Secrets and Stardust

Chapter 8

Iyana

“No, no, no, no…” Iyana muttered to herself. She held her grandmother’s body close to her chest, rocking back and forth. Imo was already turning cold. Her eyes were closed, peace relaxing her face, but Iyana refused to accept this reality.

“No!” she screamed. Placing Imo down gently, she rushed to the cabinets and began searching desperately through all the ingredients for anything to save her grandmother. But she didn’t know what had happened, what was wrong, what would work best to bring her favorite person in the world back to her. She dimly heard Emmeric rush back in and ask what the fuck happened, and Altair’s mumbled response, but she couldn’t pay attention to them right now. She needed a cure.

Think, Iyana!she mentally chastised herself.

Klamath weed? No. Activated charcoal? No. Tamanu leaves? No, no, no. Iyana tossed the jars behind her as she eliminated options; she barely heard them shattering on the ground.

A powerful hand alighted on her shoulder, followed by the warm rush of Altair’s magic. She shook him off immediately, spinning to face him. Calming magic was not what she needed right now—she wanted answers. Iyana couldn’t bear the look of pity he bore. Emmeric was on the ground, feeling for Imo’s pulse.

“Don’t touch her!” she shouted at Emmeric. He swiftly lifted his hands in surrender and backed away.

“Altair,” she said, closing the short distance between them and placing her hands on his chest. “Please. Help her. Bring her back. I’ll do anything you want me to. Please.” Her voice weakened with every word she spoke.

He shook his head sadly, slowly. “I cannot do that, my star. I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t understand. You have pure magic.”

“I still follow the laws of nature. I cannot bring back what is already lost,” he said, his hand gently stroking through her hair. His thumb wiped a tear she didn’t realize had fallen.

Iyana pushed herself off him. “She’s not lost. She’s not. I just need to find the right cure. Can you at least tell me if it was poison? I can make antidotes. I know how to make antidotes and antivenom. She can come back if you tell me what’s wrong with her.” The words rushed out of her. “Please,” she sobbed, “just tell me.”

“That’s not how this works, Iyana,” Altair said softly. “Look for yourself. Take a deep breath and feel for her life.”

She calmed and did as he instructed, delving into the depths of her soul where her loved ones and cherished memories resided. The place Iyana could retreat to when she’d had a particularly hard day. And there it was—a hole in her heart where Imo had previously taken residence. The part of her soul that soared when she heard her grandmother’s soft chuckles, her praise for a job well done, watched her work miracles throughout the village. It was shriveling and dying. Iyana knew her heart would never be whole again. There would always be something missing. She covered her face with her hands and let out loud, racking sobs. It was only when her knees hurt that Iyana realized she’d collapsed. Large, warm, comforting arms wrapped around her and she leaned into Altair, burying her face in his shirt.

He stroked her hair. “Shh, it’s okay, my star. I’ve got you.”

After what felt like hours, her tears dried. Still sniffling, she emerged back into the real world. They had moved her grandmother to her cot and laid her into a funeral pose—arms crossed, eyes closed. She knelt and grasped her grandmother’s stiff hand—the knuckles gnarled with arthritis, callouses overlying the thin, wrinkled skin. A hand that had been capable of so many things, and now would never do them again. Iyana had been around death before; it came with the territory of being a healer. But she had lost no one close to her, no one she loved so deeply. She didn’t remember her parents, and so it felt as though there was nobody to mourn. Of course, she had mourned the loss of a life that may have been, especially as a child, but she did not know her parents as people—only an idea.

Iyana pressed a kiss on Mata Imo’s brow then stood on wobbling legs that threatened to give out. Emmeric and Altair were standing in the corner, allowing her to pay her final respects. It was Emmeric who spoke first. “Is there anything else we can do? Other funeral rites that need to be performed?”

If Iyana weren’t so dazed and numb, she might have appreciated it was her enemy asking about her culture’s rites; but, as she was holding emotions off as best she could, the surprise this statement would’ve otherwise caused flowed over her. “A pyre,” she said. “We need to build a pyre. We should cremate her this evening, under the moon and—” She choked. “And the stars. She would like that, I think.”

Her gaze wandered around Imo’s hut, and saw the destruction of the vials, jars, and tubes strewn about the floor, instantly regretting her rash actions. Iyana looked at the old, raggedy broom in the corner, trying to muster up the energy to sweep the mess. Altair laid his hand on her arm, sending more calming magic through her. “Don’t worry about the mess,” he said. With a simple wave of his hand the jars reassembled, full of the correct contents, all of them placed gently back on the shelves.

“What…?” Emmeric said, mouth agape.

“Oh gods, I need to tell the village.” Iyana moaned.

“You go,” said Altair. “Be with your people. Emmeric and I can build a pyre, and if anyone wants to help, send them our way.”

“Thanks for volunteering me, buddy…” Emmeric mumbled. Altair knocked the Athusan’s shoulder to steer him out towards the desert. The sun was setting. They had either talked for longer than she thought, or her sob session actually had lasted for hours.

She needed to tell everyone. They would all want to be there at the pyre, sending their Mata Imo to the Everlands. But Iyana couldn’t bring herself to tell anyone just yet. She needed to sit in her emotions for a moment before she shouldered anyone else’s. Iyana sat in her grandmother’s chair, staring at the empty husk of a body on the cot. Suddenly exhausted, she closed her eyes, and her final conversation with her grandmother played in her head.

“He’ll come around,” said Imo.

Iyana’s eyes bounced from the door to Altair, to her grandmother. “I’m honestly not sure I want him to.”

“You’re going to need him, Iyana,” said Altair. “You have powerful magic within you, but you need your Kanaliza to fully access it.”

“But why?” Iyana asked, exasperated. “I don’t understand what this is all for. Emmeric obviously still doesn’t understand. What is the magic for?” She threw her hands in the air, then crossed them protectively over her chest.

“It’s for ridding the world of tyrants,” said Imo softly. Altair bowed his head in agreement. “There is more you need to know, my dear.” Altair sat up straighter with those words.

“Please, Grandmother, anything. I just want this to make sense.”

“Legend has it long ago before the gods gifted magic to the Aztia, the—” Imo’s breath caught in her throat, stopping the story short. Her hands flew to her chest, her neck. She was gasping for air, but couldn’t pull any in. Her lips were turning blue.

“Grandmother!” Iyana jumped off the cot and rushed to Imo’s aid. The old woman finally took a rattling breath, her complexion returning to her normal tanned brown. Iyana heaved a sigh of relief.

“You’re ready, my dear,” Imo whispered. “Arinem needs you.”

“For what, Grandmother?”

Imo smiled sadly, and her features turned slack and peaceful. Mata Imo raised a shaky hand to her mouth, biting down on her thumb and drawing blood, then pressed her bleeding thumb to Iyana’s brow, muttering words in an unrecognizable language. Iyana briefly heard Altair inhale sharply. But at that moment, Imo closed her eyes and her breathing ceased. Iyana screamed.

Iyana jerked herself out of the memory—there were so many questions surrounding the sequence of events. Imo may have been old, but she was in good health. Did someone tamper with the alcohol? But, no, if that were the case, the rest of them should have been affected as well. She felt fine; although, she admittedly took a small sip, but Emmeric and Altair both drank a fair amount and they were alive and whole. Briefly she wondered if poisons affected Altair—she made a note to ask him later.

Purple-pink light filtered through the open door into the hut. Iyana glanced again at her grandmother. In this lighting, Imo appeared as though she could be sleeping. Heaving a deep sigh, Iyana pushed herself out of the chair and walked outside to tell the village their beloved healer of the past fifty years was dead.

Emmeric

“Ow.” Emmeric pulled another cactus spine out of his thumb with his teeth, spitting it away from him and sucking on the area to ease the sting. Shaking out his hand, he glanced over at Altair, who was using the wood Emmeric had found to build the pyre. Stupid, attractive star-man, he thought. His thumb still hurt, along with the other dozen small wounds caused by various cacti. Stupid desert. It wasn’t the most mature thought, but at the moment, he didn’t care.

They had been working for at least an hour in silence—the sun continuing its descent, coloring the sky in shades of violet and rose, and cooling the air—until Emmeric couldn’t take it anymore. “Can you fill me in on a few more details, at least?”

Altair never paused his work. “Not without Iyana here. I’d rather not repeat myself.”

Emmeric huffed out an annoyed breath and took a break to drink some water. He extended the waterskin to Altair, but he declined the offer. Right. Star. Ancient, magical immortal beings probably didn’t need water like the lowly humans. Picking his shirt up, he wiped the sweat from his face and squinted back towards the village. “Shouldn’t someone have come by already?”

Altair shrugged, saying nothing, continuing to pile the dry wood. Emmeric was concerned about Iyana’s mental state—which surprised him. Not because Iyana was his enemy, but because she loathed him and he made it a point not to care about people who didn’t want to give him the time of day. Personally, he didn’t harbor any negative feelings towards Istorians, and least of all against Imothians. He regretted his actions the previous day and now wished he had helped Talon evacuate people. Why didn’t he say anything about his plans? Was he concerned Emmeric wouldn’t help? Probably, Emmeric thought. He usually followed orders with little question, no matter how painful those actions were. But Talon… he was trying to make a difference at great personal cost. Emmeric vowed he would attempt to bring a positive change to the world, or at least to stop bringing death solely because an emperor ordered it done.

Really, he wanted to move out of Athusia to find a new life. A quieter life. He’d been dreaming of this for years, but he didn’t know where he’d go, what he would do, how he’d earn a living. His only skill was wielding a sword, and he’d hate to jump from one tyrant to another—doing the same shit in a different place. Plus, what if Talon didn’t want to come with him? His parents were still alive, after all, and they would never leave Athusia. They had lived there their entire lives, raised both of them there. Talon most likely would choose to go along with Emmeric, but he didn’t want to take the chance of being rejected. Nor did he want to force his best friend to choose between him and his parents, so he never broached the topic. He sighed and then cursed again as another cactus spine found its way into his finger.

Hours later it was fully dark, the only light coming from the thin thumbnail that was the moon and the twinkling stars. They had completed the pyre and were sitting on the cool sand, waiting. Emmeric looked up at the sky, knowing he would never view the stars in the same way. The one sitting near him also had a slight glow around him, enough to show Emmeric his features, but not enough to see anything else by. Candles lit up windows in the village and it was only then that he noticed a small silhouette moving towards them. Altair stood smoothly. Emmeric stood as well, but admittedly more clumsily. Soreness from the raid, being bound, and building in the desert heat were catching up to him.

“Iyana,” Altair said softly. “What do you need?” Staring unblinkingly at the enormous pile of wood in front of her, where her grandmother’s body would soon burn, she froze for several seconds. “My star?” It was dark enough Emmeric couldn’t see if she was crying, but her voice shook when she spoke.

“Thank you for building this,” she said. Taking a deep breath, she continued, “I told the village. They’re all heartbroken, of course, but everyone wants to be here to send her to the Everlands. It’s a tradition in Imothia to send loved ones along with a trinket, so they’re gathering those and will be along shortly.”

Emmeric knew she was hurting. It was a pain he was unfortunately familiar with, having lost his parents at fifteen. Even now, thirteen years later, he felt a sharp pang when his thoughts wandered to them—as they did now. His father had been a merchant, leaving Athusia to collect trade goods from smaller townships and selling them at market for a higher price. His mother, Daphne, would take care of Father’s accounts. She had a fantastic mind for numbers and was one of the few women from the poor outer rings of the city to work their way up. Mostly self-taught, she had a chance encounter with a young merchant while perusing the market. She impressed him with her haggling, and he asked her to dinner. They wed within the year. Daphne’s penchant for mathematics helped the couple to earn a fair amount of wealth. They moved to the middle ring of the city—not affluent or noble by any means—mere months before Emmeric was born. They became fast friends with the couple next door, also expecting a baby, and the rest was history. The accident… he didn’t like to think about the accident.

Emmeric rubbed his chest to disperse the perceived pain. Iyana’s silhouette was gesturing behind her towards the huts. “We need to move her body to the pyre so we can place her trinkets around her before it’s lit. I don’t think I can—” She halted, her breath hiccupping. Altair was by her side immediately, folding her into his arms, making soft shushing noises. His eerie golden eyes looked at Emmeric expectantly.

Getting the hint, Emmeric said, “I can take care of it, Iyana.” She released a shaky sob that may have been a thank you. He dragged his tired legs back towards Imo’s hut, wishing this was the first time he’d wrapped a dead body in a shroud.

Iyana

Crying faces were illuminated as Iyana’s last remaining family member burned. She herself was dry-eyed, but only because she was numb. It was as though Imo’s death had hollowed her out—there was nothing human left within her. Throughout the night, almost everyone from the village offered their condolences. They were curious how it had happened since Imo was alive and well following the attack—her normal self. Iyana wasn’t sure what to tell them. She was injured and hadn’t realized it, stress from the attack, or old age…none of it seemed right. Many questioned privately if the captured Athusan was responsible, but she quashed those rumors immediately, telling them all he was not in the hut when she died. It made her feel strange, defending her enemy, but she saw even in the short time Emmeric had known Imo, he’d respected her.

As the night wore on, the fire grew dimmer, and the villagers all headed back to their homes. They would take the day off from their normal routine to mourn Imo, mourn their own dead, and recover as best they could. By sunrise, Iyana still stood by the pyre, unmoving, unwilling to think about what would come next. Emmeric and Altair had been standing outside the ring of light during the ceremony. They had all thought it best for them to keep out of sight, but this way they could still pay their respects. She heard them closing in on her, then a featherlight touch on her back. The gesture made her realize how close to crying she actually was.

“Iyana…” Altair’s deep voice rumbled softly behind her. “I realize this isn’t the best time, but there are still things we need to discuss.”

She took a deep breath, held it until her lungs screamed at her, then released it slowly out of her mouth. Nodding, she said, “We can talk in my hut. I don’t think I can bear to be in hers at the moment.”

“I understand,” said Altair. “You two go on ahead. I’ll be there in a minute.”

Iyana walked towards her home on feet she barely felt. She sensed, more than saw, Emmeric looking at her. “What?” she snapped, glancing at him out of the corner of her eyes.

He gestured towards her feet. “How are you not wearing shoes?”

“I don’t wear shoes,” she said, turning to face him as they reached her front door. She had to crane her neck to look him in the eye. He wasn’t as tall as Altair, but he was close. The incredulous expression on his face almost caused her lips to twitch into a smile. Almost. She shoved all of her emotions into a small box inside her chest and locked it. Any sort of feeling, whether positive or negative, was bound to send her into a spiral she wasn’t sure she’d be able to recover from.

“You don’t…” Emmeric spluttered. “But the cactuses!”

“One, it’s cacti,” Iyana said. “And two, no, I don’t wear shoes. I just avoid everything that can cause me harm.”

Emmeric’s mouth opened and closed several times, like he couldn’t figure out how to respond to this apparently preposterous notion. But she stood by her stance. Shoes were foot prisons.

He pointed to a small, round cactus nearby. “What is that?”

“It’s a mouse thistle. They’re all over the desert, and the juice inside is actually delicious,” Iyana replied.

Emmeric crossed his arms over his broad chest. She tried not to notice how the movement accentuated his biceps. Can you really blame me, she thought, after being stuck with the same men vying for my attention for the last ten years?

“Well,” he said. “They’re prickly, and they’re small, so it’s hard for me to see them before they poke me.”

“Are you pouting right now?” Iyana asked. And that definitely wasn’t laughter or happiness bubbling inside of her. She pushed it down again.

“Actually,” he said thoughtfully, “they remind me of you. Small and prickly.” She glowered at him, and would have retorted, but Altair had arrived next to them. Emmeric ruffled her hair, and she unsuccessfully tried to bat his hand away. Laughing, he walked into her home, calling over his shoulder, “See you in there, Mouse.”

Altair touched her hand gently. Still frowning at the nickname, she turned back to him. He gently pried open her fist and deposited a small, black trinket in her hand. It was a miniature rendering of an ouroboros snake, approximately the size of a small pearl. Iyana had seen some pearl earrings on a merchant’s wife once as they passed through, and she was allowed to hold them. Unlike those which were cold, this was emanating a small amount of heat. It became iridescent in the sunlight, and she could not think of a single thing to say. Altair beat her to it, saying, “I took some of your grandmother’s ashes and condensed them into this for you, so no matter where you go, you’ll carry a piece of her with you. Plus, I know with Imo’s passing it may take some time for you to get the tattoo.” Gentle fingers stroked her inner wrist where the mark of healers should have been. The mark her grandmother should have inked into her skin. “This way you’ll still be able to identify as a fully initiated healer.”

Tears now streaming down her face, Iyana gaped at Altair. Even though she knew he was probably just being nice to her so she’d agree to whatever was going to happen next, it still felt like something more. This was the most thoughtful thing anyone had ever given her. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Saying nothing, he touched a finger to the rounded snake devouring its own tail, and crafted a metal clasp. He took the newly formed necklace, placing it gently over her head and pulling her hair free. The side of his lip curled upward in the most authentic smile she’d seen from him. His fingers lightly traced over her collarbone before he, too, went inside the hut.

Iyana clutched the reminder of her grandmother close to her chest, feeling its warmth. She steeled herself and followed the men inside.