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  His back stiffens, pride hardening his face. “I will send you Aitana, Goddess Anjeni, and all others who bear the spark. You may choose your priestess from among them.” He pivots to leave, but I speak up quickly.

  “Send them to the God’s Arch. I will choose from them there.”

  Etricos studies me, his critical glance scanning me from top to toe. His eyes flit toward where the butter-yellow dress hangs against the brown of the tent. “If you are to appear outside, you should wear clothing more befitting your station, Goddess.”

  “A goddess doesn’t wear another woman’s wedding dress, Etricos.”

  “I would happily marry her in rags,” he says.

  Although it’s a lovely sentiment, he has failed to take Tora’s feelings into account. “But would she happily marry you?”

  Etricos scowls. He assesses both Huna and me. In the end, he sweeps wordlessly from the tent.

  I give him points for knowing when not to argue. That trait will serve him well in his coming years of leadership.

  “Why could she not love Dima?” Huna murmurs. “Even if he is the younger son, he is better suited.”

  Her preference for a younger sibling to an elder one raises my hackles. “It’s Tora’s choice,” I say in a clipped voice as I rise to my feet. “But Huna, bear in mind: Etricos is the better brother.”

  Huna disregards my remark. Instead she unfolds the crimson fabric in her hands and holds it aloft. “Try this on.”

  It is a shirt—a tunic that looks like it serves some religious ceremonial purpose. The square shoulders and banded collar give it that formal atmosphere. Its deep red color reflects the sunlight as I receive it from her. “Where did you get this?”

  “It was an offering, Anjeni. I have adjusted the size for you.”

  Whenever I consider my room full of junk back home, I cringe. These people have next to nothing, and they treasure every small item. An article of clothing such as this, like Tora’s wedding dress, represents a personal sacrifice, an extravagance spared in a time of hardship and now proffered to deity in hopes of salvation.

  I examine the sleeves, troubled. They are capped—similar to the sleeves of the shirt I was wearing when I came through the Eternity Gate. In my limited experience, such a style does not exist among the Helenai. I suspect Huna has altered more than the size, but it makes sense that she would use my own shirt as a template in her alterations.

  “Who left it?”

  “I do not know. It is a man’s style, but the material is good, better than the shirt you wear. Cosi is right. A goddess cannot emerge before the masses in common clothing.”

  I turn my back to her and strip away my simpler shirt. She has seen my bare skin often enough, having attended my battle wounds over the course of my illness. The fresh pink scars, still sensitive to the touch, create a raw pattern from my waist to my shoulder blades. I have felt the tattered ridges with my fingers but cannot twist far enough to glimpse more than their very edge. I shrug the crimson tunic over my head to cover the scars from sight again.

  Thanks to Huna’s alterations, the garment fits, neither too tight nor too loose. The hem falls to my mid-thigh, with side-slits up to my hip bones. I fasten the series of hooks up the front but leave the two at the top undone, so that the decorative banded collar remains open at the base of my throat.

  I turn to Huna for her assessment. She frowns, her discontented gaze lingering on the stiff red material.

  “It is so mannish,” she says.

  I don’t mind the mannishness as much as how the skirt beneath, with its gathered waistline and broad hem, does not match at all. “I like it, but I’d rather wear pants with it,” I say.

  Huna is silent. I fiddle with the tunic’s hemline, tucking it into the skirt to see if that might look any better. It doesn’t. I glance up again, only to discover Huna frowning at me—not an angry frown, but a perplexed one.

  “Women should not wear pants,” she says.

  “I’m a goddess. I can wear what I want.” I return my attention to the shirt.

  “I think you are right.”

  This admission startles me. I jerk and stare at her, dumbfounded, but she only regards me with a pensive set to her mouth.

  I jettisoned into this era clad in pajama pants, a casual shirt, and a light sweater. The shirt and sweater are fit for rags now, too damaged from my battle with the monster. Huna washed the blood from them both, but the gashes made them unsalvageable—at least as a shirt and sweater. She grudgingly returned my pants to me during my illness, but every time I wear them, she tuts in disapproval.

  “You think I should wear my pajama pants?” I ask dubiously. They don’t have pajamas in this time period, but she knows the term by now.

  “No,” she says in scorn. “Those are baggy and spotted—”

  “They’re called polka dots,” I interject. “Spotted pants” denotes something else entirely.

  “An unsightly, childish pattern.” Huna never minces words.

  “Then what pants would I wear?”

  “Cosi can get you a pair of his, or Dima’s. A goddess in men’s clothing will give the people an image of strength. You are a warrior-goddess; perhaps you should dress like one.”

  There’s more than one politician in this tribe of cast-offs. “Huna,” I say, “you’re just as bad as Etricos.”

  She sloughs off the comparison with a shrug. “I will speak with Cosi. You remain here, unseen, until I return.”

  I sigh but agree. From beyond the tent walls, the murmured worshipping has renewed. I haven’t the first clue how these people expect me to behave as a goddess, so the safest choice is to remain hidden, even though I’m eaten with impatience to get beyond the prison of this confined space.

  As Huna passes through the tent flap, I glimpse the gathered crowd. Many figures kneel beyond the wooden fence, their pleading eyes fixed upon the sky above my tent.

  Are they looking for another sign? It’s not going to happen. I might miss the opening next time and set the tent on fire. I pace, restless as I wait, my fingers fiddling with the slit edges of the stiff tunic. The murmurings beyond the walls come in waves, as though people are taking turns with their worship.

  A ripple of excitement passes through their ranks, a signal of some change in their dynamic. It draws my nerves taut like a bowstring, so that when the tent flap parts, I jump.

  It is only Huna.

  Sorry. It is not only Huna.

  Behind her, ducking to enter, Demetrios follows. I have not seen him since the night he waylaid me from getting to the Eternity Gate. I haven’t wanted to see him, either, the philandering scoundrel. Once safely inside, he straightens to his full height, an aloof expression on his tanned face. I favor Huna with a stink-eye.

  “Cosi elected to send Dima with the clothing,” she says delicately.

  Etricos is still in a snit from our earlier conversation, in other words. Why could Huna not have brought the clothing herself, though?

  Demetrios does not make eye contact. Instead, his calculating gaze darts around the interior of the tent before he fixes it directly over my head. He extends the folded bundles he carries. “Goddess Anjeni, we the Helenai present these offerings to you.”

  He sounds almost as annoyed as I am. I glance again at Huna, perturbed. She knows I’m no goddess, and Etricos knows, but whether Demetrios is in on the secret I cannot tell. She tips her head, a minute gesture for me to take the clothes.

  I obey. My hand brushes against his by accident, and I pull back too soon. Half the pile topples to the ground as I scramble to keep my grip on the rest of it.

  Demetrios makes no effort whatsoever to catch anything. Nor does he demean himself by stooping to pick it up. Shoulders back and spine erect, he flits his attention downward to the tumbled pile. I stare at it as well, my breath caught in my throat. Hidden among the fabric were a collection of knives. They glint against the hard-packed floor.

  I drag my eyes up to his face, mutely demanding an expl
anation.

  Does he have to be so tall? My glare isn’t nearly as effective when I’m staring up at someone’s chin instead of looking down my nose at them.

  He in turn studies me, ever assessing. “Cosi says a warrior-goddess should have weapons. We did not know what weapons you desire. We give these in offering, but if they are not to your liking—”

  “Demetrios,” I interrupt.

  He jerks on instinct and averts his attention to the walls of the tent. A flush of self-consciousness crawls up his neck even as the muscles tighten along his clean-shaven jaw. “What does the goddess wish of me?”

  The words alone sound subservient, but insolence infuses them. He doesn’t like me using his proper name, that much I gather. Everyone else calls him by his nickname, but I’m not about to enter into such informality. An adversarial relationship suits me fine.

  Huna interjects on his behalf. “Goddess Anjeni, Dima intends no offense. He is only Cosi’s messenger in this matter.”

  “He hasn’t offended me,” I say, annoyed. Even I can admit I sound offended, though. I stoop to retrieve the clothing and blades, since Etricos’s chosen messenger obviously won’t ingratiate himself to perform such a menial task. The knives, sheathed in decorative covers, are mismatched. Given the huge influx of refugees, Etricos probably has to control what comes in and out of this tent. I suppose, small as they are, these were the easiest weapons to smuggle in here.

  I straighten again, blades and fabric alike bundled in my arms. As I cross to dump the load on my cot, I ask, “Why did Etricos send so many pairs of pants?”

  “He did not know what would fit you,” says Huna.

  Suspicion laces through me. I can’t imagine this tribe has a lot of extra clothing lying around. “Where did they come from?”

  “They are offerings,” says Demetrios, his voice bland.

  “Offerings from where?” I press. If half a dozen tribesmen are going pants-less right now, I need to know.

  “They are offerings, Goddess,” he repeats, as if to emphasize that I should be grateful rather than questioning. The tenseness of his shoulders finally registers in my brain. He was not this belligerent the first time we met.

  What right has he to be angry with me? “Are they your pants?” I ask.

  “No,” he says, scorn dripping from that single word. It makes sense: any pants of his would puddle around my ankles.

  I change my line of questioning. “Am I just supposed to strap the knives somewhere on me for show? Etricos doesn’t expect me to use them, does he?”

  The scorn on his face magnifies as his eyes meet mine. “You don’t know how to use a knife?”

  The attitude on this one—he thinks he’s the only one who can act all high and mighty? I tip my nose in the air. “Where I come from, knives are used to prepare food, and for little else. Only the basest of thugs choose them as weapons.”

  His expression flattens. He stares at me, assessing my statement.

  “We have weapons you’ve never even dreamed of,” I say. This tribe has yet to discover black powder, the substance that will revolutionize warfare forever. In some ways, that’s a good thing. In others, it’s bad. The primitive nature of their weapons is part of what allows magic such a firm cultural hold on the infant nation they are about to form. If they had guns and cannons, magic with its many rules and restrictions would fall by the wayside.

  “Why did you not bring these weapons with you, Goddess?” he asks, his voice arch.

  I raise one hand. Just a spark on the fingertip will do.

  As if I have any such control. Flames engulf my hand to the wrist. I force my expression to remain neutral; the beast within always overreacts, so I’m learning to anticipate as much. “Is my magic not weapon enough?”

  Demetrios looks unnerved at last, though the emotion is fleeting. He inclines at the waist—five degrees at most, a purely symbolic bow. “The goddess bestows her favor upon the Helenai, for which we are grateful.”

  And I suddenly feel like a child showing off to a grown adult. The fire on my hand snuffs out. “You’re dismissed. Tell Etricos that I thank him for the offering, and that I will return the pants that I cannot use.”

  “They are an offering, Goddess,” says Demetrios yet again, as though I have failed to understand the import of this detail.

  “And I shall offer them back to you. Do the Helenai refuse the gifts of a goddess?”

  He meets my gaze. Grudgingly he tips his head in acknowledgment. Then, he leaves.

  “Offerings are sacred,” says Huna from her corner.

  “Then a goddess’s offerings should be doubly so. What am I supposed to do with half a dozen pairs of pants? Hang them up next to Tora’s wedding dress, to decorate the tent walls?”

  She grunts, but a sad smile pulls at her mouth. “I can alter them to fit you. If you return them, you will cause injury to those who offered them—to the mothers and sisters of our honored fallen.”

  I jerk my attention first to her kindly, wrinkled face and then to the pile of pants. Apprehension crawls up my spine. “Those come from the dead?”

  “Clothing is sometimes kept as memorial,” says Huna. “Please, Anjeni, the offerings are sacred.”

  I swallow my distaste. Unlike Tora’s wedding dress, these pants cannot return to their original bearers. As long as no pants-less warriors lie shamefully hidden in the cluster of mushroom tents down the hill, what quarrel have I?

  Chapter Eleven

  Of the half-dozen pairs of pants, only one really fits. The others are too loose or too snug. I fold the rejects nicely and place them in a pile for Huna to mend when she has opportunity.

  She observes in disapproval as I roll tidy cuffs on the dun-colored pair that fits, exposing my ankles to view. I have no shoes, but I’m used to going barefoot. The crimson shirt sits much better atop a fitted waistline than it did over my discarded skirt.

  Huna’s final inspection tells me she still has misgivings. She deigns to smooth my hair with her fine-toothed comb.

  “Can we go now?” I ask, antsy to get out of the tent.

  She glances to the exit, uncertain. The worshipful murmurs still buzz in the air beyond.

  My patience stretches thin. I have to appear before the teeming masses at some point, and the longer I stay inside, the closer the tent walls get. As I open my mouth to say as much, though, a voice speaks from outside.

  “Goddess Anjeni, Tora of the Helenai requests an audience.”

  Huna darts across the space. I didn’t know the old woman could move so fast. She opens the flap and hisses for Tora to enter.

  Her granddaughter comes, apprehension upon her face. I have vague recollections of Tora helping Huna tend me during my illness, but she has kept her distance for the past few days. If I were in her position, I would be suspicious of my fiancé and the goddess he so often visits. Tora has been leery of me from the beginning, though.

  She fears magic. Naturally she would fear its bearer as well.

  She bows low the moment she steps into the tent. Huna asks her why she has come.

  “Cosi sent me,” Tora replies. She holds out her hands.

  Or rather, she holds out the thin packet she has been twisting between her hands. Huna unrolls it as I crane my neck to view its contents.

  There’s a narrow paint brush and a tiny pot. What on earth?

  Huna understands its purpose. “Goddess, it is tradition among our people to make ceremonial markings upon the body for important occasions.”

  “What kind of markings?” I ask, suspicious.

  “Around the eyes.” She motions above and below.

  Enlightenment dawns. “You want to put makeup on me? That’s fine. If I had a mirror I could do it myself.”

  Huna and Tora exchange a glance. Tora looks ready to retreat, but Huna drags her further in.

  “Goddess, kneel there.” She points to the puddle of sunlight that streams from the opening overhead, after which she fetches a footstool for Tora to sit upon
. When her granddaughter protests, she says simply, “Your hands are steadier than mine.”

  Tora reluctantly obeys.

  I’ve had someone else do my makeup before, for public events with my parents when everything has to look perfect. I tilt my head upward. The sun blazes through the hole in the ceiling. I fix my gaze off to one side.

  Tora uncaps the tiny pot and works quickly. I can only imagine what’s in the black concoction she paints around the rim of my right eye. She traces her brush almost all the way to the top of my ear and embellishes the mark, the tip of her tongue caught between her teeth as she works.

  There’s lead in this paint, I just know it. I’m going to get lead poisoning and die.

  She transfers to the opposite side and continues, her brushwork light and quick. Her hand is steady, though her anxiety bubbles beneath that surface of concentration.

  When she sits back to assess the overall effect, I blink, the dazzling light of the sun burned on the backs of my eyelids. Huna hums in approval.

  Yeah, this death-paint better look good. I glance around for something reflective to inspect it myself. My bathwater in the tiny battered tub, opaque with grime, doesn’t quite serve the purpose. I try one of Demetrios’s smuggled blades. The polished metal isn’t as clear as a mirror, but if I angle it against the light, I can see a dim reflection of my black-rimmed eyes.

  And what a sight they are. Lines flare from the outer corners, curling and flicking like fire, punctuated with specks of coal in their midst. Flame and ash mingle together in the motif.

  If I were in my own time, I’d document the sheer awesomeness of this artwork with half a dozen pictures. “Ahh, I love it,” I say, the words ushering from my lips on instinct. Tora blushes in her corner, one hand grasped around her other elbow in a semi-protective stance.

  “Am I ready? Can I go out now?” I ask.

  Tora looks to Huna, who looks back at her with an unspoken question in the quirk of her brows.

  “Cosi told me to accompany you both,” Tora admits.

  I clap my hands, startling her. “Yes! Let’s go!” I’m on my feet in an instant. Huna grips my arm before I can bolt for the exit, though.