“Altair,” she said, closing the short distance between them and placing her hands on his chest. “Please. Help her. Bring her back. I’ll do anything you want me to. Please.” Her voice weakened with every word she spoke.
He shook his head sadly, slowly. “I cannot do that, my star. I’m so sorry.”
“I don’t understand. You have pure magic.”
“I still follow the laws of nature. I cannot bring back what is already lost,” he said, his hand gently stroking through her hair. His thumb wiped a tear she didn’t realize had fallen.
Iyana pushed herself off him. “She’s not lost. She’snot. I just need to find the right cure. Can you at least tell me if it was poison? I can make antidotes. I know how to make antidotes and antivenom. She can come back if youtell mewhat’s wrong with her.” The words rushed out of her. “Please,” she sobbed, “just tell me.”
“That’s not how this works, Iyana,” Altair said softly. “Look for yourself. Take a deep breath and feel for her life.”
She calmed and did as he instructed, delving into the depths of her soul where her loved ones and cherished memories resided. The place Iyana could retreat to when she’d had a particularly hard day. And there it was—a hole in her heart where Imo had previously taken residence. The part of her soul that soared when she heard her grandmother’s soft chuckles, her praise for a job well done, watched her work miracles throughout the village. It was shriveling and dying. Iyana knew her heart would never be whole again. There would always be something missing. She covered her face with her hands and let out loud, racking sobs. It was only when her knees hurt that Iyana realized she’d collapsed. Large, warm, comforting arms wrapped around her and she leaned into Altair, burying her face in his shirt.
He stroked her hair. “Shh, it’s okay, my star. I’ve got you.”
After what felt like hours, her tears dried. Still sniffling, she emerged back into the real world. They had moved her grandmother to her cot and laid her into a funeral pose—arms crossed, eyes closed. She knelt and grasped her grandmother’s stiff hand—the knuckles gnarled with arthritis, callouses overlying the thin, wrinkled skin. A hand that had been capable of so many things, and now would never do them again. Iyana had been around death before; it came with the territory of being a healer. But she had lost no one close to her, no one she loved so deeply. She didn’t remember her parents, and so it felt as though there wasnobody to mourn. Of course, she had mourned the loss of a life that may have been, especially as a child, but she did not know her parents as people—only an idea.
Iyana pressed a kiss on Mata Imo’s brow then stood on wobbling legs that threatened to give out. Emmeric and Altair were standing in the corner, allowing her to pay her final respects. It was Emmeric who spoke first. “Is there anything else we can do? Other funeral rites that need to be performed?”
If Iyana weren’t so dazed and numb, she might have appreciated it was her enemy asking about her culture’s rites; but, as she was holding emotions off as best she could, the surprise this statement would’ve otherwise caused flowed over her. “A pyre,” she said. “We need to build a pyre. We should cremate her this evening, under the moon and—” She choked. “And the stars. She would like that, I think.”
Her gaze wandered around Imo’s hut, and saw the destruction of the vials, jars, and tubes strewn about the floor, instantly regretting her rash actions. Iyana looked at the old, raggedy broom in the corner, trying to muster up the energy to sweep the mess. Altair laid his hand on her arm, sending more calming magic through her. “Don’t worry about the mess,” he said. With a simple wave of his hand the jars reassembled, full of the correct contents, all of them placed gently back on the shelves.
“What…?” Emmeric said, mouth agape.
“Oh gods, I need to tell the village.” Iyana moaned.
“You go,” said Altair. “Be with your people. Emmeric and I can build a pyre, and if anyone wants to help, send them our way.”
“Thanks for volunteering me, buddy…” Emmeric mumbled. Altair knocked the Athusan’s shoulder to steer him out towards the desert. The sun was setting. They had either talked for longer than she thought, or her sob session actually had lasted for hours.
She needed to tell everyone. They would all want to be there at the pyre, sending their Mata Imo to the Everlands. But Iyana couldn’t bring herself to tell anyone just yet. She needed to sit in her emotions for a moment before she shouldered anyone else’s. Iyana sat in her grandmother’s chair, staring at the empty husk of a body on the cot. Suddenly exhausted, she closed her eyes, and her final conversation with her grandmother played in her head.
“He’ll come around,” said Imo.
Iyana’s eyes bounced from the door to Altair, to her grandmother. “I’m honestly not sure I want him to.”
“You’re going to need him, Iyana,” said Altair. “You have powerful magic within you, but you need your Kanaliza to fully access it.”
“But why?” Iyana asked, exasperated. “I don’t understand what this is all for. Emmeric obviously still doesn’t understand. What is the magicfor?” She threw her hands in the air, then crossed them protectively over her chest.
“It’s for ridding the world of tyrants,” said Imo softly. Altair bowed his head in agreement. “There is more you need to know, my dear.” Altair sat up straighter with those words.
“Please, Grandmother, anything. I just want this to make sense.”
“Legend has it long ago before the gods gifted magic to the Aztia, the—” Imo’s breath caught in her throat, stopping the story short. Her hands flew to her chest, her neck. She was gasping for air, but couldn’t pull any in. Her lips were turning blue.
“Grandmother!” Iyana jumped off the cot and rushed to Imo’s aid. The old woman finally took a rattling breath, her complexion returning to her normal tanned brown. Iyana heaved a sigh of relief.
“You’re ready, my dear,” Imo whispered. “Arinem needs you.”
“For what, Grandmother?”
Imo smiled sadly, and her features turned slack and peaceful. Mata Imo raised a shaky hand to her mouth, biting down on her thumb and drawing blood, then pressed her bleeding thumb to Iyana’s brow, muttering words in an unrecognizable language. Iyana briefly heard Altair inhale sharply. But at that moment, Imo closed her eyes and her breathing ceased. Iyana screamed.
Iyana jerked herself out of the memory—there were so many questions surrounding the sequence of events. Imo may have been old, but she was in good health. Did someone tamper with the alcohol? But, no, if that were the case, the rest of them should have been affected as well. She felt fine; although, she admittedly took a small sip, but Emmeric and Altair both drank a fair amount and they were alive and whole. Briefly she wondered if poisons affected Altair—she made a note to ask him later.
Purple-pink light filtered through the open door into the hut. Iyana glanced again at her grandmother. In this lighting, Imo appeared as though shecould be sleeping. Heaving a deep sigh, Iyana pushed herself out of the chair and walked outside to tell the village their beloved healer of the past fifty years was dead.
