C h a p t e r F o u r
I dismissed the scratches on my arm by claiming to have encountered a particularly agitated cat on the streets. It was believable enough; farming families often kept cats to ward off the mice, after all. I had a fresh linen bandage encircling my arm by the time the caravan was ready to leave Minzur, and it was easily hidden by a shake of my sleeve. Whatever had happened in the temple, whatever the necklace had to do with it, I knew to keep it to myself for now.
Besides — who would ever believe me? While most of the traders did indeed believe in the gods and anti-gods of this universe, an encounter with one was so rare that it bordered on absurd. I was already assumed to be crazy for buying the necklace; I did not need another mark against my sanity.
We struck out from Minzur before midday, crossing over the bridge to the eastern banks of the River Jipaa. The worst of our travels — the Kishar Desert — was behind us, and this stretch along the river was nearly enjoyable. Southwards we went, keeping the banks of the river always in sight as it curved back and forth in the distance. The Sura Harran Mountains faded away at our backs, and the Tilzun Desert could barely be seen at the horizon on our side of the river. The Tilzun was a much smaller spat of land than the treacherous Kishar. It merely stretched between the two rivers, encompassing the unfertile northern land that Yadid had yet to claim.
That was where Ganzer used to be.
There, where the soil was still a brutal mix of dirt and sand, my homeland had once existed in peace.
The caravan would pass no where near Ganzer's remains, which I counted as a good thing. I had not been back there in nearly a decade, and I had no intentions of changing that.
Of course, passing the unmarked latitude parallel to Ganzer meant something else too: We were now in Yadid's territory. Not a single trader among us would have had a nice word for Yadid. I am fairly certain not a single person in all of Greater Yadid would have had a nice word for that cretin — but then again, one does not rise to power on his own. Yadid had a power-hungry circle of local rulers he had installed throughout his land. Perhaps they, owing to him their wealth and prestige, would have spared the man a kind sentiment.
But I doubted it.
The major problem with crossing into Greater Yadid was dealing with the tax collectors. They set up posts along the most navigable borders, including the one through which we would be passing. Circumventing these posts took days out of the journey and generally left everyone with a rather sour taste in their mouth. And so traders had developed a much simpler way of avoiding them.
We sent a young, staid trader named Arezen ahead of us on horseback to scout. When he returned half a day later, it was with a report of where exactly the tax posts had been established this year, which happened to be right outside Simuri, one of the first true southern cities. Our plan then became to stay in Simuri until nightfall and sneak past the collectors in small groups.
It might have seemed excessive, but it was worth it to keep all of our hard-earned outsider goods. Those tax goons would rob a trader blind if they could, all in the name of King Yadid. It was sickening.
We entered Simuri on the fifty-fourth morning of our journey from Laanur.
The difference between this southern city and the farming villages of the north was striking: dirt roads now became lined with smooth stone, two-story buildings gave way to three- and four-story ones, plain mud-brick façades were replaced with exteriors of marble, limestone, and granite that were extensively decorated with gold and jewels. Instead of only being for administrative and religious purposes, the buildings in Simuri ran the gambit of functions — artisan workshops, permanent food stands, stores that offered scribework and funerary services and the like.
And — perhaps most importantly — Simuri had pubs.
These pubs were exactly where the majority of the caravan could be found that same evening. We had been out peddling since we arrived in the city, and now that most of the population was indoors for dinner, we had allowed ourselves a bit of well-deserved recreation. For some of the traders this meant slipping off to find a harem or local prostitute, but many of us, like myself, were content to sit down somewhere and enjoy a warm beverage.
As the sun faded outside, the pub was illuminated with scattered candles that cast everything into dim shadows. I was seated at a table of my own — really just a crude wooden chair and an overturned crate. Wood was not easy to come by, and the use of it even for such a small, seedy place was typical for southern cities. Everyone here loved to show off.
I brought my cup to my lips and tilted the warm ebla into my mouth, savoring the mild wheat aftertaste. As light as ebla always was, this brew was not overly watered-down like most. I could still feel its warm, pleasant effects as it settled in my stomach.
"Weeeeeeell, look who found her way back to the South."
I knew the owner of that voice even before my eyes settled on her, a smile tugging at the edges of my mouth. "I always do. You look well, Inda."
A tall, robed woman sat down in the chair across from me. Her long, silky black hair was pinned up into a full bun using several elaborate combs, each with various dangling trinkets that clinked together as she moved. Thick bangs covered her forehead and fell nearly to her eyes, which were heavily hooded and the shape of slits most of the time. From beneath dark lashes, crystal blue eyes examined me — and beneath them were the three black dots that marked her livelihood as a priestess.
"As do you," Inda replied, raising her own cup in salute. From the aroma that hit me across the table, I knew it contained kash, much more potent than the ebla in mine. "You're always so tan," she lamented. "You and the rest of the sun-dwellers out there. Makes me wonder if I chose the wrong profession." She lifted the hand holding her kash and considered the pale complexion of her bangle-covered wrist, concluding with a dramatic sigh.
"You are always wondering that," I said with a slight smirk. "Every time I see you. Are all sharire this torn with their decision?"
"Just the ones who know how much fun it is to not be a sharira," Inda answered, a sly smile crossing her own features. Indeed, I knew how much "fun" Inda could have if she was not bound by her priestly duties — I did not miss the lecherous glances the rest of the pub sent in her direction. Tall and beautiful, she had quite a presence about her.
"But there are benefits to it too, I am sure," I continued, taking a sip of my ebla. "Or else no one would do it."
"Oh, of course — prestige, influence, importance. Not to mention the perks of collecting all that tribute." Inda gestured towards one of the more decorated combs in her hair, one laden with precious glass beads and a tiny emerald at the end. I had a feeling that comb had probably not been donated for Inda's use.
"And the whole 'being constantly in the favor of the gods,'" I suggested, but Inda's expression soured at that.
"Ah... not so much anymore, it seems," she said, her tone lowering.
I frowned, caught off-guard at the sudden change in the priestess. I leaned in closer, dropping my voice as well. "What do you mean by that?"
Inda's gaze slid sideways, her lashes obscuring the icy blue of her eyes. "Strange things have been happening in the South, Kala."
Something in her tone was gravely unsettling. I pressed on almost hesitantly: "Like what?"
Inda paused, then took a long swig from her kash as if to prepare herself for the answer.
"The gods... the gods don't talk with us anymore," she started, frowning at the table. "Not my Attra, not even Shimennis. I would consult with Attra nearly every day, and now there is nothing. No connection to her whatsoever. And Shimennis — How can a God of the People not communicate with the priests and priestesses? How could he just abandon us like this?"
"When did this start?" I asked, alarmed to hear Inda so distraught.
"Three months ago," Inda said dejectedly.
I thought back to three months ago. I had been traveling to Laanur from Mezuina at the time, most likely either sailing the Mir Sea or hiking along the jagged coast of it. It had been a completely normal journey. Even in hindsight, nothing seemed to stand out to me as feeling different or wrong.
"Perhaps the gods have not purposefully abandoned us," I said solemnly. "Perhaps something has happened to them."
"You are not the first person to think that." Inda swilled her cup in thought and then drained the rest of its contents. "There have been other unexplained occurrences too. We had no rain during the Respite Months, not a drop. As though Nahe simply forgot she was supposed to grant us our yearly precipitation, or — as some have begun whispering — as though she was unable to."
"The South had no rain this year?" I repeated, shocked.
Inda shook her head. "None. It'll deal a blow to some of the wetter crops, to be sure, but we should be able to get by with the crops from the Flooding. If there is a Flooding this year, that is."
"Zuuli forbid it," I said in a hushed voice. "If the rivers don't flood, then the whole South starves for a year."
"More or less," Inda said grimly. "We have two weeks until the Great Flood. I suppose we shall find out then what happens to us in the coming year."
The black-haired priestess got to her feet abruptly. "I believe I need another drink. Or three. Can I get one for you, Kala?" I held up a hand to pass, knowing I had to be alert for tonight's operation, so Inda strode over to the barman, the beads in her hair clinking together softly and her sharira robes billowing out from her frame. Several heads turned to watch her.
When she returned, Inda took another long drink of kash before speaking. "... There is a bright side to this, I guess. Although it really is just as strange as the other disturbances."
"Which would be?"
Inda set her cup down and leveled me with a puzzled stare. "I haven't had to perform one burial ritual in the past three months. Since the beginning of the Dry Months, not one person in all of Simuri has died. Not even in its farming villages. Hell — I haven't even been called on to pray for any of the infirm, either. For whatever reason, even though the gods will not talk with us and the rain will not fall from the sky, we humans are suddenly being protected from sickness and death. It makes no sense... If we angered the gods, why would they keep us alive like this? If the gods are gone or incapacitated, why are they still bestowing protection?"
I had no answer to this.
A thoughtful, frustrated silence passed between us. And during that extended time, I began to inexplicably think of the necklace, still in the pouch at my hip. Would Inda be able to help identify it for what it truly was? Or would it just add to her clearly apparent stress?
It did not take long for me to decide not to tell her. She did not need to know about it, just so it could weigh on her conscience as heavily as it did on mine.
Besides, the last time I revealed the necklace, I had been attacked by an anti-god. I had learned my lesson: this burden was mine to bear, and mine alone.
"You should probably get some sleep, I imagine," Inda said, snapping me from my thoughts. The sly smirk was back on her features. "I know why you traders stop over in Simuri nowadays. You'll want your wits about you when you try to sneak past the tax collectors."
Despite myself, I smiled back. "The sharira knows best," I conceded, standing from my chair. "You know where to find me in the coming weeks, should you need me for anything."
"Of course I do," Inda answered, chuckling lightly. "You'll be where you always are this time of year — our dear Nidyum."
"The one and only."
I turned to make my way towards the door, but a tug on my scarf stopped me. Inda had taken hold of the sheepskin with the hand not holding her empty cup; her blue eyes were slightly unfocused as she looked up at me.
"Kala, do be careful. I would offer protection from Attra, but, well —"
"I understand, Inda," I said gently. She let go, and I nodded once in parting before leaving for the inn.