“Let’s go,” she said, and began walking. There was nothing she could do about it now.
“Be safe, dear.” Her grandmother’s words sounded hollow, but Naavah Ora stopped and nodded all the same. She respected her grandmother’s decision, but that didn’t mean she had to like it or be grateful.
“Say goodbye to my parents for me.” Her mother was visiting a sister clan in Z’rasie, and her father was hunting. He wouldn’t be back before nightfall.
“Of course.”
They hugged briefly, and then Naavah Ora walked away from her clan. If the thief and the sacrifice wanted to come with her, they’d have to keep up.
I wasn't supposed to die, but sometimes sacrifice is necessary. Death doesn't mean to me what it means to you. It's not final. An oversight on my part. You might think of it as sleeping. After all, you might say I’m dead, but here we are. Here you are, hearing me out.
If you love your family as I love mine, you’ll understand. We’re close, and there are many of us. I count my extended family here too, as I’m sure you would.
Chapter 11
840
840 had forgotten how big the world outside his village was. Naavah Ora’s clan lived in a forest, but it wasn’t so dense he couldn’t see the sky. The farther away they walked, the more he saw. Forests in the distance and nearby. Wide meadows and fields of flowers, wheat, and cotton. The birds around them sang their praises to the sun. A gentle breeze soothed his arms and face and ruffled his hair. Smaller critters rustled the underbrush nearby. The play of light and shadow through the shifting leaves seemed alive. Everything seemed alive.
“You don’t talk much, do you?” Doran asked from behind him. They had been on the road for little more than an hour, and neither of them had said much. Naavah Ora had taken a silent lead ahead of them. 840 had wanted to fall back a little to observe his new situation, but Doran hadn’t allowed it. Perhaps Doran was worried that he’d try to run off and find his village, but he couldn’t fathom why Doran would care.
Naavah Ora responded without turning around. “We’re not here to be friends. As soon as we reach the next city I’ll be on my way.”
840 felt a small wave of relief; Naavah Ora looked at him like he was a demon. She was cautious around him and didn’t trust him. He didn’t trust her either. Her glare made him uneasy.
“And you?” Doran asked. 840 tensed. He wasn’t any good in social situations. “What’s your name? I don’t know what to call you besides—”
“840.”
“Yes, but your real name? The name your parents gave you?”
He hesitated. How could he tell Doran if he couldn’t even think it himself? It no longer mattered. That boy was dead. “My name is 840.”
“You can’t just be a number, Ginger. You must have—”
“Ginger?”
Doran quickened his pace until he was walking next to him. “Yes, Ginger. I can’t just call you 840.”
“Why not?” He hadn’t had a nickname since his parents had called him—
“Because objects are numbered. Days are numbered. You’re a person, and people have names.”
His forehead creased but he didn’t argue. Doran likely had a lot more experience with situations like this than he’d ever have.
“Why Ginger?”
Doran looked at him like he’d gone mad. The corners of his lips curved into a smile.
“Because of your hair. It’s red. You know. Ginger.”
His heart beat faster. He felt like he was defying his Lord, but it was nice to have a name again. Still, the little voice at the back of his mind that sounded like First Elder Pios reminded him that this was just another test to pass. He wouldn’t fail.
“My name is 840.”
Doran sighed. “Fine. Ora can call you that if she wants, but I—”
“My name is Naavah Ora. You don’t get to call me less than my full name.”
“Fine! Naavah Ora can call you 840 and pretend you’re a thing if she wants, but I won’t. You’re Ginger to me unless you tell me your real name.”
He’d never met anyone as persistent as Doran. Sacrifices didn’t need names. They belonged to the Lord and to the Elders, never themselves. Names were pointless accessories, nothing more. Why couldn’t Doran understand that? Outsiders don’t understand us. They are barbarians. But in his mind barbarians were cruel, and Doran was nice.
“How long before we reach the next city?” Naavah Ora asked.
“Two or three weeks, depending on how fast we walk and whether we can hire a cart somewhere,” Doran said.
“No cart,” 840 said. He had enough unwelcome memories to fight without inviting more.
And if they walked, he’d have more time to appreciate how big the world around him was.
I’ve done the right thing—that you are alive to listen to me tells me so—but none of this was easy. Every decision I’ve made has tortured me. Sometimes, sacrifices are necessary.
Chapter 12
Doran
The first time Doran travelled with somebody else, he was thirteen years old. He had run from home two years earlier; after a busy life constantly surrounded by family, the silence had quickly proven too loud. He had been desperate for company.
The guy he’d followed was twice his age and probably a bandit. Doran remembered him looting bodies at the side of the road and disappearing in the middle of the night for several hours. Doran was sure the only reason he hadn’t been murdered and looted himself was because he hadn’t had anything valuable. Besides the shady behaviour, the man had been chatty and sang often and badly. It had driven Doran mad, and after two weeks he decided he was better off on his own after all. He had stolen five bottles of expensive whiskey from a tavern one night, got the impressed bandit blind drunk, and sneaked away while the bandit was too out of it to notice.
Naavah Ora and Ginger were nothing like the bandit. In fact, Doran wouldn’t have minded if at least one of them spoke a little more.
Naavah Ora marched ahead like she was on a mission and had put herself in charge. They’d only been travelling together for three hours, but she clearly saw herself as the superior link in their small group. If what her grandmother had said about her powerful magic was true, then her assumption was probably correct.
Doran had seen what magic could do a couple of times since leaving Cairdh, and he stayed far from it whenever possible. That he had run into two different kinds of magic in one day meant his luck was turning.
Naavah Ora hadn’t shown any sign that she could light a small fire on dry branches without using rocks, but Doran remained cautious. He wasn’t as superstitious as his magic-hating countrymen, but a little suspicion couldn’t hurt.
Ginger was shy and seemed happy to follow, but Doran hadn’t missed the way his eyes scrutinised everything. Doran had heard stories about small communities in the West that distanced themselves from society. They raised girls from birth to be sacrificed once they came of age. From what he’d heard, those girls usually looked forward to it like it was an honour. The stories never mentioned male sacrifices, but he remembered the dead girl in the mud all too well. The cultists must have sacrificed her moments before Doran had joined the party. Why sacrifice a boy as well? Had they made an exception? Why would they? Ginger didn’t strike him as eager to die, but he hadn’t exactly fought Doran, either.