Sword of the Gods: Agents of Ki (Sword of the Gods Saga) (23 page)

It was a fitful sleep, filled with visions of the glittering evil eye which had stared down at her from the sky canoe, the cries of infants, and a horrific place that was filled with fire.

~ * ~ * ~

November 3,390 BC

Earth:  Village of Assur

Gita

Gita marveled at the luxuries her cousin had grown up with in the room Ninsianna now shared with her husband. It was a tight fit, with a bed far too small for the enormous Angelic, every square cubit occupied by his magnificent black-brown wings. Her knees screamed in protest as she kneeled at his bedside, begging for her to give up her vigil, but no one had come to offer her a stool. No matter how long it took, she was determined to comfort him until he passed the point of danger.

"I'm so sorry," Gita whispered so not even
he
could hear it. "I didn't know about the prophecy. I would have come to you and told you. You know that, don't you?"

Of course he didn't know that. He didn't know
her…

She had shadowed him like a wraith since the first day he had stepped foot into their village, but Mikhail had hardly noticed her. No one ever did. But he
had
done something no one else in this village had ever done for her except, perhaps, for Jamin. Mikhail had given her a chance. Given her the dignity of his warrior training class, teaching her that she didn't need to be a victim.

The pale, yellow light of the tallow lantern cast a sickly pallor. Her hand trembled as she touched the high, chiseled cheekbones which had inhabited her dreams ever since the day she had met him. His chest rose and fell, labored, painful, bandaged up and reeking of myrrh sap and chamomile. Firouz shifted behind her, reminding her she was watched … and not trusted.

"Any word about Chief Kiyan?" Gita asked. The Chief was a reasonable man, but ever since he'd allowed the Tribunal to banish his son, he'd all-but vanished from the public eye. Would he banish her, too, if she explained why she hadn't told anyone about the white-winged Angelic?

"Even if it
was
your concern," Firouz stared out the tiny window. "You would be the
last
person I would tell."

"He's
my
Chief, too!"

"Because of
you,
" Firouz spat. "Mikhail didn't have any warning!"

Fresh tears joined the ones which had fallen, soaking the neckline of the red cape which reeked of Shahla's blood. Because of her, Shahla was dead. Because of her, Ninsianna had been taken. Because of her, the Chief of not only this village, but
every
Ubaid village, was missing and presumed dead. Because of her, the beautiful winged man who had fallen from the stars had been ambushed and might very well die.

That dark gift, the one which showed her where people were weak, whispered which truth which would cut Firouz to the bone.

"Because of
you,
" Gita said softly, "Mikhail has never
felt welcome in this village. Even now, after all he has done for us."

She knew her remark hit home by the way Firouz stared, stone-faced, out the tiny window which reflected the light of bonfires. Like herself, Firouz had a checkered past when it came to his dealings with Mikhail.

Gita shut her eyes and focused on the feel of Mikhail's
hand in hers. Every ounce of her being hummed with
rightness
, as though she had held his hand many times before even though it was an illusion. Only twice had Mikhail ever taken her hand … once by mistake, the second the day he had helped her bury the eagles.

"The sun's beginning to come up," Firouz said.

Gita followed his eyes to the tiny window. Dark clouds reminiscent of a sandstorm roiled on the horizon, turned blood-red by the reflecting rays of the soon-to-rise sun. A tattered spiderweb covered the window, the spider long-gone, dead, no doubt, along with the summer heat.

Mikhail stirred. Gita touched his brow.

"Sleep,
mo ghrá,
" she whispered to him. "The village is safe.
I
am safe. The only thing we need is for you to rest and heal."

"Is féidir liom a bhraitheann tú,"
Mikhail mumbled. I can feel you.

"Of course you can feel me," Gita said. "I am safe, and until you heal, I will not leave your side. That I promise."

Even though Immanu wanted to kill her…

The fact an A-list warrior such as Firouz had been tasked to guard her spoke volumes about Immanu's intent to carry out his threat. Her uncle had always been a reasonable man, but the Evil One had just abducted his only child. As the second-highest ranking man in the village and one no Assurian wished to cross, she had little hope of making the truth heard. Her only hope was to appeal to Mikhail.

She remembered what her father had done to her mother…

Gita shuddered at the memory of her mother's face as her father had cast the first stone. The Tribunal it would be, and unlike what happened to Jamin, no one would step forward to argue banishment in place of stoning against a village mourning the loss of not only its Chosen One, but also its Champion and its Chief.
She
would be their sacrificial offering to satiate their anger … whether or not she was guilty. She was the perfect scapegoat.

She should run away…

Mikhail moaned as his movement aggravated the place Needa had stitched him back together.
She
winced along with him as his feathers rustled in pain.

"Why didn't you tell us," Firouz spoke softly, "if, as you claim, you had no knowledge the white-winged Angelic was real. Why didn't you tell us someone had seen another one of his species?"

"Who would I have told?" Gita asked. A small spark of anger ignited in her belly, and then was extinguished. "
Him?"

"Yes."

"Do you remember what happened the
last
time I asked for his help with Shahla?"

Firouz gave her a stony stare. "That's because you and Shahla had told Ninsianna he had fathered her baby."

Gita gave him a raised eyebrow. That small, dark instinct which had kept her alive told her to remain silent, to avoid confrontation and let Firouz work it out for himself…

"Okay," Firouz said after her silence made him uncomfortable, "
Shahla
told Ninsianna that. But she only did it because she was mad at
you.
"

Another eyebrow. She could
see
it, the cloud of doubt which lingered over Immanu's accusation that
she
had orchestrated this tragedy. Remain … silent. Just … stare.

"Maybe … maybe you're telling the truth," Firouz finally mumbled. He jabbed the butt-end of his spear into his foot and swayed the weapon back-and-forth, more thoughtful than threatening.

Gita turned back to watch the way the brightening sky cast a reddish light upon Mikhail's flesh as if he had a fever. She touched his forehead, his neck, and then ran her fingers down to the poultice soaked in myrrh to chase away the evil spirits. She was no healer, but she had fended for herself enough times to know that after injury often followed an infection.

Should she wake Needa?

No. Everything she did would only aggravate Immanu further.

"Is Homa still here?"

"No," Firouz said. "She went home to get some sleep."

"Alalah?"

"She's still tending the lesser wounded," Firouz said. He glanced at Mikhail. "For him, I think she would drop everything."

Gita unclasped her fingers and slid them out of his hand to lift the poultice. Immediately he began to thrash.

"Ninsianna?"

"I'm here,
mo ghrá,
" Gita said, praying he would not open his eyes. With the sun rising, there was no way she could continue to fool him. "I just have to check your stitches."

He murmured something in the beautiful language of his people as she lifted the bandages reeking of the clean, astringent myrrh. The sun finished heaving itself over the horizon and peeked through the window to shine a light upon the injury. That dark gift, the one which whispered where someone was weak, drew her eyes to the thin spider-web of lines which radiated away from the knife wound into the clean, hairless expanse of his magnificently muscled chest. Gita hesitated, and then touched what was not hers to touch. She pressed her fingers on either side of the gash and gently pressed the edges together.

Mikhail cried out in pain.

A putrid green pus, tainted with black, seeped out of the wound.

"Wake up Needa," Gita said. "Right away."

Mikhail's eyes shot open. His unearthly blue eyes were glazed with pain and confusion from the fever. Gita met his gaze from beneath the safety of her hood. Mikhail saw what he wanted to see. The red cape. A dark-haired woman leaning over him, tending to his wounds the way his wife would.

"Ninsianna," Mikhail whispered.
"Bhí mé aisling go raibh bás duit."

A large, trembling hand reached up to caress her hood. Gita froze, not sure how to answer. It was more important than ever that she convince him she was Ninsianna.

She bent and kissed the flesh next to the knife wound, careful to tilt her head so the hood only allowed him a glimpse of her raven hair.

"This wound is infected,
mo ghrá
," Gita said, using the only word in his language that she knew. "And I am exhausted. Please, let my mother help me tend this wound?"

Mikhail tilted back his head and closed his eyes, not noticing she had answered him in Ubaid instead of the language of heaven as Ninsianna would have done.

"Leag síos le liom, mo bhean chéile. Ní féidir liom a thuiscint cén fáth go bhfuil tú roghnaithe chun kneel ar an urlár."

Gita answered him by slipping her hand back into his. That peculiar
rightness
trickled into her heart. Mikhail thought she was Ninsianna, and because he did, perhaps that same gift which allowed her to
see
where someone was weak, to see a spark of light even within the spirit of He-who's-not, perhaps that was what allowed her to feel what
he
felt?

'We'll get her back for you,' she said to herself. 'This I swear...'

Her eyes filled with tears as she turned back to Firouz, mindful by the trembling of his wings that Mikhail had not simply fallen back asleep.

"Fetch my mother," Gita lied, doing her best to mimic Ninsianna's cadence of voice. "I have been here all night and my clothing reeks of sweat. I trust no one else to tend to my husband while I bathe and fetch something to eat."

"Yes, Ninsianna," Firouz perpetuated the ruse. "You look tired. Don't forget you are with child."

"Eat,
mo ghrá,
" Mikhail murmured through closed eyes. "And then come lay down beside me to rest instead of kneeling on the floor."

"I fear to reopen your stitches," Gita lied. Wound, or no wound, Ninsianna would have lay down with her husband.

Mikhail's voice sounded small, the way a child's might. "Ninsianna, I need to
feel
you. For some reason I can't seem to get warm."

The death-cold. Even Firouz was savvy enough to recognize the symptom. He abandoned his spear, no longer caring that he was supposed to use it to guard Mikhail against
her,
and hurried out of the room to awaken Needa. After some muffled arguing, Needa bustled in, her eyes red-rimmed from crying. She was followed by her husband, who gave Gita an angry glare. Needa did not address her, simply shoved her aside to tend to Mikhail's wound.

"Ninsianna is right," Needa said. "This wound is infected." She turned to her husband. "Immanu ... you must discern the nature of these evil spirits so know which herbs to use to banish them."

Needa glanced at the sun which had heaved itself above the horizon and shone its brilliance on Mikhail's bed. It was the kind of light not even Gita could hide in.