Waking Fire, page 13
“True, but I knew enough to not touch everything I see.” I laugh at Nez’s distress. He holds out his hands as if they are tainted by bone residue.
“Go ahead, laugh at me for being curious,” Nez retorts. “You know, curiosity is a sign of great intelligence.”
Kal snorts and Nez shoots him a dark look.
“Not you too,” he says and Kal shrugs.
“If you’re done, can we keep going?” I ask. Nez narrows his eyes at me, but he stays quiet. I turn to Rima. “Where to next?”
“To the Temple.” Rima points at stone steps hugging the wall of the round room. “We’re at the bottom of the catacombs, about ten flights below the Temple. We’d better get moving.”
We go up the stairs, every flight bringing us to another room full of the dead. I wonder what would happen if Sothpike ever found this place. Some of the bodies have dried out pieces of flesh still clinging to their bones. Would he be able to turn them into members of his dead army, or are they too far gone? I wish I knew how he does it. How he brings the dead back to life.
That could be the key to stopping the Dambi without any more bloodshed.
By the time we reach the top of the steps, I’m ready for a rest. My legs ache from all the running and climbing, and the wound in my side spikes with pain. I’m not the only one who’s exhausted. The others huff and lean against the wall for support.
“Do you do this every night?” Nez pants, wiping the sweat from his forehead.
“This was my first time out.” Rima sucks in a deep breath when she steps onto the final landing. “Going down was easy. I didn’t think it would be this bad coming back up.”
“I’d almost rather fight a Dambi again,” Nez says and I slap him on the back. “I said, ‘almost.’”
The only one not completely worn out is Kal. “You’ve never had to repair a ripped sail while at sea. Ten flights of stairs are nothing compared to climbing the mainmast during a storm when all you have to hold on with are your legs.”
“Aren’t you amazing,” Nez grumbles as he topples onto the landing.
I collapse on the dusty stone floor to catch my breath. The wall behind me begins to move and I scramble to my feet. I go for my daggers, but Rima holds out a hand to stop me.
“It’s alright.” Rima walks toward the moving wall. “We’re here.”
Holding the lamp out in front of her, Rima steps through the empty space left by the moving wall. There’s nowhere else for us to go, so we follow her through the opening and find ourselves in the main room of the Temple, where all the injured and dead refugees once covered the entire floor.
Where Kal lost his father.
I glance at him to see if he’s alright. He stands in the entrance, his eyes darting from the men and women sparring, polishing weapons, trying to sleep in dark corners. The children who run underfoot, the Daughters dishing out warm meals, the groups sitting on pillows on the floor, huddled over maps and papers.
When he doesn’t move, I step toward him.
“Is everything okay?”
Kal doesn’t seem to hear me—he stands in the same spot, transfixed, his brows furrowed, his eyes staring at something I can’t see. I wonder what he’s thinking about, what paralyzing memory has taken hold of him. I touch his arm and say his name. Finally, he looks at me.
“Sorry,” he says. “This reminded me of the camps. I know it’s not the same, but for a moment...”
Now I understand. I look around the Temple through his eyes, at those crammed together in the shadows, speaking in frenzied whispers. Cries from multiple children fill the room with irritation and fear, their unsettling wails echoing throughout the cavernous Temple. The room is filled with haphazard piles of baskets and cloth sacks containing the possessions of those who fled here to escape the Mistress’s clutches. It’s early morning and yet everyone looks tired, as if they haven’t slept for days.
At first glance, the Temple seems disorganized, cramped, hopeless. But I also see the parents smiling at their laughing children, the excitement in a fighter’s eyes as she perfects a move, the gentle way a Daughter helps an elderly woman stand. I don’t see a people trapped, but a people who have come together to free those who can’t free themselves.
“You don’t have to apologize,” I say, my hand still on his arm. “You spent most of your childhood in a camp. Of course it’s going to affect you.”
“I thought I had put all that behind me,” Kal replies.
“Put all what behind you?” Nez and Rima are watching Kal, their eyes filled with concern.
Kal glances at me. I can tell he’s hurting; his memories are heavy and he’s going to have to carry them for the rest of his life.
“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” I say gently.
“I know,” he says, patting my hand. “But people need to know what’s been happening up north. Sothpike isn’t the only one doing terrible things.”
He tells them about the camps run by the Merzan army, how his family was rounded up for having ties to Waldyria. How he and his father were the only survivors from his family when the camp was abandoned and they were finally free to leave.
As he talks, Nez’s and Rima’s faces change expressions from shock to horror to sadness to anger. I imagine that’s how I looked when I first listened to Kal’s story. Like them, I’d never heard of the camps, and it reminds me how much I don’t know about the rest of the world.
“How could we do that to our own people?” Nez looks ready to strike something. “You’re a Merzan, just like us.”
“That shouldn’t have happened to anyone,” Rima says. “Waldyrian or not, no one should have to pay for Sothpike’s crimes except Sothpike.”
Kal takes in a deep breath and swallows. “Thanks. I don’t think anyone’s ever called me a Merzan. I’ve never been accepted before.”
Nez claps Kal on the shoulder. “You’re one of us whether they like it or not.”
When Kal smiles, his face lights up, and I can tell he’s fully in the Temple with us, his memories of the camps laid to rest. For now at least.
He turns to Rima and gestures at the room. “So, is this it?”
“Yes.” Rima turns down the wick and hangs the lamp on a hook on the wall. “Welcome to the resistance.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“ALRIGHT THEN, WHERE DO we start?” Nez asks Rima as he strides into the Temple, his bow slung across his chest and his hands on his hips.
Rima laughs. “You should start with some rest and a hot meal.”
It’s strange to walk into the Temple with unwashed feet and my shoes still on, but I push that aside and enter the cool darkness.
Rima wraps her arm around Nez’s and pulls him deeper inside the building. “Come on.”
“I guess we’d better follow,” Kal says to me. We fall in step together and even though the Temple is filled with noise—swords clanging, children squealing, people talking—a silence settles around us. Ahead, Nez says something to Rima and she giggles. The quiet around Kal and me suddenly feels heavy with awkwardness, and I scramble to think of something to say.
“So...thanks for patching me up.” My eyes are drawn to the smile that forms on his face.
“I was glad I could do it.” He glances around the Temple and sighs. “I wasn’t sure how I’d feel coming back to this place. Maybe angry or sad after what happened to my father, but I didn’t expect to be reminded of the camps. It’s almost scary how you can be going about your normal life and suddenly be hit with...things you’d rather forget.”
“Or things that used to make you happy but now only bring pain.” My thoughts are on Obba, how the jirkana and his study, once places of excitement and comfort, have become places filled with sorrow so overwhelming it hurts.
“No matter how hard I try, I’ll never be able to put the past behind me. I’ll never be free.”
“You will,” I say, my voice full of heartfelt assurance. “I’ve been so consumed with mourning my father that I thought I’d never find joy again. But you made me laugh yesterday in the jirkana. They say time heals all wounds, but I think having the right people around helps even more.”
“The right people?”
“You know, people who love and support you. Family, friends...those kinds of people.”
Kal glances at me. “You said I made you laugh. Does that mean I’m one of them?”
“Well, I mean...” I stammer. I don’t know what to say. I like having Kal around, but I’m not going to tell him that when I have no idea what he thinks about me. “Maybe one day you could be. That is, if you wanted to.”
“Maybe,” he responds, setting off an explosion of butterflies inside me. “I guess we’ll see.”
I rub my clammy palms on my trousers, hoping he doesn’t notice the way the sweat darkens the fabric. “I guess so.”
Once again, I don’t know what to say next. But a child no more than ten bumps into me as he’s being chased by others. He falls on the floor and I help him stand. “Be careful.”
“Sorry, samida,” the boy says with a quick bow. He runs away laughing, the other children following with smiles on their faces.
I glance around the Temple and notice that there aren’t many people my age among the resistance. A face here and there could be the right age, and I recognize a girl from school, but most are older adults or younger children. Has the Mistress taken the rest already?
We round a haphazard wall of bags and baskets piled so high I can’t even see over them. Based on the patterns of the colorful cloth and the weave of the baskets, I can tell they belong to someone with lots of rubes to spare. Curious, I peer into the enclosed space. Heavy rugs and tasseled pillows cover the stone floor, and among the finery is someone very familiar.
Hamala sits cross-legged on the floor braiding the hair of someone who could be her younger sister. Half of the girl’s dark, coily hair is loose and full, the other half in tight cornrows that follow the curve of her skull. In the far corner, an elderly man and a young boy are fast asleep on thick pallets while next to them another man and a woman sip tea from elegant glass cups with gold handles and gilded rims. A servant places a tray of bite-sized foods on a delicately carved low table next to them. If I didn’t know better, I’d think they were spending a leisurely morning at home and not among those trying to defend our village from undead monsters.
I stare for a moment too long—Hamala notices me and curls her lip in annoyance. She huffs, drops the girl’s hair, and glares at me.
“I should have known you’d show up,” she says, her arms crossed. “Everywhere I go, here comes Naira Khoum.”
I roll my eyes. “Not everything revolves around you. Some people actually want to help.”
“And you think I don’t? Why else would I be here?”
The younger girl turns to Hamala. “Because Omma made you. You wanted to hide in the stables.”
Hamala shoves the girl. “Shut up.”
The younger girl sticks out her tongue in response.
The way Hamala and the girl interact reminds me of how Nez and I tease each other. For the first time, I see Hamala as someone other than a bully, and that reminds me why I’m here. I’ve got to put away all that anger that rushes to the surface whenever Hamala and I cross paths and focus on what’s really important: stopping the Mistress.
“Hamala!” the woman admonishes. “Be nice to your sister.” She notices me standing in the makeshift entrance. “And don’t be rude. Invite your friend inside for tea.”
“She’s not my friend!” she says.
“We are not friends,” I say at the same time.
We lock eyes. Instinctively, even though I know I’m not going to fight her, my muscles tense. I wait for Hamala to lunge at me or say something to try to rile me up, but she doesn’t. Instead, she exaggerates rolling her eyes, breaking contact. I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
A hand clamps own on my shoulder, making me jump, but it’s only Nez. “What’re you looking at?” Before I can respond, he sees Hamala. “Ohhh.” Nez places his hand on his bow. “Is she giving you trouble?”
Hamala stiffens and her sister’s eyes open wide.
I swat Nez’s hand away from his weapon. “By the Fires, Nez, calm down! We were just talking.”
“You sure?” He looks around and behind us. “Where are her minions?”
For the first time, Hamala’s aggressive facade falters. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen most of them since this all started.”
Hamala’s sister wraps an arm around her shoulders. “They’re gonna be alright, Lala. I promise.”
Any other time I would have laughed at someone calling Hamala Lala. The cute, childish nickname doesn’t suit someone like the Hamala I know, but it’s obvious the Hamala at home and the one in the streets are not the same person.
Hamala shrugs off her sister’s condolences. “Whatever. I’m not worried about them. They can take care of themselves.” She’s trying to sound unconcerned, but she’s not fooling anyone.
I almost want to offer her a kind word, but then she glares at me again.
“What am I, some kind of monkey in a cage? Why don’t you go do something and quit staring at me?”
I know she’s lashing out because she’s scared, but she doesn’t want me to console her. She has her sister for that. But before Nez and I turn to walk away, Hamala gives me a terse nod, as if to say we’re in this together.
It seems the death and destruction we all suffered has given us both a sense of perspective, shown us what really matters.
I return the gesture. She goes back to braiding her sister’s hair and I step away from the Mugabe family in peace.
The truce holds. For now, at least.
Nez and I catch up with Kal and Rima, who are waiting for us nearby.
“Did you see someone you know?” Rima asks. “A friend?”
“Not a friend,” I respond. “But yeah, she’s someone I know.” The others wait, as if expecting me to say more, but there’s nothing I want to say. I’m not proud of how I reacted to Hamala in the past, and my shame keeps me quiet.
Nez’s stomach growls, breaking the uneasy silence.
“I recall you promising us food,” he says to Rima, rubbing his grumbling stomach. “Is there any chance we could have some now?”
Laughter breaks out from the four of us.
“You know, I’m feeling a little hungry, too,” Kal says. “If it’s not a bother.”
“Of course, we don’t want to be any trouble, but...” I join in, rubbing my empty stomach as well. “You did promise.”
“Alright, alright,” Rima says with a smile. “I’m trying to find us a quiet spot. There’s usually one over in the alcoves. Follow me.”
Around a group kneeling on the floor to pray, some of them with their hands raised to the ceiling; past a handful of children playing a secret game of ritska, shushing each other and hiding their clay disks whenever a Daughter looks their way; and away from a mother quieting a fussy baby, Rima leads us to an alcove containing a stoic carving of the dragon god Xergas the Strength-Giver. Flickering lamplight makes the shadows from her wings flutter, as if the statue is about to fly away.
Rima motions for us to sit on cushions strewn about the floor beneath the statue.
“Rest here for a bit and I’ll see about getting some food,” she says. “And I’ll let the others know you’re here and inform them about that girl you saved.”
Nez doesn’t need to be told twice to rest. He props his bow and quiver against the wall, gathers a pile of cushions, and lies down with his eyes closed.
“How can you go to sleep so easily?” I yank two cushions away from Nez’s enormous pile and toss them on the floor for me and Kal to sit on.
“It’s a talent,” Nez replies, his arm resting over his eyes. “Now be quiet.”
Kal has already moved his cushion near the wall, so I do the same. I sit down next to him, my legs crossed, and lean back against the smooth, white stone.
“How’s your cut?” Kal lays the sword on the floor beside him.
I lift my tunic to check. A black blister about the length and width of my index finger stretches across the right side of my stomach. The puckered skin surrounding the wound is an angry red. Simply seeing the damage makes it hurt more and I quickly drop the fabric.
“It’s healing,” I say, even though it looks worse than I expected. I don’t want him to think I’m weak.
“Good.” Kal leans against the wall as well and gestures at a sleeping Nez. “Maybe your brother has the right idea. It’s been a long night and I have a feeling we’re not going to get many chances to sleep in the coming days.”
But I’m not ready to go to sleep. I like sitting and talking to Kal in our alcove where it’s silent, except for the sounds of Nez’s deep breathing. The quiet amid the chaos reminds me of that time we spent in the Temple garden, or when we prayed together in the jirkana. The troubles of the world fade and it’s just two people sharing a comfortable moment.
I want to tell Kal this, but I don’t have the words. And besides, Kal has already closed his eyes, so I do the same and force myself to relax. But my mind keeps wandering to Omma—I regret not saying goodbye—to wondering what the Mistress might be doing to the children she captured. Is she torturing them? Killing them and turning them into Dambi?
Or is there something even more sinister involved?
It can’t be half a hand before long, deep breaths come from Kal as well. Something heavy suddenly rests on my left shoulder. I open my eyes to find that it’s Kal’s head, his soft, wavy hair brushing the side of my face. I consider waking him so he can right himself but decide not to. I don’t mind. In fact, a warmth creeps into my stomach, and I gently place my cheek against the top of Kal’s head. When he doesn’t stir, I leave it there and close my eyes.
