I venture a peek outside our small alcove into the main hall of the Sun Temple. It’s enormous, even by Akkadian standards—a circular space with a high domed ceiling held up by four pillars. Tapestries with the abstract circle emblems of the Eye of Asham line the curved walls. Concentric circles of stone benches fan out from the center of the room, where there’s a raised platform.
Directly above this platform, at the highest point of the dome, a circular skywindow opens to the orange and purple hues of the darkening sky.
Jaruna, Ayan, and the natives walk around the central platform. Hatvan catches my eye and shoots a menacing glance, as if my mere watching is some unspeakable offense.
I turn back to Kiddu. She’s still messing with her dress. It covers more of her legs but now a good portion of her cleavage is showing.
“I’m still not sure about this,” I say.
“Sure about what?”
“This. Joining up with these people. I mean—you know I don’t like the Empire. But Jaruna, and the natives, they’re—”
“What? Savages? Ooooh!”
I can’t believe how oblivious she’s acting. It’s starting to annoy the hell out of me.
“This isn’t a joke. A lot of the natives probably want to kill us. We’re in serious danger.”
“Maybe, maybe. But the natives are different from the mystics. We’re not staying here in the occupied district. We’re going to Harrappa. It’s supposed to be some kind of holy paradise, right?”
I shrug. Harrappa is supposed to be a lot of things.
“And besides,” she says. “We don’t really have a choice here. We’re fugitives now. We have to get out of Libri. We either go with them, or go on our own. I say we’re better off with them.”
I remember the night of the riots when we were between the native mob and the imperial phalanx. She said the same thing then. And I agreed with her.
“Fine,” I say. “You’re right. But if they expect us to help them fight, I—”
She takes my hand and squeezes it—I choked up a bit.
“Yeah. That was pretty messed up.”
I wipe my leaking eye. I can’t believe I’m crying in front of her like this. But I can still see the dead sorcerer. The corpse sinks in like a weight crushing my neck. The person I helped the mystic kill. The person I wanted to kill.
I’m in so far over my head that I feel like I’m about to drown. I can’t breathe. I start hyperventilating.
Kiddu grabs both of my arms.
“Gil! Calm down! It’s okay! You didn’t kill anybody. Okay? I was watching you. You were really brave and everything, but you didn’t even hurt the guy. Honestly. You swung that staff like a girl.”
I laugh. I needed to. I sniff, wipe a final rivulet of tears from my face.
“Listen,” she says. “I’m sorry I got you into all this. You have no idea how sorry I am. If you want to, you know, turn yourself in—I’ll go with you. Okay?”
I shake my head. If Satrap Nimrod had thought twice about torturing us before, he won’t now.
“No,” I say. “You’re right. You are. We have to leave town.”
“Do you hear that?”
A droning disharmony emanates from the main sanctuary. We edge over to the doorway and peek in.
Dronaja stands in the central platform in the middle of the circle of benches, bowing and touching his forehead to the floor. The others—Jaruna, Ayan, Kripa, and Hatvan—are spread out around the chief, similarly bowing. All of them are humming, each voice a different pitch.
Then the chanting begins. It’s not quite singing and it’s not quite speaking. Even with only five people, the effect is haunting.
Let the heavens praise your might, Lord Asham,
For who among the Gods is like you?
Great and awesome above all who surround you.
O Lord Asham, you rule the desert and the mountains.
You crushed Miyat and spread out her undying corpse,
Dividing it into sea and sky.
You scattered your enemies with your blinding light.
Righteousness and justice are the base of your Throne.
Hear our prayers as you pass now into the Underworld.
May your Eye watch over us in sleep and darkness.
We pray for your swift return—
When your light shall cleanse these lands of all sin.
The five of them bow in unison, pressing their foreheads into the dust.
The prayer seems so bizarre. I’ve never prayed directly to Asham before. Not that I ever take prayers very seriously. But I’d always thought that Eyenki was the only God who cared about human prayers.
“All praise to Asham,” Dronaja says.
Everyone except for the two of us repeats:
All praise to Asham.
“Dronaja! Kripa! Is anybody up there?”
I spin around. The voice came from the tunnel, beneath the carpet.
Kiddu pulls up the rug and we look down the hole. It’s too dark to see anything.
“Hurry! Lower the ladder! I do not want to miss the prayer!”
“Maybe we should go get Jaruna?” I whisper.
“And interrupt their weird ritual?”
I turn to the main sanctuary again. They’re not chanting anymore but they’re still bowing, pressing foreheads into sand—everyone except Hatvan. He’s staring right at the rug in Kiddu’s hands.
He jumps up and strides over to us in about three seconds, hands treacherously hidden in his robe.
“Step away,” he says.
“There’s someone down there,” I say.
“What is taking so long up there?”
Hatvan leans over the hole, peering down. By now the others have meandered into the small room.
“Yodhana?” says Hatvan. “You are late. Were you followed?”
“Was not followed … but had to collapse the tunnels to make sure. That is why I am late. Is the mujashatriya up there?”
Hatvan turns to Dronaja and Dronaja turns to Jaruna. The mystic nods and the unspoken affirmation filters down the chain of command. Hatvan grabs the rope ladder and tosses it down.
A few seconds later a tall native in a tan robe emerges from the hole. He is completely out of breath and has to kneel after he gets his footing. His eyes widen as he spots Jaruna and he bows low to the ground, still panting.
“Mujashatriya … Jaruna … is an honor … to serve you…”
“Mujashatriya,” says Chief Dronaja, “I am pleased to introduce Yodhana. He has helped us map a route through the city for the exodus.”
“Where is everyone else?” says Yodhana. “The orders were to rally here, before—”
Yodhana stops, mouth agape. He’s just spotted me and Kiddu.
He stares at us for a moment. But only a moment. Then he continues on with what he was saying as if we don’t exist.
“—before the Evening Prayer.”
“We have decided that it was too much risk,” Dronaja says. “At least two sorcerers patrol the rooftops.”
“Sorcerers? Not around here, perhaps by the prison compound. The chief danger is from the tunnels. They have been infiltrated. But that will not matter now, all routes are closed off.”
He starts walking into the Temple’s sanctuary, along with the others. Me and Kiddu stay in the alcove. Nobody mentioned if were welcome into the sanctuary, but I’m assuming no.
“Your information is wrong, Yodhana,” says Hatvan. “I have seen two sorcerers within this very hour.”
I turn to Kiddu, hoping to strike up a quiet conversation.
But she’s staring at Yodhana.
I nudge her. “What’s wrong with you?”
She looks at me. She looks afraid. “That guy—”
Before I can stop her she runs into the main room, breaking who knows how many native rules of decorum and modesty—
“Jaruna, stop!” she yells. “It’s a trap! Your friend is a rat!”
She points at Yodhana. He stops ignoring her.
“What does this mean, a rat?” says Jaruna.
“A spy!” Kiddu says. “He’s with the Empire!”
Now it looks like weapons are going to start coming out. Kripa reaches behind him, puts his hands on his giant club. Hatvan shifts his hands inside his robe.
Jaruna, on the other hand, just stands there looking bewildered. So does Yodhana.
“Kiddu!” says Ayan. “That is a serious charge.”
Yodhana regards the faces staring at him one by one. He turns to the mystic.
“Mujashatriya, forgive me, but are you quite sure this Akkadian girl knows what she is saying? I have been loyal to my tribe—”
“Oh, shutup!” says Kiddu. “I remember you from the satrap’s office! You were all decked out in hoplite armor and everything! Gil, don’t you remember—”
As a matter of fact, I do remember the guy, the one who knew about Bestial Liberation and defended us. But before I can say anything, Yodhana whips his long-sleeved arm around and points it right at Jaruna.
Hatvan moves even quicker. In one motion he pulls his hand from his robe and lets fly a whiplike weapon with spinning stone weights on the end.
The weights wrap around Yodhana’s outstretched arm and jerk it away. Something long and thin goes flying from his hand.
“An assassin’s weapon!” says Hatvan.
Ayan shrieks. Kripa holds aloft his giant club and then brings it down with a sickening crack against Yodhana’s skull. The man crumples, dead before he hits the ground.