The workshop was a long, low structure, kept in pristine condition—exactly what you’d expect from a family of carpenters. Firelight flickered from the open doorway, and the rhythmic strike of a hammer echoed from within. Taking a deep, steadying breath, she stumbled through the door.
Omari looked up, his hammer poised over a wooden peg. Tools lay all around him in neat lines—pull saws, adzes, bow drills, and small jars filled with glue and more wooden pegs. Wood in all shapes and sizes leaned against the walls, where several lit torches burned, filling the air with the smell of smoke and sawdust. Despite only wearing a small loincloth, Omari’s wholebody was shiny with sweat.
He dropped the hammer to his side and hurried over to her.
“Rae?” Omari asked, clearly alarmed. “What are you doing? I came to your house as soon as I heard what happened, but your father said you weren’t seeing visitors. He said you weren’t to move for two days! Ay—what were you thinking, coming here?”
She thought of the broken soldiers, muttering on street corners about the lives they used to have.
She thought of Tamerit, and how she’d fled with her family from a place even worse than Sakesh, seeking refuge from the despair that seemed to spread like a plague across Low Khetara.
She thought of Baki, armed to defend his family with nothing but impotent rage.
And finally, she thought of her father. His expression when the healer told him she’d be scarred for life. The sound of him crying at her side. The weeping stump of his arm, and how he strapped that sickle to it each day without complaint.
She thought of his fire, no longer burning.
And hers blazed brighter.
“Omari,” she said, ignoring her friend’s questions. “Those secret meetings you mentioned, with the ‘like-minded men’—when is the next one?”
Omari’s blinked, surprised. “Why?” Then his gaze was redirected. “Rae, you’re bleeding,” he said, gesturing toward the side of her leg. “Let me take you home—”
“Never mind that now!” Her legs went weak again and she grabbed onto Omari’s arm for balance. He dropped the hammer to the floor and steadied her. “The meeting…” she pressed.
Omari scoffed. But he’d been Rae’s friend long enough to know it was easier to do what she asked. “Tomorrow. The next one is tomorrow. Why?”
Rae swallowed, forcing herself to stand up straight.
Find another way, Raetawy, her father had commanded.
“Because,” she said, “I’m coming with you.”
9
Karim
Karim could have slept the whole morning—maybe even the entire day—except something was licking him.
“Ugh,” he grunted, opening his eyes to see the black dog standing over him, slathering his face in slobber. Karim propped himself up on an elbow and shoved the dog’s snout aside with one hand. Behkai, not to be dissuaded, started licking his hand instead. “Get away, will you?”
Karim sat up from his makeshift bed on the ground. He winced as his body not-so-subtly reminded him of the previous day’s activities.
Finally taking the hint, the dog sat on his haunches and regarded Karim, head tilted, tongue lolling.
“Don’t be angry with Behkai,” Pa said from where he sat nearby, finishing his breakfast. “You’re the one who overslept.”
“Overslept? The sun has barely risen.” Karim groaned. His body felt like a rug that had gotten the dust beaten out of it. With a stick. Named Babu.
The old priest plucked something from his bowl and threw it at him. It bounced off Karim’s head, but he caught it before it could fall to the ground. A date. Pa tossed another date into his mouth, chewed it, and spit the seed onto the sand. “Then we are not yet too late. Break your fast and make it quick. The least you can do is make yourself useful while you’re here. The gods would not be pleased with you thieving their time, as well as their dead.”
Karim touched his knuckle to his nose in thanks and gobbled up a few dates and a chunk of bread, washing it down with a cupof sweet beer. Behkai stared at him the entire time with huge soulful eyes, until Karim relented and tossed him the crust. The dog caught it in his mouth and swallowed it without chewing. Or tasting, probably.
Pa tutted. “Now you’ve done it. He’ll never give you peace again.” The old priest stood, stretched his creaky legs, and turned toward the temple. “Come along now. We have much to do.”
Karim stood—carefully—and followed the priest up seven stone steps, the dog padding at his heels. He passed under the archway and into the dim temple, where the air was cool and somehow heavier, smelling richly of cedarwood and flowers in late bloom. Despite his distaste for the Khetarans and their gods, Karim felt his body tense in response, as if he was in the presence of some powerful force. His life, thus far, had been practically bereft of awe, but even he recognized that if magic had a smell, a sensation—this was it.
Four square support columns stood at the center of the hall, a stone altar between them. Light streamed in from between the exterior columns, illuminating a tidy gathering of items on the altar—small stone jars of various sizes and colors, a neatly folded pile of linen, and bowls of more dates, bread, beer, and water. Pa stood at the altar, humming, gathering some of the items onto a round ceramic tray. Karim cast his eyes around the hall, amazed at the profusion of color and design painted on every surface. On one wall, a parade of boats carried standing gods across a field of blue, while on another, fantastic beasts roamed—winged snakes, a bird with a crocodile face, and a man with a donkey’s body and a scorpion’s tail. But although the paintings were in fairly good condition, Karim could see that the temple was old—the color faded in places where the sun shined brightest, and crumbling in dark corners where the light didn’t reach. He could hardly imagine how splendid it must have been in its heyday.
