Five days before the War
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When she got to the clearing of her house with five minutes to spare, she let out a relieved sigh and finally fixed her shirt, tugging it back so it sat evenly on both of her shoulders. Training clothes only came in boy sizes—ones that never fit her right. She lowered her basket of fruit from her shoulder and let the handle sit in the nook of her elbow.
“I’m home, dad!”
She headed to the porch, her eyes glued to their small wood cabin. It stood two stories high, sitting on a weedy patch of majestic green grass. Moss grew between the shingles on the roof and ivy crawled up the left side of the house. A rocking chair sat unattended on the porch. Not even a shadow moved in the kitchen window on the right side of the hall.
Her dad should be waving from that window.
Ayla walked in silence, breathing a bit heavy. Every step encouraged a frown on her face. She leapt onto the porch. “Dad?” When she swallowed, her throat still seemed dry.
The wood creaked under her weight, the only thing louder than her heart. She reached to the doorknob and the touch sent a haunting trepidation crawling into her fingertips.
Ayla hesitated—something in her house didn’t belong, something dark and dangerous. It brought her into a remembered embrace, the first hug her dad had given her after he’d died. That feeling from when she was younger felt the same: an oppressing terror, a smell of rot, and an overwhelming loneliness.
“Dad?” she yelled, her voice raspy as she turned the knob, pushed the door open, and stepped into a heavy magic. Ayla let out a shaky breath then coughed, finding it difficult to inhale with the smog of hopelessness and misery pressing into her lungs.
“In the kitchen, sweetheart,” a woman’s voice said.
Ayla recognized it, but couldn’t place it. Her mind raced as she rushed to the kitchen, willing her magic to protect her, gritting her teeth against the abysmal magic plaguing her house.
When she reached the kitchen, Ayla stopped short. Her ribcage felt like it imploded as she gasped for air. The woman turned with a wicked smirk and, as if this was some kind of casual visit, popped a falafel into her mouth. She chewed with her mouth open, smacking her lips together and rolling her tongue across her sharp teeth.
“Your dad is a good cook,” the woman said. Her voice echoed in Ayla’s head
Ayla choked. It took only one look at the woman’s ghastly appearance to guess who she was. What was the goddess of the underworld doing in her kitchen, eating her dad’s food?
“I bet you’re wondering why I’m here,” Ereshkigal said. She pointed to the chair across from her. “Take a seat.”
Ayla tore her eyes away from the goddess. Where was her dad? This couldn’t be happening…
“I know it’s surprising your father isn’t here, but please be a good girl.” Ereshkigal licked her fingers once she finished the falafel. Her eyes roamed over Ayla’s face as if she was studying a sculpture. “Take a seat, Ayla.”
Ayla ripped the chair from the table and sat down on it hard. She put the basket of fruit on the table in front of a presentation of her favorite food—customary flatbread, rice, potato stew, salad, falafels, yogurt, and a sweet olive oil.
She saw steam. How long had her dad been gone?
Ereshkigal reached over and plucked the basket from the table. The woman ran her dirty hands over an apple, sniffed, and then traded it out for another until she’d smelled all three.
“Beautiful apples,” she said and then tossed the basket, with the fruits, behind her.
They slammed against the wooden cupboards and rolled across the floor. As they rolled to a stop, Ereshkigal picked through a stack of flatbread, settling on the one on the very bottom.
Ayla’s birthday dinner was contaminated.
“You’re finally sixteen,” the goddess said, placing the flatbread on the table.
Ereshkigal scratched her head through muted black hair sitting on the crown of her head in a matted mess. She looked at Ayla with a dark smile, her lips cracked and her eyes soulless, her high cheekbones and well-shaped nose hinting at a beauty that could’ve been if she wasn’t so full of hate. She looked at her finger, licked it, and then slathered some of the cheese spread on the flatbread with the same digit.
Ayla tried to control her desire to show her disgust. “In ten degrees,” she retorted.
Cypress Island was half a day behind the city of mageians. Ayla knew she had technically already turned sixteen—but she didn’t care about some foreign land she’d only been to once. Here, where she’d lived all her life, she wasn’t sixteen.
“Sweetheart, you are several thousand years too young to talk back to me. It’s cute that you’d try, though. A valiant effort.” She dipped the bread into the sweet olive oil, and then the yogurt.
Ayla turned away, wincing as Ereshkigal chewed—her teeth clinked together like shards of glass. She looked around the kitchen again, looking for anything that could tell her how long her dad had been gone. He had warned her about this, that one day Ereshkigal would take him back to Irkalla.
But why so soon?
Ereshkigal tore into the flatbread before she began talking again. “Your father’s time on earth is over. Heart wrenching, isn’t it?”
Ayla clenched her hands in her lap under the table as Ereshkigal cleaned her fingers on her black robes. The goddess rested her chin on the palm of her hand, her doll-like face cocking to the side. The smirk on her lips made Ayla’s blood crawl.
“Goodness, you’re looking at me as if I’ve killed him.” Ereshkigal sighed and put her free hand to her heart, pretending to be affronted. “He’s already dead, is he not? He wouldn’t even have been here this long if it wasn’t for me, you know.”
Ayla wasn’t going to agree with her—even though it was true. She knew her dad had given Ereshkigal his magic in order to stay on earth. But he had never said how long. She wished he had.
Her nose swelled. Her heart shrank as her chest tightened.
“I’m afraid I’m only doing my job, Ayla, you must understand,” Ereshkigal continued. Her lips pulled into a pout that Ayla didn’t believe for even a moment. “But I thought I’d be nice and offer you a proposition.”
Ayla sat up straight, the chair dragging against the wood with a sharp abrasive noise. What could Ereshkigal mean by a proposition—what would she have to give up to keep her life as it was: her dad on earth with her, where he belonged?
She would give up anything. Even her magic.
A smirk tugged on the woman’s chapped lips as if she knew something Ayla didn’t. She really hated that look, but she hated the person who wore it even more. The woman who held her parents in the palm in her hand deserved Ayla’s hate.
“What kind of proposition?” Ayla asked. She dug her nails into her palms, but her voice still wavered.
“Well, I realized taking your precious father away would leave you all on your lonesome.” Ereshkigal’s face stretched into a sinister smile. “You know that you will participate in the next War—”
“No,” Ayla interrupted. “It shouldn’t happen for another seventy-five years. I’ll be too old.”
“Optimistic just like your father.” Ereshkigal brought up a hand and brushed Ayla’s cheek, but Ayla threw it off. The goddess only giggled. “Calm down, sugar. Nanna created you to fix your father’s little mistake. He wouldn’t let you waste away.”
Ayla cringed at the dark depths of Ereshkigal’s eyes. They were inescapable. Ereshkigal pinned her to the spot, unable to move, unable to breathe.
“Ayla, why don’t we make a deal?”
A deal? Ayla’s back went rigid and her heart jumped up her throat as the phrase echoed in her ears. Ereshkigal possessed the same shrill voice that had said the exact same words earlier to Loran. A shiver crawled up her back as she lifted her eyes to Ereshkigal. Ayla didn’t want to play into her little game, but what choice did she have?
“If you win the next War and sacrifice your magic to me,” the goddess said, voice lowered, “I’ll let your dear dad live with you on earth until you die. Otherwise, his deal has expired. You will have no one. You will fight to your death alone.”
Ereshkigal’s words wrapped around Ayla’s heart like a thorny vine. Her eyes pinched shut. What should she do? She needed her dad. He had always been there for her—from when she was a toddler, watching him and her mom be murdered, up until this very moment.
Why couldn’t he be here now to help her?
“Then…” Ayla said, “if I make the deal, you’ll bring him back now?”
Ereshkigal smiled, curls swaying as she nodded.
There was no choice. She was not going to let her dad be trapped in Irkalla. She was not going to live without him. Ereshkigal probably hadn’t given Loran a choice, either. She didn’t want to dwell on what that would mean for the future.
“Fine,” she said.
A haunting smile broke onto Ereshkigal’s face. “Good. You’re a smart girl, aren’t you? Nanna certainly knows how to make them right.” Ereshkigal stood and offered a hand in Ayla’s direction.
Ayla stared at it—sullied palms, nails encrusted with dirt. Taking a deep breath for courage, she stood on shaking legs to face the goddess of the underworld. She outstretched her arm and took hold of Ereshkigal’s forearm. The goddess’s touch burned her skin.
“Then we have a deal.”
Ayla let go of Ereshkigal and lifted her chin high. “We do.”
Ereshkigal left in a shimmer of black clouds. The gloom over the house slowly lifted and Ayla scanned the room for her dad’s broad back, his short hair, the stubble on his jaw—anything.
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The kitchen remained just as barren as before.
Ayla sat down and studied at the wood pattern of the table. If her dad didn’t come back, Ereshkigal had lied to her. Ayla put her hands on the table and dug her fingernails into the wood. A ball of heat rose up her throat. What would she do without her father? She swallowed, but the lump in her throat stayed.
Heavy footsteps walked down the hall. She turned over her shoulder to the doorway, heart pounding.
Her dad ducked his head under the doorframe with a light smile. Her eyes prickled as he walked to her and bent over to wrap his arms around her shoulders. He hugged her tight in a cold embrace and kissed the top of her head. He smelled like Ereshkigal.
He pulled away from her in silence and began clearing the table. “I know you’re probably not hungry for any of this anymore,” he said with a level tenor. “Don’t blame you, either.”
She wiped a tear from her cheek and avoided his brown eyes. He had to know what she’d just done, but she didn’t know if he knew what the deal was. She hoped he didn’t ask.
Her dad gathered the dishes, still full of food, and brought them over to their sink under the kitchen window. His back was stiff as he cleaned every bowl, every plate, and set them to dry. She appreciated the privacy as she fought her tears.
When he finished, he picked up a covered plate on the counter and walked back over to the table with a warm smile. She wiped her face again as he sat the plate down in front of her with a soft thud.
“Your eyes,” he said, sweeping a thumb over her wet cheek. “Same auburn as your mom.”
Ayla stared at his pointed features and sharp stubble as she took a shaky breath to calm her emotions. She needed her magic to return and color her eyes back to their icy grey. She hated being vulnerable—where anyone could see so clearly her magic had slipped away.
Her dad dragged the chair Ereshkigal had been sitting on over to her side at the edge of the table. He sat and leaned toward her, kissing each of her cheeks.
“Happy birthday, sweetheart,” he said.
A coldness crept into her eyes, glad her dad changed the subject. She smiled.
“Happy birthday, Dad.”
He grinned as he lifted up the silver cover on the plate. Ayla slid her eyes from her father to the round porcelain, a perfect cone of cinnamon rice pudding in the middle, a few dates and shavings of dark chocolate perched on the top. Her dad’s smile set wrinkles by his eyes as he placed a hand on her knee.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his smile wilting from his face in tiny fractions. “I hadn’t meant my burden to become yours. You shouldn’t have made the deal.”
Ayla shook her head. “You’re all I have.”
His hand tightened around her knee for a moment before he chuckled. It sounded forced. The big, happy look on his face made Ayla’s heart swell. His smile looked so strained.
“You really don’t need me as much as you think, but I love hearing you say that.” He set a fist down on the table by her plate, a silver spoon in his grasp. “Now eat up.”
She smiled as best she could and took the spoon from him before dipping it into the pudding. The creamy consistency, the cinnamon dancing on the tip of her tongue, and the mellow vanilla flavor running down her throat calmed her heart.
“Your face tells me it’s pretty good,” her dad said with a smirk. He put his elbow on the table and balanced his chin on his knuckles. “There’s more waiting for you.”
Ayla dipped her spoon in again for more. “Mom would be so angry at you. Yours is totally better than what I remember her making.”
He laughed. “No, she’d never be mad at that.”
A knock at the door stopped him short from continuing. Her spoon dropped with a clink against the plate. She craned her neck toward the hall, heart shuddering.
“Ayla!” a man’s voice called from the porch.
The knock, solid and loud, and demand for her told Ayla it was a mageian—one that sounded like her uncle. He didn’t usually visit just to wish them a happy birthday, but this time she hoped he broke tradition.
Ayla swallowed and stood, then headed to the door. Her dad followed her to the doorway of the kitchen, but stayed back. She reached the door and unlocked it, opening it with magic sitting icy cold on her skin.
Her uncle gave her a quick, keen grin. He stood next to a tall man in his middle twenties with black hair and black eyes. She frowned at him. Who was he?
“Hey, kiddo,” her uncle said. “Where’s your dad?”
She swallowed. Why was he mentioning her dad in front of a stranger? She looked the tall man over again and then looked at her uncle’s golden eyes.
“Kitchen. What’re you doing here?” she asked.
“It’s your birthday.”
He took her hand as he leaned forward. His lips pressed into her exposed wrist on the diamond-shaped scar, which marked her from birth as an Elias. She shared the mark with her dad and her uncle, and the rest of her family. The simple action showed respect and always left her flushed, magic leaving her skin almost as if on command.
Her uncle straightened up with a light smirk pressed into his lips. He gave her a quick kiss on each of her cheeks. “I can feel your magic, Ayla,” he said, his voice low and rugged.
If he could feel her magic, that meant it was seeping. But he’d flustered her. Her uncle put a hand on her shoulder as he passed her. A delayed protest rose to her tongue, but her dad’s rich laughter filled the hall. Her dad and her uncle hugged with big twelve-year-old grins.
“Happy birthday, Afrem,” her uncle said. He clapped his hand onto her dad’s back. “What’re you now? Forty? And you still look thirty. It’s not even fair.”
“Don’t be jealous, little brother.” Her dad put a hand on her uncle’s head and messed up his pine-needle-length hair.
They looked like brothers, but her uncle had a more rounded appearance. The dark edge to his sturdy chin and soft cheekbones somehow made him seem less friendly.
“How’re you, Maron?” her dad asked, a chuckle in his voice.
“Well enough.” His voice grew ragged. “I’ve grown to hate my job even more…”
Ayla turned to the other man at the door. He looked familiar. He dipped his head at her and took a step inside of the house, reaching for her wrist. He leaned down and kissed her family’s marking before pressing his lips to her cheeks. She almost couldn’t feel his touch it was so feather light. This time, she made sure to control both her blush and her magic.
His dark eyes twinkled as he rose. He held out two black velvet pouches and pressed them into her hand. “Happy birthday,” he said, quiet enough so her dad and her uncle weren’t disturbed. “One’s for your father.” His crisp accent surprised her. She’d never spoken to someone raised completely in Esagila.
Ayla took the pouches and felt beans molding into her hand, smelled a strong smoky aroma. They were coffee beans, a typical birthday gift. She nodded and then closed the door behind him. She studied the tall stranger as he walked down the hall and hoped this little visit had nothing to do with the War.
Her dad extended a hand to the stranger. They clasped each other’s forearms and gave a firm shake.
“It’s good to see you again, Naramsin,” her dad said before breaking out in a grin.
Naramsin clapped him on the back. The tradition between two males was much better than between a male and a female. She resented that in most cases, but never when it came to Loran—though she hated to admit that.
“I remember when you were this high!” her dad said and dropped his hand down to his hip to indicate what he meant. “You sure grew a lot in eleven years…”
Naramsin gave a small, bored shrug. Of course, he had the same regal air all people with black eyes had. “You…” he paused, “I don’t believe you’ve changed at all.”
“He’s dead. He’s not supposed to change,” her uncle said.
Naramsin knew her dad was dead?
Her dad gave a sturdy shrug as his face hardened. Ayla knew his stone face meant business. “Did you just want to visit this old man on his birthday?”
“We aren’t here to celebrate your birthday, Afrem,” Naramsin said, his strong jaw tightening. “Sorry.” His black eyes slid to her. “We are here for your daughter.”
Ayla frowned. “Me?”
Her nightmare seemed to be starting. Her dad always started his story about the last War with the arrival of a big, burly man on the day she was born. Her dad boasted about how he knew the man was his trainer before the man had a chance to read the invitation aloud to him. He always described the invitation the same way: a little card no bigger than a maple leaf.
She watched for it.
Naramsin reached to the wide belt at his hips, a dark grey color with a silver embroidered pattern striking against the black silk of his shirt and rough fabric of his loose pants. His fingers pulled out a small card, his eyes flickering to Ayla for a moment before they stared back down at the small piece of paper.
Her heart dropped.
“Ayla Elias,” he said, reading the silvery print, “the third competitor of Nanna, the twenty-first of the fourteenth Akkadian War—is requested in Esagila by high sun on Elunu 3rd.”
Blood rushed to her ears and she was suddenly underwater. She wanted to run away.
“I am Naramsin Karam, your trainer. I am here to present your invitation.”
Requested? No, she was required. Ayla took a deep breath and flexed her fingers. So that’s why Loran hadn’t said he’d see her tomorrow—there was no way they could anymore. He must’ve received his invitation before her.
Why hadn’t she seen it coming? Ereshkigal’s deal should’ve made it obvious, but Ayla just hadn’t wanted to believe it could be so soon. She didn’t want to believe she’d have to be in it after her dad had lost so much because of it.
“Why don’t you pack her up, Afrem?” her uncle suggested.
Her dad turned down the hall to head up the stairs. His footsteps creaked above her head, traveling from her bedroom to his bedroom. Her uncle’s golden eyes glowed under his dark eyebrows as he stared across the room at her.
“Maron,” she said. “When’d you know?”
“Naramsin received your invitation yesterday, on your proper birthday. Took us forever to get here.” Maron moved a hand through his hair and let out a giant sigh. His golden sleeves shimmied down his tan arm, his solid muscles. “But we’re here.”
She caught Naramsin rolling his eyes, his lean frame relaxing a fraction.
“Yes, I can see that,” she said. Ayla leaned back against the door and inspected the ceiling.
A part of her still wanted to believe this wasn’t happening. She didn’t know what kind of reaction to have. Loran seemed upset. The other therians in Eabzu were probably more than eager to participate. The mageians in Esagila probably had similar thoughts.
She just wanted it all to go away.
The stairs creaked as her dad hopped down the stairs with a bag over his shoulder. He brushed past Maron without a word and headed to her. She realized his neutral expression was a façade when he put a hand on her shoulder with watery eyes.
She moved from the door, allowing him to open it. He placed a hand between her shoulder blades. They walked out together, side-by-side. Naramsin followed behind them in slow, measured steps and Maron shut the door on his way out. The walk to the southern bank of the island only took five minutes.
Two kayaks waited for them in the rough sand. They slid through the murky, calm waters of the Puget Sound to a beach town named Anacortes. A big, black car in the parking lot waited for them after they turned in the rented kayaks. She squinted to make out the English letters right: HUMMER.
Her dad opened the back door for her. She’d only been in a car a few times and her stomach knotted at traveling in one, but she climbed in anyway. Her dad got in beside her and Naramsin settled into the driver’s seat. She could see a small glint in Naramsin’s eyes—something like excitement. Did he even know how to drive? Most mageians didn’t bother learning unless it was for their job, like Maron. Why couldn’t Maron drive?
He started the car and headed off. Ayla watched Mount Baker crawl further away as they headed south on the freeway. The number of tall evergreens decreased as they approached Seattle. Steel and glass skyscrapers, reaching toward the bright blue sky, trumped the Space Needle standing in majestic beauty at the northern edge of the downtown area.
Her dad cleared his throat over the electric buzz of the Hummer’s engine. Maron turned in his seat and Naramsin flicked his eyes to her dad in the rearview mirror.
With their attention, he asked, “They’re having the War a bit soon, aren’t they?”
Ayla nodded her head. Good question. She remembered her dad telling her the War usually took place every century—sometimes even two or three centuries between them.
“The gods decided to have the next war early,” Naramsin answered.
Her dad’s voice was low, almost a growl. “Obviously.”
Naramsin ignored it. “The therians haven’t been keeping their end of the bargain—attacking humans, intruding into their lives. I imagine that angers Marduk, so the gods probably weren’t given much of a choice.”
The bridges in Seattle’s center passed overhead. The therians in Ekarkara would never be so irresponsible. Mageians and therians weren’t supposed to interfere with human lives unless it was their job. But if the therians that lived in Eabzu were like Loran then her parents wouldn’t have been assassinated. Easy as that.
“How long has this been going on?” her dad asked.
“Since you were killed,” Maron said.
Her dad said nothing, silence burying the car again. He didn’t like talking about how he died. She couldn’t blame him much. She remembered that night vividly, her mother reading her a bedtime story, the vicious growls surrounding the house.
Ayla was sure her dad remembered more than she did.
The exit signs flashed by one after another: 165, 164, 163. In the distance, Mount Rainier kissed the clouds to the south and Glacier Peak rose above the skyscrapers and trees to the east. They’d been driving for ten degrees. And it was clear Naramsin should never be allowed behind the wheel of a car again, not even if it handled like a tank.
“How long is this going to take?” she asked, peering up to Maron.
“The avisport is another three degrees away,” he said, “and our flight leaves in ten degrees. We’ll be arriving in London before high sun.” Maron turned in his seat, looking at her over his shoulder with a smirk. “You can maybe take a look around before we leave for Istanbul around dinner. We’ll arrive before high moon and then head for Baghdad on a red-eye flight. We’ll get there by sunrise and from there it’s just a drive from hell.” He glanced back with a dark grin. “Happy birthday.”
Ayla sucked in a breath. “Thanks.” A flight half way across the world. What more could she ask for on her sixteenth birthday? She leaned back into her seat and mentally prepared herself to live in perpetual sickness for the next a hundred-and-eighty degrees. She was going to need that coffee.
Naramsin lifted his marble eyes to her. “And then I’m going to beat you into the ground for a week until the War starts.”
She had no idea if the dry tone in his posh accent intended to be serious or sarcastic. Her dad chuckled and patted her shoulder, sympathetic.
Ayla slouched. This was going to be a long month.