Until this is done? Until I exhaust myself fighting this incessant flood of undead?
We both look around at the destruction. The bodies of nobles who got knocked down in the explosion are being feasted on by the few alive creatures. The waves are getting higher and higher. Mobs of people are moving in chaos, crashing into each other, pushing and pulling and fighting for survival. Suyai is no longer where I saw her, and Mare is bleeding in my arms.
Stay with her, I hear, and I want to scream.
Stay with her. Her. Her. Her. You’re meant to serve…
The words sync with my heartbeat, and I hear them one and the same.
“Rei, please! Where’s Su-suyai?” Mare sobs into my neck, but I don’t have an answer for him. I lost her in the mass of people. I turn to look at the princess, looking for what? I don’t know.
Except, she’s not looking at me at all. She’s kneeling, head tilted toward the ground and eyes closed, an unnatural wind whipping her pure black hair tainted by white streaks. She’s more storm than human. More god than girl.
And for some reason, I know I have the right to touch. I kneel and grab her wrist. The second my skin makes contact, her eyes snap open.
I see…
I don’t know what I see.
I see hatred. I see fear. I see the endless black of the divine looking out at nothing.
Mare’s tiny body is so very fragile in my arms, but I hold on tighter to both of them. The princess tries to rip her arm away, but whatever strength she possessed earlier is gone. She’s fragile.
Then there’s Suyai.
Everything slows. Suyai is at the base of the stairs. The caved-in head of an undead bird is at her feet as she shields another child. Our eyes lock, and then she’s limping to us, her hand stretched forward. I want to reach for her, I’m desperate to, but both my hands are full.
Please, she mouths.
I see her jump in a last-minute effort to reach us, but I know she won’t, because I’ve traveled with Serpent mimics before. I know what it feels like when it’s too late to turn back.
I can’t fight the tightening in my chest.
We’re gone before I have to see Suyai collapse. As I travel through the Ukhu Pacha, I wonder if that’s a blessing or a curse.
Interlude I
AYA RUNA
Cashan is dying, but on the throne, he looks like a real flesh-and-blood king. He looks like the king he was,is to us, no matter how much he denied the ironic title from his troupe of thieves.
He’d deny it now, too; I’m sure. Though I can’t confirm it. It’s been three days since I last reached him, when he was deep in the Serpent’s domain and only my mimicry specialty could reach him. Three days ago, he went deeper than language could travel. Still, the Serpent is kind to me. I can see some images, sometimes colors, sometimes memories. I know he still has samay left. It’s just trapped within that damned human body. There’s barely enough for the Serpent to claim, but it’s not gone. No. It can’t be. As long as there is a single drop of samay within him, we have hope.
My power is a mere mimicry of what our Serpent can do, a strong one, but still a counterfeit. I’m not surprised at the fading connection, but that doesn’t soothe the shame every time I’m asked about his state.
Paria must feel the same. She’s in charge of his physical health, the way I am of his communication. It’s the two of us,with our Serpent’s guidance, that have the privilege to exist in a static state alongside him. We are the connection that others depend on.
They are all too busy stabilizing the Inka’s palace to bother either of us now. Tutay, in particular, is ignoring us in favor of the guards piled on the floor, tightening all of their binds past what’s practical. I hear some of their muffled gasps of pain through the rotting textiles we shoved in their mouths. The sound is a welcome change to the occasional gagging and choking I’ve had to hear all day. Plus, Tutay is getting a kind of peace from her acute acts of violence. I see it in the way her shoulders loosen up with every pull on the straps around their wrists.
The soldier Tutay is playing with now has barely flinched despite the existing wound festering on her right arm. The biggest sign of her pain is the sweat coating her dark skin and wetting the edges of curly baby hairs around her face. I stare at her a moment longer, but she never looks my way. Her gaze stays resolutely on the door, as if waiting with blind faith for someone to burst in and rescue her.
The girl must be as pathetic as the rest of them, but we’re keeping all the soldiers around for a reason.
“Clean that wound for her before it gets infected. She might still be useful,” Qajay says, reading my mind. Tutay does the opposite. She grabs the girl’s arm with a crushing fist, and I taste the mimicry in the air as Tutay enhances her hand to shatter the girl’s already broken bone. Blood drips down the girl's chin. She bit her lip open to stop her scream.
“I’m doing something more important here, Qajay. This little soldier is much less likely to cause trouble now. I’m enacting preventive measures,” Tutay says, though her sentence is punctuated by a frown. She’s disappointed the little guard didn’t put on more of a show.
I know how people see us. The dreaded Aya Runa. We’re thieves, criminals, killers. We’re sadistic. We’re immoral. We’re trash to a society that only values gold. Fine. I’m fine with others thinking that, but I hate it when we start to think it about ourselves. Tutay is falling back on old stereotypes, acting as an evil caricature because she thinks she has nothing else to offer.
