OUR DANCING FEET ARE loudest, but beyond them I hear voices, which I take to be the voices of the other gods. I even hear their breathing. I hear the winged steeds munching hay in the stable. Farther off are more voices. “Please . . .” “. . . rain . . .” “. . . old . . .” “Forgive. . .” They are prayers of Akkan mortals! So many I can’t sort them out.
I see vast distances, too! It’s hard to dance and see. A woman alone in a hut. A flock of sheep. Ursag’s temple in Neme. I cling to Hannu’s hand. I’m half blind with seeing and half deaf with hearing.
My nose is flooded. Familiar odors and odors I don’t know. Most of all, the stinging scent of pine trees.
Hannu stops dancing and hugs me. “My daughter!”
When she lets me go, Olus tells everyone we must leave.
I do not ride Kastu. A winged horse would frighten the people of Hyte. On Olus’s wind I teach myself to direct my eyes and ears.
Night is falling. Olus brings us to earth in a glade surrounded by evergreens. Twigs crack. Leaves rustle. Daytime animals are settling down.
We settle too, Olus a few inches away from me. I stare at the stars, which seem no closer than they ever did.
“How do you sleep through all the sounds?” I hear every night creature. I haven’t stopped hearing Akkan voices, and now I hear snores and people rolling over.
“I’m accustomed to them; but when I was little, I imagined they were in my winds, and they put me to sleep.”
After a few minutes of not falling asleep, I say, “I’m still afraid of the priest’s knife. It will hurt, won’t it, even though I’ll live?”
“Yes. But the wound will heal quickly.”
I wonder if Pado and Mati will be able to bear bringing me to the temple. Maybe they will decide to let me live.
They mustn’t! If I’m not sacrificed, Pado’s oath will become empty. Braving Wadir, becoming immortal, even saving Aunt Fedo will have been for nothing.
Olus says, “Kezi . . . we can’t live in Hyte.”
“No?” I think. “No. We can’t.” The priests and priestesses mustn’t see me alive after my sacrifice. My family mustn’t know, or they’ll be terrified. So tomorrow will be my last time in Hyte with my family.
“You can knot rugs on Enshi Rock.”
But my loom won’t be next to Mati’s. Aunt Fedo won’t be sitting with us, describing what her owl eyes have seen. Pado won’t be nearby in his counting room.
I’m being ungrateful. I say, “We’ll be happy.”
“We will.” He adds, “But you’ll miss them.”
“Yes.” I always will.
I listen to the notes and rhythms in the night. I picture a line of all the animals and people in Akka, dancing. In the middle of the imaginary line, stepping and gliding, are Mati and Pado and Aunt Fedo. I join them and slide into a dream.
When I wake up, it is my last day—would have been my last day. I awaken with an idea. I’m not a goddess of Hyte, but I can do something for the people of my city. The city that used to be mine.
As soon as we cross over the falls of Zago, I can see and hear as far as Hyte. I find my street. In the alley behind my pado’s house, while beating rugs, Nia is praying that my sacrifice will be glorious. In his counting room Pado lies prostrate, praying for a sign that I may be spared. In our courtyard Mati and Aunt Fedo simply weep. None seem to doubt that I will return. Thank you for your faith in me.
Olus sets us down outside the city gates. No fire in the market today. No music. No pretend wool merchant to cause a miracle. We walk to my street. I am home.