Kyroun turned to Tiyana. The anguish in his gray eyes was almost unbearable to see. But Tiyana held his gaze. Her own eyes mirrored her empathy for his sorrow. She waited for him to say more, sensing that he wanted to speak openly to her about the suffering he had kept to himself for such a long time.
“And the others, whose graves are on the bottom of the sea ... I failed them as well,” he said sadly. Then he looked away and bowed his head.
Tiyana took his hand in hers.
“The choice was theirs, Kyroun,” she said to him. “They knew the risks. They knew there was no guarantee that your journey would succeed, or that they would live through it.”
“But I would have succeeded in saving them, had I been strong enough,” Kyroun protested, looking at her again.
“You were as strong as you needed to be,” Tiyana said. “You were strong enough to do what no one else could have done.”
They were conducting their conversation in the Matile language. The sorcery Kyroun had employed to provide translation when he first arrived was no longer necessary; by now, most of the Fidi had achieved a working mastery of their hosts’ tongue, although their accents were unmistakable and sometimes difficult to understand. Kyroun, on the other hand, spoke the language as fluently as he would have had he been born in Khambawe.
Kyroun and Tiyana stood in silence for a time, still holding hands. Tiyana was clad in a plain white chamma, and silver and gold jewelry glinted at her wrists and throat. Her hair had grown to shoulder-length, and multi-colored beads dotted her many braids. Her demeanor was more serious, as if she had acquired several years of maturity in a matter of only a few months.
The season of First Calling was over, and the rains had departed after giving renewed life to the land. Abengoni’s hot, sun-drenched, dry-season weather had been kind – almost rejuvenating – to Kyroun. The pallor was gone from his skin, and his carriage had become that of a younger, healthier man. But his eyes were still haunted by guilt and regret, of which he seldom spoke to the other Almovaads, and only now to Tiyana.
Tiyana squeezed his hand, as though her touch could banish the guilt that plagued him like an ailment for which he could find no cure.
She thought about all that had transpired since the Fidis’ ship had arrived in the harbor. The newcomers had long since been permitted to leave their crippled ship. Even though Alemeyu had made them Gebrem’s responsibility, he had also proclaimed the newcomers as Emperor’s Guests, with free access to everything the Matile could provide for their comfort. And the Tokoloshe had taken a special interest in the Fidi who were called “Dwarven,” the ones who so uncannily resembled themselves. The dwarves often visited the secluded Tokoloshe embassy, sometimes staying overnight.
The others, Believers and ship’s crew alike, had been domiciled throughout Khambawe; many people willing to take the strangers into their homes, and having Fidi guests soon became a symbol of social standing. However, Pel Muldure, the captain of the White Gull, his first mate, Lyann, and most of the crew had elected to stay on the ship to oversee its repairs. The absence of Athir Rin onboard had been noted with relief.
The Emperor had given Kyroun a suite of rooms in the Gebbi Senafa. However, the Seer spent most of his time with Gebrem and Tiyana. His hours with the Leba were consumed by long discussions about sorcery, history, power, and gods. Only to Tiyana had he revealed any uncertainties or misgivings, and never before as much so as he had this day.
Only Tiyana knew the extent of Kyroun’s disappointment when he learned that the house of his distant ancestor, Yekunu, had long ago been razed and replaced by a succession of other dwellings over the centuries. He had hoped to turn the site into a shrine to Almovaar.
Now, his guilt and shame over the deaths of his followers had become another secret they shared.
And secrets are all we share, she thought, even as a flash of annoyance about what others thought momentarily furrowed her forehead.
Tiyana had rarely stayed at the Beit Amiya since the Emperor’s charge to her and her father of responsibility for the Seer. Still, she knew many of the other Vessels whispered behind her back about the growing bond between her and the leader of the Fidis, a man who appeared to be older than her father. She knew how deep some of them thought that bond had become.
And she ignored those rumors even as she performed only the minimum duties her service as a Vessel of Nama-kwah demanded. She did not seem to notice that a distance had developed between her and her friends, a gulf that was growing with the passing of each day.
She looked into Kyroun’s eyes. With her free hand, she touched the skin of his face above his beard.
“You are not to blame, Kyroun,” she said. “You were obeying the will of Almovaar, just as I obey the will of Nama-kwah.”
Kyroun remained silent for a long moment. Then he took Tiyana’s other hand, and they stood like that for a while, sharing a moment of mutual compassion.
“You really do understand, Tiyana,” Kyroun said. “I am fortunate it was you who reached out to me just before I would have given up my struggle.”
They smiled together. Then, hand-in-hand, they walked out of the City of the Dead, leaving the grave-flowers to wave in the wind.
2
Morning light streamed through the small porthole in the captain’s cabin of the White Gull. In the narrow bed in the cabin that was his again now that Kyroun had moved to the palace, Pel Muldure and Lyann lay in each other’s arms. Lyann’s breathing came in the slow cadence of sleep. Muldure was wide awake. Already, he was planning
