” He nodded his agreement. “That tea should help your headache.”
Imo sat in a rickety chair and stared at him, drinking her own cup of tea. Emmeric felt like she was staring into his soul and judging its weight. He awkwardly turned his gaze from her as his pain gradually eased. He was in a one-room hut with a fire in a clay hearth off to the side. The furnishings were sparse and simple—the chair she was sitting in and a cot in the corner—but there were plenty of herbs in jars and pots lining multiple shelves around the small space. Imo was clearly a healer. He glanced over the entrance of the hut, and he tried to hide a wince as he saw the scant fire damage around the edges. Imo noticed his expression and smiled wryly.
“Yes, I’m lucky to have not lost my home and all my belongings,” she said. “I’ve spent a long time collecting these supplies you see here, and I’d loathe to have to do it again.”
Emmeric couldn’t look her in the eye for all the shame he was feeling. “I am glad your home and your life are intact.”
“Mmm,” she pondered, tapping her fingers against her cup. Her brown eyes were piercing. “No thanks to you, it seems.” Her tone was only slightly accusatory, more curious than anything. Like Emmeric was an oddity to unravel and tinker with until she discovered what made him tick.
“I apologize for my and my people’s actions.”
“Ahh, but you cannot apologize for your people’s actions.” Her eyes brightened. “Your emperor has motives that are beyond your ken, and I do not accept your apology on their behalf. I will, however, accept your apology for yourself. You seem sufficiently ashamed.” She grinned, the skin around her mouth wrinkling further.
“I’m sorry?” Emmeric stared at her in confusion.
She chuckled softly, the warm smile not leaving her face. “Good, you didn’t expect my forgiveness. But it is not my forgiveness you need to earn. You murdered one of my tribesmen, and you will need to beg his son for forgiveness before you can earn your freedom.”
He furrowed his brow. “I will do whatever it takes to get me home.”
Imo smirked coyly. “Oh, my dear Emmeric, but you’re not going home. At least, not yet.”