Gil ventures a peek outside their small room, into the main hall of the Sun Temple. He’s never seen a native temple before—few Akkadians have.
He turns back to Kiddu, who is messing with her dress again. It covers more of her legs, but now a good portion of her cleavage is showing.
Gil can’t believe how oblivious she’s being. It’s beginning to annoy him.
Gil remembers back to the night of the riots, when they found themselves between a mob of natives and a phalanx of imperial hoplites. Kiddu had said the same thing then.
Kiddu takes his hand and squeezes it. Belatedly, he realizes he had choked up a bit.
Gil wipes his leaking eye. He can’t believe he’s crying in front of Kiddu like this. But all of the sudden, the image of the sorcerer’s corpse sinks in, like a weight crushing him. It blends in with the images of the native corpses on the street, lightning-shocked and jerking like puppets. He remembers how he had wanted to kill the sorcerer—does that mean he’s culpable? Is he a killer now, too?
He’s in so far over his head that he feels like he’s drowning. He can’t breathe. He starts hyperventilating as he cries.
Kiddu grabs both of his arms.
Gil laughs. He needed to. He sniffs, and wipes a final rivulet of tears from his face.
Gil shakes his head. If Satrap Nimrod had thought twice about torturing him before, he certainly wouldn’t now. He made his choice to become a fugitive, and even if he second-guesses his choice, he still has to live with it now.
And also, there was something about Ayan that made him feel like he should go. On one hand, Gil felt like she was just trying to convert them to her strange religion—that this was her whole purpose of bringing them along.
On the other hand, they had shared something important in the prison cell. He knew her secret now, and she knew his. If they could have this connection, despite all their differences, despite all of her hatred for the Empire and Akkadians—he can’t just let that connection disappear.
A strange, droning disharmony emanates from the main sanctuary. They edge over to the doorway and peek in.
Dronaja is standing in the center of the circles of benches, bowing and touching his forehead. The others—Jaruna, Ayan, Kripa, and Hatvan—are spread out around him, similarly bowing. All of them seem to be humming, each voice a different pitch.
Then the chanting begins. It’s not quite singing, and it’s not quite speaking. Even with just five people, the effect is haunting.
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 against the dusty floor.
The prayer seemed bizarre to Gil. He never prayed directly to Asham before. He had always thought that Eyenki was the only God who cared about human prayers.
Everyone except Gil and Kiddu repeats:
Gil spins around. The voice came from the tunnel, beneath the carpet.
