44

The cycles were left behind. Instead, Hocnupec had an old military truck—a Sehosian transport rumbler from the Great Noble—

“The Tyrant’s War,” Nália said absently from beside him. “No one here calls it Noble.”

So now she could even pull idle thoughts from him. Wonderful.

The Sehosian rumbler had a tented bed, and with the canvas shut, Wenthi and the others wouldn’t be able to see anything of where they were or where they were going. Which was probably the point. Hocnupec gestured for them to get in the back.

“Load in, friends,” he said. Ajiñe got in without hesitation, which seemed to be enough to spur Gabrána. Wenthi got in right behind them, not wanting to show any lack of enthusiasm. Wherever they were going, this was the key to his mission. He had already been more successful with infiltrating the Fists of Zapi than any other officer, and that was something to be proud of.

“It’s really not,” Nália offered.

But if this led to the Inner Circle, the leaders, and hopefully Varazina, then . . . then all this would be worth it.

“I’m starting to think you don’t love me, Wenthi,” Nália said. “All the pity.”

The truck went through the back alley and up and down the hills, twisting through so many curves of road that Wenthi lost all sense of direction. By the time they stopped, for all he knew, they could be anywhere in Outtown, Lowtown, or Hightown. And when Hocnupec opened up the canvas, the surroundings didn’t help. They were in a closed garage, with no sign of the outside.

They were led through a dark hallway, down steps into a wide cellar, lit with colored candles. Seated on the floor already were Mensi, Fenito, and Nicalla.

“Now we’re all here,” Nicalla said. “What took you?”

“Renzi took his sweet time joining us,” Gabrána snapped. Her mood could strip paint.

“There’s no rush, all will be in due time,” Hocnupec said. “Take off your shoes, sit, and contemplate.”

They all did, and sat in uncomfortable silence, as Hocnupec looked upon them all with a beaming smile, constantly seeming like he was about to speak but never doing so. Multiple times one of the others—usually Gabrána—looked like they were about to say something, but then Hocnupec’s gaze went on them, which was just enough to keep them from speaking up.

Finally, it was Ajiñe who snapped.

“What is this, exactly?” she asked.

“You are here to learn who you really are.”

They all turned to the source of the voice—an old baniz woman, wearing only a brightly colored woven blanket draped over her body, reminding Wenthi of pictures in the history books from school.

“Who are we really?” he asked.

“You don’t want them to know,” Nália said, though the old woman had her rapt attention.

She came and sat in the center of them, holding a tray with cups of steaming tea. The aroma coming off them made it clear that it was made from the mushroom—the scent was the same but stronger, richer. Far more potent, most likely.

“And what is that?” Fenito asked.

“This will connect us to each other. Like you have connected before, but deeper, purer. Drink of this, and I can show you my heart, and the heart of the land.”

“But who are you?” Gabrána asked.

“They gave me a name when I was born,” the woman said. “And the invaders gave me another. But I found a name whispered by the spirits that guided me, and that is what I should be known by.”

“Which is?” Fenito asked after an uncomfortable pause.

“Jendiscira.”

“Forgive me,” Nicalla said. “But that doesn’t sound like a Zapi name, or a baniz one, or . . .”

“Baniz,” Miss Jendiscira said with an ugly scoff. “That is another label the invaders gave me. Like they called you jifoz. They separated you and yours from me and mine, tried to make you think, thank my spirits at least I’m not baniz. All to divide us.” She presented the tea tray again. “Take of this, of our land, and we can be united.”

Ajiñe took one of the cups and drank it. Wenthi wanted to hesitate, but his hand—perhaps at Nália’s bidding—snatched one as well. It went down hot and bitter, and as soon as the liquid touched his mouth, he felt like something was pushing in through his teeth, up his skull. It dropped into his stomach, and the feeling, like a spreading wildfire, went out of his body.

Nicalla and the others took theirs, with Gabrána the last. When they had all consumed theirs, Miss Jendiscira did the same.

“I will tell you the tale my grandmother told me, which was told to her by hers, which was told to her by hers, and thus came before any outsider sullied our land with their ways.”

Wenthi didn’t like how that sounded, nor did he like the queasy sensation of the room swaying, the candles melting into the walls, fire dancing around them.

“Long ago, there were five sisters who made the world,” Miss Jendiscira said, her words turning into shapes that swirled into images around them like a cinescope show. “They cried out the oceans and they reached deep down into the waters to pull up the land, island after island. And they looked upon the land they pulled up, and knew it was beautiful.

“Their ecstasy at the beauty of the land was so great, it filled their wombs, and children sprang forth from them, to become the people of the land. The sisters looked upon their children, these beautiful people, and they said, ‘We must give all we can to them. We must tear our hearts out so our blood can bless the land and give them the gifts they need to survive.’”

Wenthi’s body was frozen. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t move—and furthermore, had no desire to do either—as the old woman’s story played out in front of him in shadow and fire.

“The eldest said, ‘My children must have bounty to harvest,’ and tore out her heart and squeezed the blood onto the land, and the corn sprung up from where her blood spilled. She fell and died happy, knowing her children would be blessed with its nourishing riches.

“The second said, ‘My children must have strength to forge,’ and tore out her heart and squeezed the blood onto the land, and it soaked deep into the ground into veins of iron. She fell and died happy, knowing her children would be blessed with it, to build great things.

“The third said, ‘My children must delight with fire on their tongues,’ and tore out her heart and squeezed the blood onto the land, and where it fell, the chiles grew, red and yellow and green. She fell and died happy, knowing her children would be blessed with rich flavors to dance in their mouths.

“The fourth said, ‘My children must know each other,’ and tore out her heart and squeezed the blood onto the land, and where it fell the mushrooms grew. She fell and died happy, knowing her children would use them to join heart and flesh and spirit, and be of one people.

“And the people looked to the last sister, and asked, ‘What of you, dear Mother? What gift will your blood bring?’ And she said, ‘My gift you will not understand, not for many years. I will give you water that is fire, fire that is water.’ And the people asked, ‘Why do you do this? How will this help us?’ As she cut out her heart, she said, ‘For you will need it when the world is full of enemies, and they will come for you. My sisters gave you nourishment, and strength, and flavor, and connection, but my gift will one day give you speed.’ She squeezed her heart and her blood—thick and black—soaked deep, deep into the ground. ‘And when you have that, your enemies shall never catch you.’”

Then the image of the last sister faded, and the black blood rose up from the ground, filling the room, covering Wenthi’s face. For only a moment, he panicked as he drowned in the thick black, which then turned into pure darkness of nothing.

He threw out his hand out of instinct and made contact with another. He pulled himself toward the owner of the hand, to that body, wrapping himself around them out of pure instinct, to hold on to something, anything, to survive. Another body wrapped around him, and another, all intertwined and entangled limbs.

Then a sudden clap, and instead of thick, drowning darkness, the room was back to normal, except all of them—Wenthi and all of Ajiñe’s crew—were now coiled up in a seven-person embrace with Miss Jendiscira. Ajiñe had her legs wrapped around Wenthi’s waist, strong and powerful, while her fingers were buried deep in his hair.

“What was that?” she asked.

“Our story,” Miss Jendiscira said. “The story of our people, as our ancestors used to tell it.”

“Our people?” Wenthi asked.

“The true Zapi people, native to this land,” she said. Her hands grabbed Nicalla’s face and Mensi’s neck. “Oh, dear children, you never could learn because your stories, your heritage, your very blood is corrupted by the outsiders who came and shat on our land. They steal our food, our iron, our oil . . . but we still have something, children. We have the mushroom to bind us together, and we have the true gift of the last sister.”

“That’s the oil,” Fenito said. “She filled the land with oil, so we could build autos and cycles and trucks . . .”

“And have precious speed,” Miss Jendiscira said. “I think you all know—and Renzi truly knows—that the real power of the mushrooms that the sisters blessed us with is unlocked, deeper and deeper, the faster you go.”

“That’s true,” Wenthi said in unison with Nália, who he only just realized was equally entangled with the others. At least, from his perspective, her phantom was. The others gave no sign that they sensed her.

“And that is our purpose,” Miss Jendiscira said. “To not only rid this place, our sacred land, of the outsiders who plague and control us, and once again be the rightful rulers, but to reclaim and rebuild the true heritage of our country. Of our people.”

“The undercastes are the rightful people of this land,” Nicalla said as she pulled herself out from the pile of bodies. “The baniz and the jifoz.”

“Those words hurt us, child,” Miss Jendiscira said. “They are corruptions of foreign words, imposed on us by invaders. Do you know how they came about?”

“During the first Outhic occupancy,” Wenthi said. “At the end of the empire.”

“You seem to be corrupted with their very education, Mister Llionorco, using their terms,” she said. “Believe me, I fear for the children raised now. Though you aren’t wrong. First the Sehosian Empire came and enslaved us as one of its provinces, and the ruling families of the empire took our people as spouses, lovers, partners. The blood of our people was mixed with theirs. But then the Outhic people came as conquerors, and they hated the Sehosians, hated the mixed children of the Sehosians, and most of all hated the native Zapi people. So they forced us into the castes, breaking us against each other. Even the very words come from them. Did you know that?”

“No,” Ajiñe said.

“Baniz comes from their word for ‘befouled,’ and jifoz meant ‘soiled.’ This is what they think of us, child. And we keep using these words today.”

“I didn’t know that,” Nália whispered. “Why don’t we know that?”

“That’s what they think of us,” Ajiñe said. “It makes sense.”

Miss Jendiscira continued, “And that is why they keep us under their heel, forcing the people who belong to this land into the most wretched and destitute lives.”

Tears came to Wenthi’s eyes. He wasn’t sure if they were truly from himself or from Nália.

“We were taught that was just how things are,” he whispered.

Miss Jendiscira took his hand, holding it tenderly. “What they wanted you all to think. And to separate you from us. You’re told that caste mixing is what?”

“An abomination,” Wenthi said.

“When the truth is that you, and the rhique, you are the result of our open hearts generations ago. You are all our children.”

“Please,” Nicalla said. “The rhique? They all think—”

“They have the blood of this land,” Miss Jendiscira said. “All of us are, to some degree, children of the five sisters, and we must all honor that.” Her gaze was oddly intent on Wenthi. He felt that and had a strange sense that she saw through him, that she knew. She reached out to Hocnupec, taking his hand and pulling him toward her. “Of course, we baniz—as much as I hate that name—they are the ones who suffer most, and are the truest heirs of the legacy of the sisters. This fight is for the land of Zapisia, and especially for us.”

“What does this have to do with stealing fuel and food and such?” Mensi asked. “I want to get tories and the other occupiers off my neck, off the necks of my family. I don’t care about myths and blood of the land. That doesn’t help people in need.”

“You’re right,” she said. “So let’s move on. Everyone, shoes back on, let’s get moving.”

“What?” Ajiñe asked. She looked worried, like something had suddenly been ruined. “What are we doing?”

“We’re going to help people, Miss Osceba. So let’s load back into the truck, hmm?”