by C. T. Rwizi
The suns have just set, while the moon is rising full in the east, partly covered by a blanket of golden clouds. Most people have seated themselves on their mats or stools, though many of the unmarried young men litter the edges of the gathering as they always do. Salo has chosen to stand at the very back of the gathering with a few cowherds, not far from the clan mystic’s vacant hut.
The Ajaha are in full regalia today, forming thickets of burnished red steel and glimmering spearpoints all around the compound, each with his best posture since their queen and mystic is in the kraal. VaSiningwe and the ten elders of his council sit on the timbered porch of the council house behind the queen, facing the gathered clanspeople with grim expressions. AmaSibere is among them, too, with a clearly repressed smile, and that is enough to confirm Salo’s worst fears about what’s about to happen, because nothing that can make a Sibere look that smug can ever be good for a Siningwe.
“When our Foremothers settled the Yerezi Plains centuries ago,” the queen says, in a powerful voice that carries across the compound, “they understood one thing many of our sister tribes did not. They understood that mystics are not here to live as demigods but to serve the people on Ama Vaziishe’s behalf. We are here to be the vessels of her benevolence, the conduits through which she blesses her children so they may live long and prosperous lives.
“Why else would she have blessed us with knowledge of red steel and an ancestral talent so potent it has made Yerezi mystics the envy of the Redlands? While mystics everywhere else enslave and terrorize their people, we bless and uplift ours. While they extract worship from unwilling lips, we inspire joyous songs of praise.
“We are not just mystics, Yerezi-kin. We are emissaries of the Red Moon. Through us, Ama Vaziishe heals your ailments, powers your machines, irrigates your crops, and shields them from disease. Through us, she gives strength to your Ajaha, warriors so mighty they can prevail over creatures of the underworld. Through us, your Asazi can study the arcane and advance knowledge, and you are protected from callous and destructive uses of magic.”
The queen lets her somber gaze roam the rapt compound, and Salo remains still, face impassive, safe in the knowledge that his eyes are hidden behind reflective lenses.
“But ten comets have passed since a mystic last resided in this kraal,” the queen continues. “Ten comets since this clan was cut off from Ama’s full embrace. While your Ajaha have thrived—and this is in part because the blessing they carry draws from my power, a compromise I made to tide you over until a mystic awoke from among you—while their strength is unquestionable, many aspects of your community have suffered. You have failed to retain Asazi in your villages, forcing you to barter for medicines and other basic goods that should be freely available. You have relied too much on bride-price to restock your herds of livestock, which die at a greater rate because they lack the necessary protections from disease.”
Unsurprisingly, the old councilmen seated behind the queen, who themselves own sizable herds of oxen, murmur in disagreement.
She doesn’t acknowledge them. “And then a quarter moon ago, my beloved kin, a foreign mystic came to Khaya-Siningwe and performed a ritual so evil it took the lives of twenty-seven of your clanspeople. I say twenty-seven, but what does this finite number really mean? Can it truly express the loss we suffered in any meaningful way? The lives cut short? The families torn apart? It cannot, Yerezi-kin, for the lives that were taken from us were each and every one of them infinitely valuable. And do not think that this loss was felt only here in Khaya-Siningwe; we all felt it. This crime was committed against every man, woman, and child with Yerezi blood in their veins.
“Which is why I can no longer sit idly by and watch this continuing decline, for the Yerezi way demands that I intervene. As the Foremothers wisely said: I am, because we are. That is the Yerezi way. First and foremost, above all allegiance to clan, chief, and mystic, we are one people, and it is my responsibility as queen to ensure that we thrive as a whole. While war after war has ravaged much of the Redlands, our unity has kept us safe throughout the centuries, and it will continue to do so as long as we hold it sacred.”
The queen glances briefly behind her, first at VaSiningwe, and then at AmaSibere. When she turns back to face the clan, Salo holds his breath.
“Therefore, after considerable deliberation with VaSiningwe and his council, as well as VaSibere and his council, I have come to the decision that your two clans shall become one and the same.”
And there it is. The clan’s death sentence, the eventuality people have been whispering about for years, though no one ever expected it to actually happen.
Do you know what difference you could have made, Salo?
A defiant murmur rises from somewhere beneath the musuku tree at the center of the compound, low at first, and then it spreads, and then it roils into an uproar as clansman infects clansman with rage and indignation. Enough for most to forget their fear—this is the Siningwe clan, after all, not exactly known for its cowardice.
“We will never join with Sibere, Your Majesty!” comes a voice. “We will burn before we let those hyenas rule us!”
Salo looks and sees that it is Jio who has spoken. Sibu, Niko, and the other young Ajaha around him rattle their spears in agreement, repeatedly striking the ground with their blunt ends. A few of the older men and women shake their heads, but everyone else seems inspired by their bravery. The boys in front of Aba D’s hut start to jeer at AmaSibere. Hundreds of voices rise to clamor for attention, and the queen lets them persist for a full minute.
Then a storm of ravens surges from behind her and gathers on either side of her into her two honor guards: an athletic Ajaha warrior with a savage blade clinging to his back, and a dark Asazi maiden, resplendent in pale beads and red steel.
Silence grips the compound. The honor guards need not make any threats; this not-so-subtle reminder of their presence is threat enough, and so is the eerie calm on their youthful faces. Theirs is the calm of trained killers who know that their bones draw deeply from a powerful mystic.
“This is not unprecedented, Yerezi-kin,” the queen says without a trace of hesitation or annoyance. Her decision has been made, and her commands carry the force of law. “Those of you learned in history will know that we were once a collection of a hundred small but weak clans, most with no clan mystics to make them viable. But over time we realized that larger clans built around a chief and a clan mystic were far more successful, so we united, until only eight clans remained. The time has come for another unification.”
She seems to wait for another uproar; none comes, though fury blazes openly on the faces of many clanspeople. Salo watches from a distant place inside his mind, his limbs rigid as stone.
“I am not blind to the historical rivalry between the Siningwe and Sibere clans,” the queen continues. “But this union is critical. This clan needs a mystic’s protection, and I am confident AmaSibere will not fail you in her duties. I urge you to put aside your differences at this great juncture and work together with your new clanspeople. Know that I do not make this decision out of malice but from necessity. We face calamitous times ahead, Yerezi-kin. It is clear to those of us who can read the signs: lost rituals of Black magic resurfacing, the Umadi growing more organized, whispers of war between the Great Tribes. If we are to survive these tribulations, if we are to preserve our way of life, we must be watchful and united, now more than ever.”
Then Queen Irediti returns to her wicker throne and gives way to the witch AmaSibere, the clan’s supposed future mystic, whose long-limbed beauty is as wickedly predatory as a scaled hyena, her clan’s totem animal. She even resembles a scaled hyena with those three horns affixed to her copper circlet and the way she laughs with her eyes and shows too many teeth, like a plunderer who’s finally clutched her heart’s desire. She’s never in anything but black: black beads, black skirts, black bangles, black lips, black kohl—an eternal widow. Even the long witchwood staff in her hands is painted black
, save for the lines and circles of inlaid red steel running down its length.
As she takes center stage, the clan’s disgust is a wave of heat prickling Salo’s skin.
“I know many of you are unhappy with Her Majesty’s decision,” the witch begins with sympathy as fake as her teeth are white, “and I want you to know that I understand. Truly, I do. Clan Siningwe was once a great clan, and when you lost your mystic ten comets ago, I was deeply saddened, for I knew her quite well.”
The clan hisses. She basks in it like a scavenger in carrion. Their hatred is her victory. “I also want you to know that this unification will not mean a loss of your independence,” she goes on. “VaSiningwe will remain your chief, and this kraal will remain the center of your administration—for now. We will not enforce any laws upon you, and I speak on VaSibere’s behalf. However, in time, the centers of power will have to consolidate into a single coherent whole . . .”
She goes on and on. Pretends that this will be a union of equals when it will be annexation in all but name. Pontificates about unity and togetherness, deliberately fans the flames of indignation around the compound with her glib words.
As she speaks, Salo sinks further into paralyzed panic. What if Nimara was right, and all this could have been avoided if he’d only spoken up about the secret he’s keeping? What if he could have saved Monti?
Do you know what difference you could have made?
In the end, what drives him forward is a single thought, an accusation leveled at him by someone who knows better.
The problem with you, Salo, is never that you can’t. It’s that you won’t even try.
“Irediti Ariishe! AmaYerezi who is Queen! I am unworthy, but please, grant me your ear!”
How now, what’s this? Who would be so bold as to interrupt a mystic’s speech? Murmurs and gasps arrest the compound. Eyes widen; fingers point. At the back of the gathering, in front of AmaSiningwe’s old hut, Salo has gone down on one knee, his hands pressed together. He, an unblessed former cowherd in a white loincloth, has interrupted a mystic’s speech.
“What in the pits is he doing?” says an alarmed voice behind him.
He ignores it. “Irediti Ariishe! Please, have mercy and let me approach!”
Shocked disapproval. Insults muttered under the din. This might be a Sibere mystic, but what Salo is doing is sacrilege.
“What’s the meaning of this?” AmaSibere says, peering over the seated clanspeople to get a good look at him. “You wear no steel, and yet you dare interrupt me? VaSiningwe”—she turns to sneer at the chief—“what have you been teaching your boys?”
VaSiningwe says nothing; perhaps he is too speechless or too furious, but Salo can’t stop now. “Irediti of the stars and the moon! Irediti who is lovelier than a bloodrose at dawn! Irediti who is—”
“You may approach, young man,” says a voice that cuts through the air with merciless precision, silencing all others.
Just what Salo was hoping for, but his joints lock in place, and he gapes at the queen like a juvenile hare watching a colorful python slithering toward it. AmaSibere’s mouth hangs open just like his, but she rediscovers her tongue first.
“Your Majesty! He is not blessed! He cannot speak before the council. That’s sacrilege!”
“It is,” the queen says from her wicker throne. “But I am curious. Approach, young man.”
Like a lost child, Salo gets up from his knees and stumbles through his clanspeople, making his way to the clearing in front of the council. He can’t avoid glancing at Niko and his brothers along the way, and the wide-eyed horror he sees there doesn’t surprise him. But this is something he must do.
He reaches the center of the clearing and goes down on one knee again, making an effort to drown out everyone else. He focuses on the queen, this vision of cold beauty who now holds his fate in her hands.
“Thank you for granting me this audience, Your Majesty,” he says.
So close, she is simply bewitching. Her flawless bronze skin holds an otherworldly inner glow. Her lips are dusted with flecks of gold so that they glitter. A tiny smile tugs at them now, and it’s not friendly.
“Don’t thank me just yet,” she says. “I haven’t done you any favors, and I cannot protect you from the consequences of this sacrilege. I only wish to find out what was so important you couldn’t hold your tongue.” She motions at him to rise. “Stand up and speak loudly. I’m sure your clanspeople are curious as well.”
The first pangs of regret wrap themselves so tightly around Salo’s heart he feels like it might explode. What if he faints? What if his bowels loosen and he shits and pisses himself right here, in front of the queen?
The terror of that last thought brings him up to his feet. His arms forget what to do with themselves, so he pushes his spectacles in and clasps his hands together in front of him. The gesture probably looks clumsy.
“Speak, Yerezi-kin,” the queen prompts. “We are listening.”
And so Salo clears his throat and begins to speak to the most powerful person in the Yerezi Plains.
“Irediti Ariishe,” he says in obeisance, “VaSiningwe the Great, AmaSibere who is Chosen, the wise council, and my beloved Siningwe-kin. My name is Musalodi Deitari Siningwe, first son of the Summer Leopard, and I accept responsibility for my clan’s plight.”
10: Kelafelo
Namato—Umadiland
On the afternoon of the first full moon after her arrival at the Anchorite’s hut, Kelafelo returns from the river with a ewer of water balanced on her head to find the old mystic sitting on a stool beneath the witchwood tree. Resting on the ground in front of her is a basket with a lid concealing its contents.
“Bring out a mat and come sit down, young girl,” the Anchorite says.
“Yes, Mamakuru.” Kelafelo peeks down at the basket as she walks by but learns nothing of what might be inside. Still, her heart begins to race with anticipation; she has been here for a few weeks now, and the Anchorite has yet to begin instructing her in the mystic arts. Perhaps that’s about to change.
Inside the hut she sets the ewer down next to the other three she has already filled and takes a mat of woven grass from where it hangs on the mud-plastered walls. Her recovery from the attack on her village was brutal, a feverish hell the Anchorite did little to alleviate. She’s much better now, though the scar on her belly still aches when she bends over. Kelafelo has learned to use the pain as her motivation, a constant reminder of why she is still alive.
Back outside the suns are low, casting long superimposed double shadows, and in the east the full moon is a swollen, heavily pockmarked crimson disk emerging from the horizon. Kelafelo spreads the mat and sits on the other side of the basket like a respectful granddaughter, her hands clasped in front of her.
“I am here, Mamakuru,” she says, addressing the old woman as her grandmother. If this displeases the Anchorite, she hasn’t shown it.
“Tell me why you want to learn magic,” she commands, her milky eyes staring into the distance.
For Kelafelo, the answer could not be simpler. “For the power to kill the men who took everything from me.”
A sneer twists the Anchorite’s leathery face. “And what makes you think yourself worthy of such power, or that your bones could even contain it, when it has broken so many others before you? Speak, girl.”
The razor edge in her voice gives Kelafelo pause, and she takes a moment to calculate an appropriate response. What is she really asking me? “My hatred burns as hot as the suns, and I have the blood of a warlord in my veins. I will not break.”
“The blood of a warlord,” the Anchorite repeats, tilting her head to one side in curious amusement.
“My father ruled in the northwest before he was killed in battle,” Kelafelo says. “I never knew him, but I am his daughter all the same.”
The Anchorite digests this expressionlessly. “I see. And your mother?”
“Died in childbirth. I was raised by my uncle and his wives.”
A hot flash of temper takes control of Kelafelo’s mouth before she can stop it. “If you think that upsets me—”
“Don’t talk back to me, girl. I have little patience for those who cannot handle the truth when spoken to them.”
Kelafelo holds her tongue and looks down at the hands folded in her lap. Right now she hates the old woman more than anything else, but she’ll endure her taunts if it means learning the mystic arts. She has endured worse. “Apologies, Mamakuru. The past holds nothing for me but pain.”
Just as quickly as she can rise to anger at times, the Anchorite can be surprisingly quick to forgive. “Then let us leave it in the past. In any case, the Blood Woman does not care for your parentage. You could be the daughter of a Dulama god-king, and it would not matter. She cares only for your devotion, the sharpness of your mind, and your willingness to go as far as it takes.”
An upwelling of zeal grips Kelafelo, and she can barely stop herself from shaking. “I will go to the ends of the world if need be.”
“That is yet to be seen,” the Anchorite says. “For now, let us begin with the first obstacle standing in your way: you wish to learn magic, but you lack basic literacy in any script, and I lack the patience to teach it to you.”
Something shiny peeks out of the voluminous folds of her hide kaross. Kelafelo is almost surprised when a tronic centipede crawls into view, its long antennae swaying back and forth like blades of grass in the wind. The creature has made so few appearances since Kelafelo’s arrival she often forgets that it’s there.
“I could simply give you the knowledge you need,” the Anchorite continues, “but this would inflict on you the most exquisite agony you have ever felt. You might not survive it.”
