Jaruna looks just as shocked as Kiddu, though his narrow eyes don’t open quite as wide as hers.
“Sister, perhaps you should leave the planning to the men. Did you forget that sinners are forbidden from entering the city?”
“It is true,” she says. “But Jaruna, Asham is a merciful God. Is it their fault they were born under the shadow of the Empire? The True Path is not just for the tribes of the desert and the mountains. It is for all the people of Quu. Do you have so little faith in Asham that you refuse to believe he will show them the Path?”
“You sound like our elder brother,” Jaruna says.
Ayan just looks down at this. Jaruna scratches his turban and shuffles his feet, glancing from us back to his sister.
“Hrmph!” he says. “I will do whatever you want, Ayan. It is just that—”
“What?”
“I have already promised to bring some others to Harrappa as well.”
Ayan gasps.
“Brother! Are you mad? How many? And why?”
“Just a few … dozen. What? These shudra of the Lost Tribe, they are so desperate. Miserable. I had to tell them something. I came here to search for you, but when I started asking them questions—Ayan, they think I am some kind of savior.”
“Of course they do! They are shudra, and you are mujashatriya. But they cannot all come to Harrappa!”
“Ha!” says Jaruna. “And these two can? Perhaps you should sit down and rest. You are being hysterical.”
Kiddu opens her mouth to say something—but then thinks better of it. She grabs me by the arm as the mystic and his sister continue to argue about things I don’t understand.
“Harrappa!” says Kiddu. “Gil, HARRAPPA!”
“Yeah…”
“Why are you not excited? Are you crazy? We’ll be the first Akkadians EVER to see the city!”
I shrug. My head is still spinning. At this point, I’m still not sure it was a good idea to leave our prison cells.
Kiddu leans in close, whispering. “Let’s just play along. I mean, be polite and everything. Just try to make sure not to piss these two off on the way there. Okay?”
She stares up at me with such uncharacteristically sober, earnest gravitas that I crack up with laughter.
“Can it be?” I say. “You’ve finally learned tact! My Gods, will you look at that—little Kiddu is all grown up!”
I pat her roughly on her hair, which still sticks up from the lightning.
She swats away my arm and punches me in the stomach. I double over with a loud squawk.
“Stop acting like children!” says Ayan. “Both of you, be quiet.”
More sand collapses behind us. My good ear pops.
“Enough talk,” says Jaruna. “Come. We must reach the Sun Temple before sunset.”
I’ve never heard of any Sun Temple in Libri but I follow the mystic anyway down the twisting sand tunnel. It’s hard to tell—because the ground is anything but flat—but it feels like the tunnel is sloping upwards.
Finally the sand gives way to a hard rock surface. The tunnel widens into a small cavern. Other passageways branch off, dark in the faint candlelight.
Jaruna stops in the middle of the cavern, takes off his bow, hands the candle to his sister. He draws an arrow and nocks it.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“The Sun Temple is just above us,” says the mystic.
“Are you going to shoot up there with your magic arrow?” says Kiddu.
The mystic just sighs and points his bow towards the ceiling. He begins to glow violet.
“The dawn astra has nothing to do with Akkadian black magic,” says Ayan.
The mystic has to close his eyes while summoning the astra. I try to figure out where he’s pointing the bow—a faint patch of dark gray in the blackness of the ceiling.
“Yushastra,” he says.
I watch closely this time as the mystic warps up the cavern shaft. The air itself distorts around his body and funnels into the arrow’s trajectory. There’s a sound like an eagle cry, echoing faintly. I wonder what it’s like to vanish and reappear somewhere else. Does it hurt? Does it make you nauseous?
“Aha,” says the old bald native, appearing from behind. “You are all here. Asham willing, we will arrive in the Temple sanctuary before the sun sets. Truly it would be inauspicious to miss the Evening Prayer.”
“Do these tunnels all lead up to a native Temple?” says Kiddu. “That’s convenient. Is that how you guys always manage to get to the Akkadian side and blow stuff up?”
“Your Empire seeks to keep us imprisoned behind the Dividing Wall, like beasts for the slaughter. But the Azkazraj Tribe will not be put down so easily—hyah!”
The old man deftly dodges a rope ladder that drops suddenly from the ceiling. It had nearly smacked him on his head.
He tugs it, makes sure it’s taut. He looks at me.
“You first, boy.”
The rope ladder sways precariously from side to side as I struggle to climb. I look down, hoping to catch Kiddu’s eye below, but it’s too dark to see.
This triggers my vertigo. I clutch the splintered wooden rung, shuddering, trying to banish the vision of the bottomless sky from my nightmares.
“What is taking so long?” calls the old man. “We have not got all day!”
I grit my teeth and pull myself up the rest of the way.
I emerge into a small semicircular room lit by four candles. Piles of small canvas bags rest against the bare adobe walls.
Jaruna is here, fiddling with his bow, along with two others—a huge man with a giant wooden club strapped to his back, and a thin man with a broad straw hat. Both natives.
The old bald man soon pulls himself out of the hole, followed by Ayan. Only when Kiddu emerges do the two natives tear their eyes away from me.
“How ironic!” says the huge one with the club. “So many precautions to prevent the sinners from infiltrating our tunnels, and yet out crawl these two, like an upflowing of shit from the sewers—”
“Kripa!” says the old man. “You dishonor the mujashatriya—the Akkadians are with him. Go with Hatvan and check the perimeter before prayer.”
“Yes, Chief Dronaja.”
Kripa stalks out of the room into the Temple’s main chamber. The smaller one, Hatvan, lingers a moment, glaring at Kiddu from beneath his hat’s shadow. Then he follows his companion.
The old man—Dronaja—pulls up the rope ladder and unrolls a faded yellow and blue rug over the hole. He tosses the ladder in the corner of the room.
“Well, mujashatriya,” he says. “I suppose we had better prepare for Evening Prayer, yes?”
Jaruna nods in assent and Dronaja walks briskly out of the room.
Then Jaruna heaves a big sigh of relief.
“Dronaja!” he says. “That is his name. I had it on the tip of my tongue this whole time!”
“Brother, you forgot the name of the chief of the Azkazraj Tribe?”
“Do not nag me, sister. Besides, he is only the acting chief or some-such. The real chief was killed last night. You two! Akkadians!”
We stand at attention.
“You will stay here while we pray to Asham. Do not go poking around. And stay quiet. And you. Girl.”
“My name is Kiddu.”
“I do not care what your name is. You must cover yourself. You bring shame upon this sacred place.”
She undoes her bandanna, flattens her copious hair, reties it to cover. But she misses several of her dreadlocks and after a few seconds her expanding hair causes the stretched bandana to slingshot off her head. She picks it up and dusts it off.
“Hm,” she says. “Do you have a spare turban or something?”
“Were you raised by imbecilic prostitutes? I was speaking of your bare legs.” says Jaruna.
Kiddu pulls her dress a little lower. Now it barely covers her knees. I try not to stare. I notice Jaruna awkwardly averting his eyes as well.
“Unless the Azkazraj Tribe is willing to part with one of these tapestries,” says Ayan, “there is nothing to be done about her legs at the moment. Gil and Kiddu, I hope you will listen to the Evening Prayer.”