11 Days after the War
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The Mageian Militia lined the streets in deep purple robes, bronze armor plating their chests and shins, with staffs by their sides. Chyna and Ninos drew her into an ancient silver chair and hoisted it on their shoulders. Grandpapa led her family to the main street, joining the eight other families with competitors in the War. The five trainers without family in the War like Robil, Naramsin, and Yono filtered in behind her family on white mares.
“Enjoy the ride,” Chyna said with a chuckle.
Ayla closed her eyes, sinking into the feather cushions of the chair. She didn’t want to be here for this, for them, but she couldn’t see herself missing it for the world. The worst part was gritting her teeth against her tears—she was the Winner and to show such weakness in front of the mageians wouldn’t be accepted.
Ninos repositioned the chair on his shoulder with a grunt. “Your second funeral and you still don’t have to walk. Maybe I should start calling you Miss as well.”
“Very funny boys,” Aunt Ninwa chided them, her copper hair flowing across her back. “Have respect for her. They were your friends as well.”
Silence settled between them. Ayla swallowed and allowed her eyes to drift down the slope of the city. Maron led the line in purple robes with the other Cardinals, each holding a purple banner with the image of a phoenix rising from a fire and riding on black stallions.
“Only three things are certain in life,” Grandpapa said, his rough voice wavering with age and wisdom. “Birth, death, and change.”
Bittersweet nausea sizzled in her stomach. “Four,” she said. Her voice sounded flat to her own ears. “You forgot suffering.”
He glanced at her, the wrinkles by his grey eyes folding over each other as he squinted against the sun. “Yes, I suppose this too is promised to us.”
Ayla relished in the sweltering heat, remembering the touch of Zalyn’s magic against her skin. Behind College of Cardinals, the Balou family followed with a large black banner with a bull donning elongated horns. Banipal’s coffin rested on his parents’ stiff shoulders as they shuffled through the tan sand under the hot sun. Ten others with dark skin and dark hair traveled along, bodies rigid and sweating. The Maleks trailed behind them, fifteen strong, with Sanhareb’s dark cherry coffin and another black flag of a dragon raised high above their heads.
“Chyna, Ninos.” She grabbed their attention before continuing. “What were they like? I didn’t really get a chance to know anyone very well.”
Chyna sighed, readjusting his hold on the chair. “Banipal loved practical jokes. He was such a beast, too.” He gave a carefree laugh. “In a way, he was kind of like everyone’s big brother. Liked to make sure everyone was taken care of, that kind of thing. I think you would’ve grown to like him.”
Ayla closed her eyes, images of his smiling face during all the lunches she shared with him filtering through her mind. She wished life wasn’t so fragile. She wished she’d had more time to get to know them all. Even more, she wished she’d be able to come to Esagila without expecting them to be intolerable.
“Sanhareb,” Ninos started, a distant lull to his voice, “had this confidence about him that made you proud to be his friend. When some of us would fight, he’d always be the mediator, the voice of reason.” He scoffed. “He always got us to work things out.”
“Sounds about right,” Chyna agreed, messing up his mahogany hair. “They were good friends. Sanhareb kept Banipal out of trouble. Banipal created some necessary chaos in Sanhareb’s life.”
“Nemrud was kind of the quiet type—”
“—He didn’t like to get into arguments. Hated them—”
In the distance, the Mnashi family carried Nemrud’s ash coffin, their banner painted with a fleet of arrows. They passed through the opening to the wall and into the outer city where mageians crowded the sides of the streets and alleys, waiting to join the line at the end, and humming a gentle ballad together.
“—He spent most of his time in the temple’s library,” Ninos continued. “He loved reading about the past Wars, about every competitor. He could recite the date, the competitors, and the winners of all twenty-eight Wars in a matter of seconds.”
“Sabri and Yabil have probably been inseparable since they were six.”
The Sarkis and Wyrdas carried Sabri and Yabil’s coffins side by side, their families mingling together in a huddle of twenty dark heads. Their flags rippled in the wind, the swan of the Sarkis flapping her wings and the water dragon of the Wyrda family dancing across the light blue cloth. Children hustled to keep up with the adults, grimacing after every sharp shush when they started chattering. The whole line murmured in hushed whispers, prayers, and reminiscing memories under the gentle mourning song of the city.
“Love at first sight for those two though,” Ninos said. His long, curly amber locks bounced as he walked. “Usually kept to themselves. They were going to get married on Arahsamnu 1st.”
Ayla’s stomach churned. That was just fifteen days away. If Loran knew that, he would’ve felt horrible. “Were they?” she asked, her breath squeezing out of her lungs. She didn’t know what else to say. She wished her heart was made of metal and her soul from steel, but they weren’t and they were breaking all over again.
“Would’ve been a beautiful wedding, too,” Aunt Ninwa, voice soft.
“Ashor didn’t live here until I was ten or something,” Chyna continued. “His grandfather wouldn’t let him play with us until a year later, maybe two. He was a good guy. Really good guy. Would give you the skin off his back if you asked.”
Ayla’s eyes watered. She wanted to share all of her memories with him, but she bit her tongue. She’d start crying. Instead, she focused on the Sayads as they followed the Sarkis and Wyrda families, holding green banners with the image a dove taking flight. Ashor’s coffin sat on his grandfather and grandmother’s shoulders. Next to them, Ashor’s uncle carried a little boy behind his head. His hands covered his face. Ayla remembered sitting on her dad’s shoulders when she was younger for her grandparents’ funeral.
She couldn’t have ever guessed she’d attend another so soon, for two people she loved and cared about more than she could’ve imagined. Her heart ached.
This just wasn’t right.
Behind the Sayad family was the Thoma family, carrying Diyalam’s silver coffin in the same fashion on top of her parents’ shoulders. How did it feel for them to lay their daughter to rest in the same place as their first son? They clutched their grey flags of a man down on one knee holding a scythe over his head and threw icy glances over their shoulders, their blame obvious and bottomless.
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“Diyalam was a nice girl—to everyone. She followed her brother everywhere when she was little.” Ninos released a long breath. “I don’t think she ever got over that.”
“She tried to be nice to us after that, still,” Chyna said. “But she was bitter. You could see it in her eyes. What she did to you—that wasn’t excusable.”
Ayla shook her head. “We all wanted to win,” she whispered. “She wasn’t herself—no one was.”
“Her dad really pressured her. Win the war, find a husband. They wanted her to marry Sanhareb or Banipal.” Ninos repositioned the chair again. “Can’t imagine that’d be a happy life.”
“Zalyn had it worse though.” Chyna’s voice sounded strained. “Pegged since birth to be the next Winner, just like Uncle Afrem.”
Zalyn’s mother and grandfather held Zalyn’s coffin above their heads. His mother’s hair swayed in the gentle breeze under the hot sun, banners of a hunter flying overhead. Defeat rested in her limbs, slowing her every movement with a tender sadness. It had to be hard for her to hold back tears. She was carrying her son to his grave.
“My dad hated it. Zalyn…” She swallowed her emotions down. “…It didn’t bother him as much. He didn’t let it.” She clenched the armrests in her hands, her fingers losing their tan color with pressure.
“He was really guarded. Ashor was his closest friend—didn’t care much about anyone else. Quite the lady’s man, too…” Ninos said.
Her stomach curdled at the thought. “He didn’t seem like it to me…”
“He had a heart of gold deep down, I think.” Chyna looked at her as best as he could, his eyebrows rising into his smooth forehead as his grey eyes studied her. “He was waiting for the perfect person to share it with.” A smile created creases by his eyes, although she couldn’t see his lips.
“We saw that kiss,” Ninos said, patting the side of the chair. “Everyone did.”
She didn’t have to fight her normal flush because it didn’t come. She remembered his last words, that he wanted an answer. She’d never be able to tell him that she’d fallen in love with him, even though she loved Loran. He’d never know how she felt, and that thought hurt.
In front of the sixteen members of the Elias family, the Summa family carried Sabro’s golden coffin in silence. The hum rose about the line of mageians as they stepped into the desert. She closed her eyes and hummed with them, the vibrations in her throat breaking as tears swelled behind her eyelids.
If she’d known all of them so well, would she have made that deal with Ereshkigal? If mageians and therians lived together everywhere like they did in Ekarkara, could they stop fighting—could they even grow to like each other?
“What about Sabro?” she asked, eyes glazed over as the statues of the thirteen mageian winners peaked over the distant sand dunes.
“He kind of kept to himself.” Chyna cleared his throat. “Got the closest to beating Zalyn. Brilliant fighter. He did some things with his magic none of us could understand.”
“Wasn’t much of a surprise he made it to the end.” Ninos paused “What happened… with that?”
“He didn’t like me,” Ayla said. She searched for the kindest way to put it. “He and Zalyn got into a fight.”
No one said anything else. It must’ve been understood, somehow, that there was nothing more to say.
After seven degrees, the entire city had settled in the graveyard. The families each placed the coffins into the ground and said a few words about their sons and daughters, grandchildren, nephews and nieces, cousins, brothers, sisters, friends—and then one person at each grave piled a scoop of dirt into the hole, one at a time. Pride kept them from crying.
Every mageian, one by one, placed flowers on their graves. The hummed song never faded. Ayla watched from a distance, standing next to her father’s statue. Tightness contorted each mageian’s face as they kneeled in front of the gravestones, pressed their foreheads to the ground, and then dropped their flower by the others. Families mingled together, sharing condolences and warm-wishes for the future.
But Ayla knew under those whispers there laid a question. What would a tie mean for their future? Their eyes narrowed in her direction, sparing glances and glares. It took every pinch of strength she had to ignore them.
She was alone. She didn’t have Ashor to reassure her. She didn’t have Zalyn to support her. She was the only one left and it hurt more than anything she knew. Her dad was gone. Loran was gone. She had no one—just herself.
“They will not see you from here if you cry,” Ishkur said, standing in the shadow of her dad’s statue. He wore a dark robe with the hood pulled over his face.
She didn’t feel surprised and gave him a small chortle. “It doesn’t matter,” she said, breathy and bitter. “Crying won’t do anything. It won’t even make me feel better at this point.”
“What would make you feel better?” His voice sounded grainy.
She stared at Zalyn’s grave in the distance. “Having them back.”
He sighed like a sudden gust of wind on the coast. He slumped into the statue, sitting on the silver base, his cape drawing away from his body and revealing dirtied pants.
“I supposed I should apologize for your loss,” he said, a sharp lilt in his tone.
“What happened?” she asked, voice wavering. “We had a deal—”
“—and I fulfilled my portion—“
“—then why’re they all dead? Where’s Loran?”
“They died because that’s what happened, Ayla.” His tone grew flat. “As much as the War may be a tool for the gods, it is very much real.”
Her lip quivered. This wasn’t what she wanted. It wasn’t what she pictured happening. She wanted to reach into her chest and rip out her heart, as impulsive and monstrous as it might be. The pain. It could never go away.
"Please," she said. "Please just tell me where they are."
“Zalyn died. I do not have the power to bring him back, nor did I have the power to prevent his death. He is in Irkalla—”
“And Loran?”
“—and Loran is in Kur.”
“What?” Her voice broke. Her heart trembled like the vibrato of a songbird. “Why? He—I saw him. He was alive.”
“He was punished,” Ishkur said, voice deep and ragged. “That, I am afraid, was out of my control as well. They felt he needed to be punished for his deal with Ereshkigal.”
“But he didn’t mean it. She tricked him!"
“She did, yes. They recognize Ereshkigal played a heavy role in the deal and felt it wasn’t a true measure of his soul. But that doesn’t change that he made the deal in the first place."
Ayla clenched her fists. How she wished she could go back in time and stop him. Why had she just stood by and listened? Why had she done nothing? She couldn’t understand it. Loran didn’t deserve to be punished. Couldn’t they see how kind he was—how little hatred he held in his heart?
“I made a deal with her, too,” she said. “What’s my punishment?”
“You’re living it, are you not?” It sounded like Ishkur wanted to spit, his voice carrying gravel in its deep tones. “The deal we made before you fought overrode the deal you made with her. You've been given no punishment from the gods. His deal, however, was still valid when he won, and they felt he still needed to be punished."
“So they sent him to Kur?” She was breathless. “Are they going to let him out?”
"He accepted the punishment to escape his deal with Ereshkigal.” His eyes rose to her and captured her in their solemnity. "If he were let out, then Ereshkigal would make good on their deal."
Ayla sunk to her knees, her mother’s tombstone an arm’s width away. “So he’s—he’s stuck there forever?” She stared at her mother’s name and the willow weeping lilies across the cracking stone.
“Yes,” he said, voice soft, almost empathetic.
“Why am I even alive then?”
“You.” Ishkur’s voice gained an unfamiliar dark edge. “Don’t speak so lightly of what you’ve managed to keep. You’ve played around for too long. You’ve lost everything and yet you’re willing to lose more? Don’t be foolish. You still have a deal with me. Keep it.”
Her mind raced. She couldn’t sit around and wait for his order. She couldn’t live with herself knowing Zalyn was in Irkalla and Loran was in Kur. “The world will only be a better place if I can bring them back."
“That may not be possible.” He sounded sorry, apologetic, pleading. “I did what I could, Ayla. You did what you could as well. All I ask is that you hold your end of the deal or Ereshkigal will steal every last drop of magic you have and you will truly have nothing."
She stepped into the shadow of the statue next to him, her voice low. “You know I'm right."
His eyes narrowed. “That is your decision. I will not help you with that—“
“—Why not? You helped my father.”
“And I am trying to help you. It’s not so easy helping a little girl who doesn’t know what a good decision is from a bad decision.” He paused, put a hand to his head over his hood, and let out a long breath. “You are not wrong.”
Her heart pounded. "Then help me."
He set a hand on her shoulder. “You were made for this, Ayla. Have confidence in yourself.”
He disappeared in tornado of grey smoke. Ayla’s skin tightened with every heartbeat. The hair on her arms stood on end. She was going to talk to the gods. She was going to Irkalla. She would free Loran and bring back Zalyn and Ashor—and her dad, if he’d let her—even if she had to lose her magic to do it.
Her uncle gestured her over. Everyone watched her walk through the graves, kneeling in respect for each of them. Her eyes prickle with tears as she bowed at Ashor’s grave. She kissed Zalyn’s tombstone with an ache in her heart and made a silent promise to see him soon.
She would not let it end like this.