by C. T. Rwizi
“It is his right, Masiburai,” the chief says. “Were it not for him, our clan would be in ruins. This is the least we can do. Now leave it be.”
Sibu fumes while Salo flounders, not knowing what to say. VaSiningwe is a chief; before that he was a great warrior of the Queen’s Regiment. He is the epitome of what it means to be a Yerezi man: strong, courageous, honorable, stoic, and loyal to a fault.
Salo never realized that at least some of this loyalty would also extend to him.
Charged silence pervades the hall. The emissary clears her throat. “I suppose that settles it.” She gives Salo a fixed, professional smile, betraying nothing of her thoughts. “I wish you all the best. I imagine you’re quite anxious, but you’ll be helping to keep the Plains safe in a way no one else can. That’s something, isn’t it?”
Salo weighs the folder and the bag of coins in his hands. “I guess it is,” he says, and he sounds defeated even to his own ears.
A flicker of something pained crosses VaSiningwe’s stern face, but the man knows to be stoic at all times, so it’s only a flicker. “I know you’ll do well, my son,” he says and leaves it at that.
17: The Enchantress
Yonte Saire, the Jungle City—Kingdom of the Yontai
In a terraced garden overlooking a great city in the jungle, the Enchantress sits down with a Faro—a high mystic of immense power—and together they speak of treasonous things.
“When will it happen?” says the Faro.
The Enchantress has burned psychotropic incense around the garden to confuse any prying ears, yet she takes a moment to look around before she leans across the side table between them and says, “In the coming days, Your Worship.”
The Faro crosses one leg over the other in a gesture that shows a complete lack of unease. Then again, fear and unease might as well not exist in a high mystic’s vocabulary. “You should know that I intend to disrupt your plans.”
The Enchantress blinks, alarmed, and for a second she sees all of her carefully constructed schemes and plots falling apart right before her eyes. She speaks carefully. “But I presumed we had an understanding, Your Worship. The advancements I’m offering you would transform this kingdom. You would be centuries ahead of the rest of the Redlands. And with ciphermetric machines it would be easier for you to train and induct new mystics. Your covens would fill to bursting—and that would just be a start.”
This is why the Enchantress knew the high mystics would be receptive to her advances. Their ancestral talent, unique to the KiYonte tribe, lets them share their Axioms with other mystics—their acolytes—a process that also makes them more powerful with every new recruit. Ciphermetric machines would drastically reduce the difficulties associated with awakening, which would only increase the number of potential new acolytes and thus deepen their pools of power.
So why the change of heart?
“I am aware of all of that,” the Faro says, “but the agreement no longer suits my purposes. I have found something more . . . compelling, and I wish for us to come to a new understanding.” The Faro’s expression reveals nothing. No anger, no emotion, like a metaform simply following its directives.
What was it Prophet said to her when they last spoke? Your plan has too many moving parts. Maybe he was right. Hard to play a game when the pieces are playing games of their own. What could be more compelling than Higher technology delivered on a gilded platter?
“And your colleagues?” the Enchantress ventures to ask, watching the Faro closely. “Do they know how you feel?”
“I’d rather keep them in the dark,” the Faro says. “In fact, I’d rather . . . remove them from the picture, so to speak. They are ineffectual, too caught up in their own divinity and power. But that is a discussion for another time.”
This conversation was treasonous before; now it has become blasphemous. The Enchantress brings a hand to rest on her crimson jewel and slows her breathing. This makes no sense. Of all the Faros of the Shirika, the seven men and women who serve the KiYonte tribe as gods on earth, this one struck her as the most pragmatic. “But why, Your Worship?”
The Faro seems thoughtful for a while, eyes distant, fingers steepled. “Power is a duplicitous friend, is it not? All my life I have watched it turn the best of people into fools, liars, and degenerates. And yet its pursuit must be the logical corollary of being good in a chaotic universe, for when the forces of entropy can crush the innocent and reward the wicked, being good has little to do with feelings of kindness or sympathy, only one’s ability to defeat injustice—and this, my dear girl, demands power. But I wonder: Am I letting myself become a fool?”
To this illogical soliloquy, the Enchantress says nothing, and the Faro gives her a piercing look. “I know not what ambitions have brought you here, why an outworlder would seek to meddle in our affairs, but I see an opportunity in your presence. You seek to revive the Ascendancy, do you not?”
“I do,” the Enchantress says cautiously. Playing games with high mystics is perilous, requiring a deft tongue.
The Faro nods, mulling this over. “And you seek to make this tribe the center of the Ascendancy.”
“It is the only thing that makes sense. This city is the world’s beating heart, after all.”
“Then you will understand why I must renege on our agreement. I appreciate your devotion to the cause, but let us face the facts: What you are aiming to build would only be a travesty of the true Ascendancy. It would be a laughable mockery pretending to be something infinitely superior. A farce.”
The Enchantress tucks a strand of dark hair behind her ear, trying to hide how exposed she feels. She thought she’d moved the mountains that were in her way, but now her success is slipping from her fingers.
“Do you know why the Hegemons of the Ascendancy never conquered any part of this continent?” the Faro asks.
“It was hallowed ground to them,” she says, wondering where this conversation is headed.
“Indeed. Every Hegemon came to the Redlands at least once before rising to power. It was here that they found themselves and their purpose. They might not have been Red of blood, but they recognized that this was the Mother’s true land and the only place they could forge the strongest connections with her. You people of the outside world have allowed yourselves to forget the Hegemons and their history, but some of us here have not forgotten. We know things about them—about the Ascendancy—that you do not. Things that would shock you.”
The Faro’s eyes flash with unspoken secrets. “Suffice it to say, you will find no better home for a resurgent Ascendancy than the heart of the Redlands, but at present, you lack the key to its true power. Furthermore, this so-called Ascendancy would not stand the test of war with external forces. How could it, when the center is divided against itself? You would be better off removing all divisions first, reuniting the central tribe under one king, with no clans and no headmen, as it was in the days of old.”
A wave of anxiety threatens to overwhelm the Enchantress, but she doesn’t falter. She is not the weak little mouse she once was. “The KiYonte clans can never be united, Your Worship,” she says evenly. “They were writ in blood a long time ago.” And your predecessors cast the curse.
“Then what was writ in blood must be erased by blood,” the Faro says. “It is the only way forward.”
She sits back in her chair, frowning in thought. The Faro clearly knows something she doesn’t. But what?
She decides to test the waters. “As far as I’m aware,” she says, “erasing the clans, if possible at all, would require an artifact that might not even exist anymore.”
“Oh, it exists,” the Faro says confidently. “It is just hidden very well.”
“Yes, in a place no one can enter.” The Enchantress looks toward the Red Temple and its gleaming Paragon, the red jewel hanging above it like a star. “Not unless they have . . .” She falls silent as it hits her: Not unless they have the key to the Ascendancy’s power. Could it be?
The Far
o smiles, seeming to have read her thoughts.
“I fear to ask, Your Worship,” the Enchantress says, so quietly she can almost hear her heart racing inside her chest, “but you don’t mean to suggest that you have one of the lost keys of the Ascendancy in your possession, do you?”
The Faro’s eyes glint with satisfaction. “Not quite in my possession, but close enough. A recent discovery, brought to my attention by an old acquaintance of mine. She will be sending the key to me soon.”
The Enchantress loses control of her expression and feels her mouth falling open. Could it really be? But the Faro would not lie about such a thing.
She knows Prophet would quail at the idea, but this is beyond her wildest dreams, beyond anything she could have hoped for. She sought to raise a mere specter, a puppet to scare the world into the fires of war, but to resurrect the real thing? In the Red Wilds, no less?
The world will tremble, and its foundations will fracture. Humanity will be left weak and divided, and when the Veil falls, my Master will sweep in to claim Her victory. Surely it is no coincidence that this should fall into my lap now, just as my plans come to fruition.
Biting down on the excitement now simmering in her chest, the Enchantress exhales a shaky breath. “I assume your colleagues aren’t aware of this discovery of yours,” she says.
“They are not,” the Faro says, “and I’d prefer to keep it that way. If we work together, it will strictly be between you and me, and they need not know that you have betrayed them. I will take the blame, and you will appear as confused by my actions as they are.”
To fool six high mystics will be quite the task, but the Enchantress knows she is up to the challenge. “What do you wish of me, Your Worship?”
The Faro raises an eyebrow. “Do we have an understanding?”
“Our goals are aligned. We both serve the Mother, and we both wish to see her Ascendancy restored. It would be foolish of me to oppose you, especially now that you have found such a vital piece of the puzzle.” The Enchantress traces a finger across her heart and bows her head. “I am at your disposal.”
“Ah. I thought you’d be reasonable.” The Faro gives her the faintest of smiles, gone with the wind a second later. “Now listen closely. You will continue as planned: a complete wipeout of the palace. The king, the herald, the Royal Guard—everyone. But with one small change . . .”
18: Isa
Yonte Saire, the Jungle City—Kingdom of the Yontai
As the Ruby Paragon flashes ten times across Yonte Saire’s night sky, signifying the turn of the tenth hour after high noon, a knock comes on the door to Isa’s private chamber in the Summit, two quick raps, then four, then three.
“I’ll be right there,” she says, and with a smile she rises from her reclining chair, setting down the book she was reading onto the side table nearby.
She pads barefoot across a thick Dulama rug toward the door and pauses as she catches her reflection in a full-length mirror.
Maybe I should make myself more presentable, she thinks, noticing how immodestly her silken emerald slip clings to her body. A good princess would never let herself be seen in such a state. But I’ve never been a good princess, have I. Besides, more clothes would be counterproductive.
She unclips her butterfly hairpin, set with emeralds across its golden wings, and lets her thin braids fall to her back. Only then does she proceed to open the door.
A pair of dark eyes meets hers from across the threshold. The young man they belong to, dressed in the Sentinels’ patterned green tunic and black trousers, gives her a shy smile. “Your Highness.”
Her return smile is crooked and full of mischief. Without giving him a warning, she grabs the warrior by the elbow and drags him into her chamber, kissing him as soon as she locks the door. A languid kiss, lingering, like a lazy day in the suns. When it is over, they smile at each other, their foreheads touching.
“Hi,” she says.
“Hi yourself.”
Obe Saai of the crocodile clan, nephew of the headman himself, isn’t handsome, exactly; his jaw is too strong, and his nose has been broken so many times it’s a little bent. And yet he is striking. Whatever he lacks in classic charm he makes up for with his sensuous intensity—when he looks at Isa, she knows she has his full attention.
Isa’s smile softens, and she reaches up to run a finger over the black patterns twisting down his neck, not very different from the marks on her own neck, though the motifs on his are those of the crocodile, while hers are of the elephant. Those marks say that he should be her enemy, for the crocodiles and the elephants of the Yontai have never gotten along, but on his skin, she finds that they are beautiful.
“Did my guard give you trouble?” she says.
Obe’s face creases with concern. “I was going to ask you about that. Why did he let me through without any questions? That can’t be safe for you.”
Isa hooks her arms around his neck, bringing his lips closer. “I appreciate you worrying about my safety, but I was tired of broom closets. This will be so much better.” She leans up to kiss him, but he draws back, going completely rigid.
“You told him about us?”
She raises an eyebrow. “Do you think he’d have let you in if I hadn’t? But you mustn’t worry, Obe. Manchiri has been with me for a long time. I trust him.” Obe begins to pull away from her, but she doesn’t let him. “It’ll be fine. I promise.”
His worried eyes gleam down at her. “Your Highness . . . Isa, we have to be careful. If your father . . .”
“I don’t want to talk about him. I don’t want to talk at all. You’re not here to talk, are you?”
The heat in his eyes is unmistakable, but Isa can almost see the restraint keeping it in check. “I don’t care how we spend time together,” he says. “I’ve told you this. We don’t have to do anything. Just being in your company is enough. But Isa—”
She cuts him off by rising onto her toes and kissing him again. He is hesitant at first, but soon his self-control melts away in the heat, and he kisses her until she is breathless.
“No more talking,” she says when they surface for air. “You can talk my ears off later, but not right now.”
This time Obe gives in completely, and they lose themselves in each other.
Isa began their secret trysts for the thrill of them, for the scandal it would cause if it was ever discovered that the young Saire princess, the Great Elephant’s own flesh and blood, cavorted with a Sentinel—the Crocodile’s nephew, no less—in the halls of the palace.
He was forbidden fruit, and she was seduced by the taboo of him.
What she didn’t anticipate was discovering that he’s far more than the brusque and sullen warrior he appears to be. He proved rather well read and introspective for a man raised for the legions, and surprisingly innocent and trusting. Far too quick to assume that people are good. Despite being four years his junior, she felt like she was corrupting him.
And yet she couldn’t stop. His emotional intensity left her gasping for breath during their first time together, and the way his eyes worshipped her, the way she could see into his soul and feel the power she held over him—intoxicating.
Does it make me deviant that I want more of this? Does it make me wanton? Does it make me a bad person?
Isa decided that she didn’t care. Obe Saai is a choice she made for herself, and only she will get to decide if and when to let go.
They hear the first screams just as they fall into a heated rhythm on the chamber’s large bed, their fingers intertwined like vines, their toes curling into the silken sheets beneath them, breaths mingling as they kiss, bodies edging closer and closer to release.
The screams don’t quite jolt them out of their ecstasy, but the loud thump on the door is harder to ignore. They stop when they hear it again and stare at the door, still entangled in each other. When the noise comes for the third time, Obe pulls out of her and moves to sit at the foot of the bed, where he begins to put on his trousers.<
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With a frown Isa sits up on the bed and pulls up a sheet to cover her chest. Obe’s back is turned to her, and the muscles of his shoulders are glistening with sweat. “What are you doing?” she asks him.
“Something is off. I need to see what’s going on.” He ties the drawstrings of his trousers and gets up.
“Maybe I should open the door,” Isa suggests. It would not go well for either of them if the person on the other side turned out to be the crown prince or, worse, her mother.
But Obe is determined. “No. You stay here.”
At the door, he listens. The thumps have since intensified to insistent bangs, except no one is demanding entry, which is odd. Slowly, Obe unlocks the door, perhaps intending to peer outside, but before he can stick his head out, the door bursts open, striking him in the face. He staggers backward with a groan.
“Obe!” Isa cries from the bed. “Are you all right?”
He groans again, clutching what must be a busted nose, and in front of him a bulky figure fills the doorway.
Anger and mortification make Isa’s cheeks burn as she recognizes the figure, and she holds her sheet tighter across her chest. “What do you think you’re doing, Manchiri? I told you I was not to be disturbed.”
“Bastard broke my nose.” Obe tilts his head up, trying in vain to stem the gushing blood.
The royal guardsman, a Saire who served in the Sentinels during his younger years, slowly stalks into the chamber, armed with a spear, and something about his eyes looks wrong to Isa.
Creeping fear joins the swirl of emotions roiling in her belly, and she unconsciously shifts back on the bed. “Answer me, Manchiri, or the king will know of this.”
He has been her personal guard for over five comets, and she has known him to be stolid and taciturn, a dependable pillar who lets her have her way so long as he knows she’s safe. But this man in her room . . . she doesn’t recognize him at all, nor the feral hunger in his eyes.
