Every mystery in its proper time. For the girl, a prayer to Matreus. For the maiden, a prayer to Pherei. For the mother, a prayer to Neles. For the widow, a prayer to Ermus. For the dying, a prayer to Bereos. For the dead, a prayer to Thanmor. For the killer, a prayer to Epephon. But the learned woman knows that prayer is not enough.
-The Twenty-Nine Mysteries, Book 2
Settbourne, Grackenwell
“Just a... little longer,” Akona panted. “Just... to be sure.”
“Please,” Styri wheezed. “Akona... Can’t... Please...”
Akona could feel her sister’s body slackening. She pulled her along by the wrist, her fingers having long since gone too limp to be led by the hand. Styri’s breathing was more ragged than she’d ever heard it. It was worse now in the arid wasteland at the southern edge of Grackenwell.
They’d been running off and on for days on end. They’d set up camp only when they were absolutely sure that they’d put enough distance between themselves and their pursuers to earn a rest. They were tired enough to fall asleep before they even hit the ground. When they awoke, it was back to running.
Their rations had run out days ago. All the water they had left sloshed softly in a single waterskin on Akona’s waist. It wasn’t enough for the both of them on a good day; with all this running, it was worth even less than that.
Styri’s whole body went limp for a moment. “Come on,” said Akona. “Styri... Move. Move!” She pulled Styri back to her feet and they kept running, their sandals kicking up dust from the cracked earth. Soon there were sand grains mingled with the dust; dunes loomed on the horizon.
A while later, she heard a quiet retching sound. A thin stream of bubbling vomit dribbled from Styri’s mouth. She was too exhausted even to throw up properly. This was bad.
But it was nothing compared to what would happen if the veracidins caught up to them. Akona knew that much.
The sun was high in the clear blue sky that day, not a whisper of a cloud to be seen. It was hot—not oppressively hot, though, and this was an important distinction. She’d come to learn that there were many thresholds of heat this far south and that some were miserable while others were lethal. She couldn’t recall it ever being quite this hot at home in Myrenthos. She wondered if it would keep getting hotter or if this was the worst of it.
That word, thought Akona. That one godsdamned word. Algahar. West. She’d always had a problem with mixing up her directions, even though she’d had ample practice with the Qardish language. If she hadn’t misunderstood the captain in Umreh, they never would have boarded the wrong ship, and they never would have found themselves on the Stone Continent. They were farther from home now than they’d ever been in their lives—than most Myrenthians had ever been.
“Can’t,” Styri wheezed. “Can’t...” With that, her whole body went limp and she collapsed face-first onto the parched ground.
“Styri!” Akona hissed. She finally stopped running, though she still felt the buzzing of running in her legs, as if her ghost were running in place. She turned her twin over. Styri was bleeding from the nose. “Sit up.” She needed her sister to sit up so that the blood would flow and clot, another bit of the glademothers’ teachings; if she lay on her back, she’d risk choking on her own blood.
But Styri was in and out of alertness. One of her eyes was open just a sliver, the lids of her other eye stuck together with sweat and grime. To make matters worse, they were out in the open—easy targets for the agile Qardish men who hunted them.
Akona had no choice. She lifted with all the strength her legs could muster, hoisting Styri’s arms over her shoulders. She carried her sister on her back and set out at a stumbling jog deeper into the wasteland.
South. They could only go south to escape Grackenwell. The Zan desert awaited them.
***
Some time later, a worrying thing happened. Akona had lost track of the days since Castle Muadazim a long time ago. But now she’d even lost track of the moons. How many moons had it been since they slew the conquering emperor in Qarda? Two moons? Three? No, it had to have been more than that. But four seemed too many... Or was it more still?
She had no use presently for tracking the forms of Mother Moon or the seasonal orientations of the heavens. Her timekeeping was much simpler and more survivalist now. She learned that the heat did in fact grow progressively worse the deeper into the desert they traveled. All that mattered now was the sun.
When it was high, they needed shelter. They needed protection. They slept in the heat of the day in whatever shade they could find or build and Akona prayed to the pantheon that their enemies would not find them. When the sun went down, they bundled themselves up against the chill of night and set off by starlight across the dark dunes.
Akona found water by breaking open dense prickleplants and tasting their innards. She followed the wisdom of the glademothers, brushing her skin with the juice, tasting it gingerly, sensing for poison. It was an exercise in extreme patience. Caution was more crucial now than ever.
“Drink,” Akona groaned. She held the lip of the waterskin in front of Styri’s mouth. “Now.”
“No, you,” said Styri. She pushed it back toward her sister. “You... need it.”
“Styri, just drink it.”
They would go back and forth like this until Styri finally caved. Akona took less water than she needed, because Styri was the weaker one. But even with her sacrifice, even when she let her sister have the greater portion of the prickleplant flesh and juice, Styri grew noticeably weaker by the day. They were built for the temperate climate of Myrenthos, the woods of Dhasherah, even the jungles of greater Qarda. They were not adapted to the desert like the wandering people of Zan Vayonado. Akona worried they would die out in these sands.
Or worse, that Styri would die before her. She couldn’t even tolerate that thought.
Day by day, they ate less and less, and one day, her hunger had grown bone deep. Styri said little anymore but she must have been feeling the same. Styri was always the huntress, but she had no use of her higher faculties in her current state.
Akona was the one to kill the snake with rattling bones at the end of its tail. She built the fire using the desiccated remains of a woody desert plant. She cut up the snake’s body with her knife, wrapping the meat around a stick to cook it thoroughly over the flames. A strong cook can ward off many illnesses, she remembered a glademother telling her.
She got Styri to eat. Her older sister only nibbled a little on her portion of the meat in total silence, but it was better than nothing. As Akona gnawed on the tough, chewy meat, her memories were her only source of comfort—memories of a land she hoped to see again someday soon.
***
When the man who hired them first arrived in their city, Akona didn’t know what to make of him. He traveled with only four other men. They all wore traditional over-the-shoulder tunics, as well as black head coverings and Myrenthian festival masks. They spoke the language perfectly—too perfectly.
Something deep within her told her that they were not from Myrenthos.
While the grass was still dewy, the men met with the city matriarch in the ampleum. Its ridged columns cast long morning shadows across the verdant landscape. Akona had been practicing her stealth as part of her training, so she was able to sneak up through the beadberry bushes and eavesdrop on their conversation.
“...must be handled swiftly and silently,” said the man’s gruff voice. “For the good of both our nations.”
“What do you propose?” the matriarch asked him. A laurel crown wreathed her bone-colored hair. She spoke with the gentleness of a grandmother but the quick wit of someone half her age. “In delicate matters, words are best kept mysterious.”
“You value secrecy, as do I. I also value precision.”
“Who said a mystery must be imprecise?”
The man made a curt grumbling sound. “Very well. The only man for the task must be willing to keep to the shadows. He would never survive the daylight. Even all the fighting men loyal to me could not...”
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The matriarch raised her hand to interject. “Perhaps a tiger is not the beast you need, then. A tiger relies on brute strength. Not so with the serpent. A serpent uses venom.”
“I see. You propose that this is a task befitting a serpent?”
“I do. You see, a serpent goes unnoticed easier than a tiger. And venom is a woman’s weapon.”
The man averted his masked face. “In truth, it is. But I would not have said so in your presence. Not in this nation.”
“Do you think it an insult?”
“Of course.”
“Do you think it an insult to be a woman?”
The stranger bristled visibly, even in his mask. “That is not what I said.”
“To say it’s a woman’s weapon is no insult at all, as far as I’m concerned. On the contrary. The tiger is proud and strong, has the luxury of foolishness, but not the serpent. A serpent must be cunning or die.”
“This task requires a great deal of cunning. If you believe there is mutual benefit to my offer, I will defer to your judgment. But I can only buy your help if you will also sell me your secrecy. Even in death. Our words must never leave this ampleum.”
The matriarch adjusted her crown of leaves. “I’m afraid my decision must first be sanctioned by a higher power.”
“You expect her to sanction this?” the man replied skeptically. “If I wanted counsel with her, I’d have sailed to Calketra myself.”
“I expect her to do what heals Myrenthos by the guidance of Mother Moon. If our goals align, then we will supply you with the serpents you need.”
“The best. That is what we both need.”
“The best are quite famous. The men of gold have a talent for whittling away at mysteries, no matter how brutal their means. We will not send our best. The serpents must be nobody—otherwise, the truth will out.”
“My coins are not yours to spend! If I want the best, I will buy their service! Is that clear?”
“If you will buy anything from us, it will be on our terms alone. Sisters?” All of a sudden, four women descended from behind the hanging statues in the ampleum. They subdued the man’s accomplices with ease. While he was distracted, the matriarch grazed his exposed wrist.
Touch of stillness, Akona thought. She knew that move anywhere. They were pricked with poison needles that would bind their limbs for a time.
“Izzahd!” one of them grunted. A code word of some kind? The leader turned his head when he heard it, but addressed the matriarch instead.
“What is the meaning of this?” he asked. His voice was strained, his words becoming slow and deliberate. The toxin took quick effect and would linger for a long while after that as their bodies digested and expelled it. They would survive—in the meantime, they would listen.
“I am no fool, stranger. You could just as easily be spies sent from Qarda to test the faith of your newly converted nation. I will agree to no deal, mysterious or not, that could endanger my sisters and brothers. I need proof.”
“What proof?”
“Check them,” she said simply. The sisters reached for the men’s head coverings and they all grunted in protest. But the women only lifted their head coverings to the lobes of their ears. Sure enough, all four of the guards bore the branding of the quindent on their necks—signs of their lifelong servitude in Grackenwell. The matriarch chuckled. “Ah. I deduced as much. I only needed to be sure. As you were, then.”
“Make us whole again,” the man wheezed. “Or consider our partnership ended. Witch...”
“Do you think it an insult to be a witch?”
“Yes.”
“Only time will make you whole again. And only time will tell if we are partners. Come along, little tigers. Ready yourselves for the journey to Calketra.” The sisters covered the five men’s heads in opaque gray sacks, further obscuring their vision, and led them off into the woods downhill from the ampleum.
Akona waited a while longer. She wanted the matriarch to leave before she emerged from the beadberry bushes. She felt as though she’d learned too much by overhearing their conversation, but if she stayed perfectly still, as was another part of her rigorous training, then she could evade detection.
“It is as Prime Oracle Hessandra said it would be,” the matriarch sighed reverently. “‘A traveler from a far land will reveal the way.’” She turned her head toward the beadberry bushes. “Isn’t that right, little listener?”
***
Akona was getting delirious. She feared this would happen.
Part of her tutelage under the sage women of the woods was experiencing small doses of poisons, whether naturally occurring or brewed from other ingredients. The earth produced many substances that had a wide array of effects on the body. Some were lethal. Some caused a person to empty their bowels from one or both ends. Others caused itching, numbness, pain, burning, blindness, or even caused skin to wither and die. Some substances stimulated the mind and veins, made the heart race. Others made a person drowsy or fall into a deep sleep.
Of all the substances she was forced to sample, her least favorite were those that caused hallucinations. She was made to bite a small corner of a chewy white stalk and left alone in a clearing to suffer whatever befell her. She spent that day and the better part of the night dreaming up hideous visions of the dead, of horrors that prowled the forests at night, and she didn’t sleep for two nights after that.
Now the delirium was coming back. This time, it wasn’t from anything she ate, at least not according to her training. The prickleplants were safe to drink from—she’d made sure of it. The snakes were safe to eat. It was something else.
If she had to guess, she thought it must have been starvation. Maybe a lack of water. Maybe the heat poisoned them, cooked them from the inside out. A strong cook can ward off many illnesses, she remembered... someone telling her. The memory was foggy now.
Styri, on the other hand, had gone totally unresponsive. She’d lost her strength completely two or three days ago. Or was it four? It might have been even longer than that. Akona could scarcely keep track of even her recent memories anymore—one morning, she found herself carrying Styri on her back across bright golden sand, realizing too late that the heat of day was already upon them. It was a frantic race to shade then.
But her older sister didn’t react anymore. She didn’t speak. She could barely open her eyes—although, for the past day, she wasn’t able to open her eyes at all, even after being splashed with prickleplantwater and shaken violently.
Akona didn’t have the strength to take more drastic measures. All she could do was listen for the faint whistle of air in and out of her sister’s mouth. Feel for the gentle rise and fall of her chest, which was far too infrequent. Sometimes she would press her fingers against Styri’s throat, just under the chin, just like the glademothers had taught her, and feel for the beat of her heart.
All she could do was check to make sure her sister was still alive. All she could do was keep walking.
And soon, she knew she would be unable to do this, too.
“Mother Moon,” Akona mumbled, looking up at the half-lit sphere above. “Help us.” In easier times, the phrase was a curse, something muttered under the breath in times of anger or annoyance. Now it was wholly sincere. She feared Styri wouldn’t last another day—and she herself would not be far behind.
Her legs burned and ached as she ascended a tall dune. It was half-indigo in the moonlight, half black in the shadow. She heard a sound that made her stomach jump with joy inside her—the sound of trickling water. It’s close, she thought. It sounds just like the stream at home!
As she crested the dune, she looked down into the barely-lit desert and saw what appeared to be a winding black river. “Almost there,” she rasped to Styri. She carried her sibling down the hill of sand and listened closely for the water, but the trickling stopped, and as she got closer to what she thought was the river, she realized it was a trick of the shadow. There was nothing there.
She blinked and it was morning. It happened again. How much time had she lost this time? How long had she been walking without thinking? Styri was still on her back, and that was most important. She listened for her breathing—it was silent. She felt for the rise and fall of her chest. Nothing.
She was afraid to check for her heartbeat. She didn’t.
There was marshland up ahead. It looked just like Grackenwell. Maybe the upper borders of Dridon had similar ecology to their northern neighbors. But when she got closer, the canopy of trees disappeared, the marsh vegetation dissolving into the surrounding sands. She’d been so sure of it a moment ago.
She was beyond delirium now. She was going mad.
“Styri,” she breathed. Her lips were painfully chapped. Her dry tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. “Styri.” There was no answer. There was no whistle. There was no breathing.
This was the end—she could see it now. This was the end of them both. Maybe it was the justice of the gods for killing the man who had sent killers to Myrenthos. Since they, too, were killers now, maybe they had to die, just as he had to die for the lives he took. She recalled a passage from the Twenty-Nine Mysteries: Balance is the key to all things as life flows into death and back again.
The goddess Tychene no longer smiled upon their good fortune.
Akona saw more green trees, more water up ahead—even a small city. The beige buildings were alien to her, shaped a bit like the Grackenwelsh towns she saw and a bit like Qarda. Her memories were pooling and converging now. Nothing was real anymore.
She realized she would never see her mother again. Her mother would never know how far they made it, the distant lands they traveled together in search of home. She hoped her mother would still be proud that they brought down the tyrant just like they were hired to do. We were nobodies, Akona thought. And we did it.
Strangely, she had no desire to cry. Maybe it was because her body had no water left to spare. Maybe she was at peace. Maybe it was the madness that had taken hold in her mind. She was so delirious that she hallucinated tall trees all around her, and the mystical city her mind dreamed up had begun to waver and wobble like the lines of heat rising from the hot sand. They shouldn’t have been out during the day. She forgot to make camp.
But that was all over now. Styri was gone. Soon, she would be, too. She felt nothing but tired in that moment. She didn’t even feel the sand as it rose up suddenly to hit her in the face. All she felt was tired. Then warm.
Hooded figures stood around her. They, too, were alien to her—maybe ancestral spirits who hadn’t yet been reincarnated, come to guide her and Styri into the afterlife. They were speaking a language she couldn’t understand, their voices echoing hauntingly.
One of them leaned down and said something else that she couldn’t understand. Then the voice spoke in a language she knew but could not name—said something that she could somehow translate in her mind. “This one is still breathing,” said the voice. “Hurry."