by C. T. Rwizi
“Don’t keep us in suspense,” Nimara goads him. “You know what to do, don’t you?”
He does, or at least he has a general idea.
Shutting the rest of the world from his senses, he walks toward the watchtower overlooking the gates, where the totem sits on an overhanging beam, looking down at the gathered clanspeople like a proud king. He was named Mukuni the Conqueror after the leopard constellation of the high summer skies, and whatever sorcery that made him and all the other Yerezi totems is a secret guarded in the most impenetrable vaults of the Queen’s Kraal.
A breeze whistles by, and Salo gets the sensation of a shadow stalking him from behind, the cold glint of metal and sharp teeth. He forces himself not to look over his shoulder. He will not harm you if he responds to you.
First, Salo claims the staff. Just one push of essence, and it becomes his, connected to him by an intangible tendril that settles at the back of his mind. The staff’s secrets immediately unravel before him, and he sees that it is actually a mental lens of a kind, with the power to focus the mind onto a single task, thus greatly augmenting spell-casting ability.
He takes a long, uneven breath, trying not to be overwhelmed.
Next, he extends his free hand toward the totem and casts his mystic Seal for the very first time in his life.
The patterns erupt into the skies from his cosmic shards, knitting together before the watchtower into a dazzling arrangement of lines and flickering shapes that quickly resolves into something distinct: a cube of pure diamond spinning rapidly beneath a twinkling red star. Its hypnotic rays reach out to everyone looking at it to tell them of a young mystic born to a house of leopards.
For a fleeting instant the star flares to an almost blinding degree as something rises from the bowels of a deep slumber to answer its call, and when the Seal winks out of existence a second later, the metal cat on the beam has opened his neon-blue eyes.
Gasps and murmurs from the gathered clanspeople. Instant awareness glitters in those eyes. Even the way the cat abruptly rises to his feet is graceful.
He is alive, but the totem is no ordinary tronic beast. He has no flesh to speak of and is completely metalloid. Yet in the blink of an eye, most of his exterior transforms through sorcery from exposed silvery musculature to a glossy pelt as white as soured milk, with spots the color of burnished copper. The cat’s underlying metalloid structure remains visible on his face and legs, however, which, next to his spotted pelt, gives him a rather striking appearance.
All eyes watch as he rustles the mane of sharp erectile metal spines encircling his neck. Then he leaps off his high perch to land on the ground with unnatural grace.
Those watching Salo probably think he’s paralyzed with fear as he stands motionless while the arcane leopard makes for him, stalking around him with his long sinuous tail dancing fluidly in the air. What Salo is actually feeling, in fact, is shock.
Shock because he, Salo, is the cat.
Mukuni might be capable of independent motion, like Salo’s beating heart, and even a little independent thought, like his subconscious mind, but the totem is still him, an extension of his will. He doesn’t have to think much to get him to move—in fact, he doesn’t have to think at all. The cat knows what Salo wants even before he knows it himself.
Silence thickens in the air as the totem brings his metallic snout close to Salo’s face. Salo sees himself through the totem’s eyes, and it’s like looking into a strange mirror. Even after all the growing Salo has done, Mukuni still stands taller, as tall as any quagga stallion, though infinitely more terrifying.
“Hello, old friend.” Salo raises a hand to stroke the fur beneath Mukuni’s right ear. “It is good to see you again.” For a beast with no flesh, the fur is surprisingly soft, just as soft as Salo remembers, and Mukuni purrs just like he used to when Salo was a child. The sound triggers a flood of bittersweet memories.
Purring again, the cat lies down on his belly in an unmistakable show of submission.
Murmurs of dissent. Muted arguments. But a hush descends as VaSiningwe steps forward with a raised hand. Before he speaks, he gives Mukuni a long wary glance laden with emotion. Seeing AmaSiningwe’s pet alive again can’t be easy for him, not when he saw him last on the night of her death.
“We are honored that our totem has returned to us,” he says to the clanspeople. “This kraal is as much his home as it is ours, and it is always an honor to have him among us. As chief of the people who claim his name, I bid him welcome.”
He preempts the brewing clamor with a raised hand. “This is not a debate, Siningwe-kin. The totem has always chosen whom he serves, and if he has chosen my son, we must respect that decision.” His eyes burn into one particularly vociferous young man in a red loincloth. “You will respect that decision. That is an order.”
Fury seethes on the young man’s face, but he says no more.
“I am glad that Mukuni has chosen this moment to return,” the chief continues, “for my son faces a journey to lands far beyond our borders in service to this clan—in service to our clan. I was worried he would have to go alone, but now I shall sleep better knowing he has found a formidable companion to accompany him.” The chief’s expression softens as he turns to Salo, and his voice too. “I wish you well, Musalodi. Know with every step you take that you are in our hearts and prayers—always.”
“VaSiningwe.” Salo goes down on one knee, his eyes filling with moisture. “I thank you,” he says, and he means it, more than he’s ever meant anything in his life.
Soon the totem is saddled up and ready to go. Salo’s plan is to ride northwest into Khaya-Sikhozi and spend the night at the chief’s kraal there. He will likely receive a cold and awkward reception, but it would be rude for him to sleep in their grazing lands without paying them a visit. Then, first thing tomorrow morning, he will cross the borderlands and ride toward the World’s Artery.
He fastens the staff to a harness and straps his belongings to the back of the saddle. He’s about to climb onto the cat’s back when Aaku Malusi walks up to him. The sight of the old man drives a pang of shame and guilt into his heart. He really was about to leave without bidding him farewell.
“Aaku,” he says, unable to meet his friendly gaze. “I came by your hut to say goodbye, but you weren’t there.” The truth, but still. Besides Nimara, no one visited him in the bonehouse as frequently as Aaku Malusi. He deserves better.
The old man smiles, no sign of hurt or offense in his expression. Instead, an unusually lucid glimmer dances in his eyes, and he’s not leaning on his walking staff. Salo hasn’t seen him look this hale in a long time.
“All is well, my child,” he says. “You had many other things to worry about, and in any case, I knew I’d be seeing you off now.” He looks around to make sure he won’t be overheard before leaning closer. “Listen, Musalodi. I wanted to give you this.” Almost timidly, Aaku Malusi unfurls the fingers of his free hand to reveal a ring of twined, rough-hewed witchwood set with a round little stone of citrine quartz. “I’ve had this ring since I was a boy but never the courage to wear it. I would be honored if you took it.”
Salo hesitates, but the expectant look on the old man’s face forces him to accept the ring. The witchwood flexes ever so slightly as he slips it onto his right middle finger, making a perfect fit. He feels its fibers humming with patterns that will come to life should he feed them essence. A dormant enchantment, perhaps?
He tests this by pushing just the slightest bit of essence into the ring and is amazed when a small yellow star ignites inside the citrine rock, bathing his face in a brilliant glow. A ring of Mirror light.
“May it brighten your way in your darkest hour,” Aaku Malusi says, his eyes shining with emotion. “Go well, my child, and may Ama guide your steps.”
Salo feels his own eyes begin to water. “I don’t know what to say, Aaku. Thank you.”
“No, my child. It is I who must thank you, for you have given a hopeless old man something to be
lieve in. Now go, and make sure you come back.”
People are still watching, people who have ill-treated and scorned Aaku Malusi for longer than Salo has been alive, but he doesn’t care. He embraces the old man, hoping the contact will convey what words cannot express. A tear rolls down his cheek when he lets go, and he doesn’t bother wiping it.
He has to force himself to climb onto the totem’s saddle, to keep moving, to leave everything he’s ever known behind. It’s all he can do not to turn back and beg for everything to go back to the way it used to be.
The cat begins to move, and Salo is almost shocked to be reminded of how smoothly he stalks upon the ground, how silently, like a boat rocking gently on the waves of a calm lake.
He’s a good twenty paces down the road when he can finally handle looking back and waving his last goodbye at the people he’s leaving behind. Nimara, the friend who’s never turned her back on him. Aaku Malusi, the friend he took for granted. The chief, a father who has always tried to do his best for a son he doesn’t understand. His clanspeople, many of whom will never accept him. And a familiar silhouette watching him from atop the now-vacant watchtower, wearing armor pieces that glint like stars against the blue sky.
Perhaps in another world, in a different time, Salo would have stopped right there and then and said to the figure, Come with me, and it would have been so.
But now, as they stare at each other for the last time in a long time, all he can do is wave once and look away.
20: Isa
Yonte Saire, the Jungle City—Kingdom of the Yontai
In an ancient temple at the heart of a continent, in a chamber awash with the torpid light of glowing rubies, before an audience of temple votaries, Jasiri guardians, clanspeople, young Sentinels, and a high mystic, a king wears the mask-crown for the first time.
This is no throne room—far from it, in fact—but she sits upon a high wooden chair on a dais, raised so she can overlook the small crowded chamber and see the anxiety and fear sketched onto the faces of all those present.
She knows how they feel. The gold and ivory chains of her forefathers burden her shoulders; sweat drenches her brow behind the mask-crown. She is afraid, just like the people looking up at her, but she is king now, and a king must never show his fear. So she swallows it up and projects an outward vision of calm and resolve, just as her father would have done.
The mask-crown is a heavy thing, a moongold artifact enchanted to give its wearer the head of a four-tusked elephant with a lofty crown of spikes, overlarge on her face because it was designed long ago to be worn by imposing, battle-tested men, not girls nearing the cusp of womanhood. Still, it clings to her face, failing to dent her posture if only because she cannot allow it to, as if by conquering the mask-crown, she will conquer the horrifying reality that it now sits upon her face.
The horrifying reality that she is now king.
The mask is clean today, burnished so that it gleams brightly in the ruby light, but when she last saw it, it was bathed in blood, askew on a marble floor next to the face of a dead king.
“All hail Isa Andaiye Saire!” cries the high mystic. “King of Chains, Great Elephant of the Yontai, she who straddles the center of the world and rules its beating heart! Long may she reign!”
Empty titles; she knows this. She no more rules the world’s beating heart than she rules the temple that now holds her prisoner. Her father always used to say that the mask-crown is greater than its wearer. This has never been truer than it is today.
All around the chamber, those present bow their heads low in obeisance. It is against convention, but the old sorcerer who has just crowned her bows, too, even though his blood is divine and hers is not. Then again, of the seven high mystics of the Shirika, Itani Faro of the Arc has always been the most contrary. It is why Isa is still alive.
He remains by her side when she exits the makeshift throne room to forced cheers and applause. Two young warriors in the light-green tunics of the King’s Sentinels follow solemnly with their ceremonial hide shields and spears—warriors of the King’s Sentinels, because the entire Royal Guard was wiped out when . . . when . . .
Inside the antechamber to the throne room, Isa takes the mask-crown off her face, and it collapses into itself, becoming static and somewhat less remarkable in appearance. Anxious to part with it, she extends the mask-crown to Obe Saai, but the Sentinel draws back, aghast.
“Please,” she says, proffering the thing to him. “My neck hurts, and I’d like to take a walk.”
Obe’s eyes swivel to Itani Faro, who gives a subtle nod. “It’s a great sign of trust, young man,” the Arc says. “You should be honored.”
“Yes, Your Worship.” Obe accepts the mask-crown with a shaky hand. “You honor me, Great Elephant.”
She trusts him, yes, more than anyone else still drawing breath, but this is no honor.
Except that’s not quite how it looks to Dino Sato, Isa’s other honor guard. Certainly not by the way he tightens his jaw in unexpressed displeasure. Dino was at one point Obe’s rival for her affections; she knows the two warriors have no love lost between them and belatedly realizes now that she’s probably made things worse by so obviously choosing one over the other.
Only minutes after being crowned king, and she’s already sown enmity between her two most trusted guards. But that’s what it means to be king, isn’t it? Sowing enmity with every breath.
“Will you walk with me?” she asks the Arc.
His height and his scarified face are intimidating, but it’s his divinity that terrifies her. His power, his gravity. As the high priest of the Red Temple, Itani Faro is possibly the most powerful high mystic of them all. And yet she finds comfort in his company, this god in mortal flesh, who remained true when the rest of the Shirika turned their backs on her father and her family. He was there for her when it would have been prudent to turn away.
And even now, he bows to her. “Of course, Your Majesty.”
The four of them walk along the temple’s bamboo arcades in grim silence, a fresh wind buffeting their robes. Rivulets from the recent storm drip from trees and rooftops into the ponds dotting the gardens. The skies remain gray and somber, like a mirror of her soul.
Jasiri temple guardians pledged to the Arc’s coven have been patrolling the bamboo cloisters in silent pairs since Isa got here. There probably aren’t more than a dozen of them in the whole temple citadel—tall, forbidding figures who keep to themselves, all of them as striking as their coven master—but Isa knows that even if her enemies ever made it past the lightning barrier the Arc erected around the citadel, those dozen Jasiri would be a more than adequate defense of the temple.
Isa’s retinue crosses paths with such a pair along the arcade, two barefoot young men with large shoulder muscles peeking from beneath the folds of shimmering red brocade and aerosteel armor pieces chased with moongold. White tattoos run in thin lines down their necks—the marks of the magical caste. Charmed spears gleam brilliantly in their right hands, and their faces are hidden behind horned masks with no eye slits.
Isa inclines her head to them in respect. They acknowledge her with deep bows of their own and then proceed without a word. Isa and her companions do the same.
Minutes later a tall figure clad in blue appears along the arcade, hobbling toward them with his face set in a crestfallen glower. A squeaky gilded leg brace clings to his left leg, which he favors as he walks, leaning on a cane with a golden knob for support. The other hand holds the herald’s scepter, which belonged to his mother until a few nights ago.
A small part of Isa resents Jomo for refusing the mask-crown, in essence forcing her to accept it. The rest of her, though, is infinitely grateful for his presence. He has been a pillar of courage she would have crumbled without.
Today, for example. While Isa was being crowned, Kola Saai, headman of the crocodile clan, was holding an emergency meeting with the headmen in the Summit; Jomo was brave enough to leave the safety of the temple and att
end the meeting in his capacity as Isa’s herald.
It is more than a big relief to see that he has returned safely.
They all stop when they come face-to-face. He bows to the Arc first. “Your Worship.” Then he bows to Isa. “I apologize, Great Elephant, for missing your coronation. I have only just returned from the Summit.”
“You were doing something much more important, cousin,” she says. “You were serving me as herald. What news do you bring?”
Jomo’s expression grows darker. “The headmen have elected the Crocodile as their regent. You should have seen the smug look on the bastard’s face.” Jomo seems to remember his company, and his light-complexioned cheeks gain a reddish tinge. “Excuse my language, Your Worship.”
“They moved quickly, didn’t they,” the high mystic remarks with a slight sneer.
“He claims he’s simply stepping in to bring stability back to the kingdom, but he says he’ll step down as soon as Her Majesty decides to leave the temple.”
“So he can have me killed,” Isa says.
Jomo grunts. “The filth denies any involvement in the Royal Massacre, and that’s not even the worst part.”
Isa raises an eyebrow. “There’s worse?”
“Oh yes. Right after reminding me of the mortal peril our clan now faces since we’re deeply resented and unprotected, he had the gall to propose a marriage of equals. He claims you’d rule as king and queen in your own rights, except that the mask-crown would have to be destroyed—you know, since he can’t be crowned king so long as it exists.”
Isa feels Obe Saai going tense behind her. It takes everything she has not to look his way. The Arc, meanwhile, glares in her direction. “This is madness, Your Majesty. You cannot possibly consider the proposal.”
