by C. T. Rwizi
If he somehow divines the worried spasm that takes hold of the Maidservant, he makes no show of it.
She bows. “As you wish, Muchinda.”
Next to her River maintains a stiff posture while the others share meaningful looks before bowing and quietly retiring from the hall, though Hunter doesn’t miss the opportunity to toss a smirk at the Maidservant on his way out.
Upon their exit the Maidservant and River move to stand in a central position before the throne and wait for their warlord to address them.
“So,” he says. “Tell me. How did you do it?”
By the focused intensity of his tronic eye, the Maidservant knows he’s talking to her. “How did I do what, Muchinda?” she says as evenly as her voice will allow.
“Those sacrifices you performed in the Plains,” he says. “The rush of power was . . . intoxicating. I didn’t think it was possible for someone so sullied by blood as you are to perform sacrifices so potent. Each of them felt like . . . a mother offering up her beloved child to me. Are the Yerezi like the Faraswa, perchance? Is there some hidden power in their blood that makes it especially potent?”
“Not at all, Muchinda.” The Maidservant knew he would ask her this, so she has an answer prepared, with just enough truth to satisfy the question and no more. “It is simply an old ritual I pieced together after extensive reading. At the zenith of a waxing half moon, shed the blood of the innocent in an unconquered stronghold beneath the light of a Seal, and it will drink the power of the fallen.”
He probably knows that, like most other sacrificial sacraments, the one who benefits from it cannot be the one to perform it. What she doesn’t tell him, however, is that this particular ritual is Black magic.
The Dark Sun leans forward in his throne, his interest palpable. “And you did this merely as a gesture of your loyalty to me.”
I did it to secure my freedom to burn you and everything you stand for to the ground. Blanking her mind with pain to mask deceit as best as she can, she says, “I also wished to test the ritual, Muchinda, as well as probe the Yerezi defenses.” She quickly adds, “In case you ever decide to make a move in that direction.”
The warlord is silent for a time, thoughtful, and the Maidservant realizes her mistake. I wasn’t convincing enough. He knows I’m hiding something. He’ll compel me to tell him the truth.
He relaxes into his throne as if he has dismissed whatever was troubling him. “I see. In any event, whatever your reasons, I always reward loyalty and initiative, and you have proven, once again, that you are not lacking in either.”
She should have been more careful, more resolute in her story. Worry clouds her thoughts like a dense fog, but she maintains an appearance of calm. “I live to serve, Great Muchinda.”
The red eye swivels away from her. “What about you, Black River? Are you loyal to me?”
“Of course, Muchinda. I also live to serve.”
“So you would do anything I asked of you.”
A trap.
River hesitates before giving his answer. “Within reason, Muchinda.”
Amusement comes thickly in the warlord’s voice. “Within. Reason. Explain.”
River winces. “Say, if you asked me to slit my own throat, for example, I would find it difficult to obey, seeing as I enjoy being alive. But that is not to say I am not loyal to you, Muchinda.”
“Mm. And what if I asked you to slit someone else’s throat instead? Would that be within reason?”
A subtle air of danger has pervaded the hall now, an undertow passing between the Dark Sun and the Maidservant beneath their spoken words.
“I would do it without hesitation,” River says, oblivious to the deadly spear aimed at his chest, the sheer drop he’s slowly being nudged toward.
“Are you certain?” the warlord says, and River stands straighter in an attempt to exude confidence.
“Yes, Muchinda.”
“Then prove it.” The Dark Sun lifts a finger and points at the Maidservant. “Slit her throat.”
She remains still. Inside her mind, a rattling door begins to shake like it will explode from its hinges. She pushes back against it with everything she has. Not yet. Not when I’m so close to freedom.
Next to her, River gapes at the warlord, then at her, then back. His lips move in several false starts before he finally manages something coherent. “I beg your pardon?”
“Kill the Maidservant,” the warlord repeats, slow and with authority. “Or was I not clear?”
“Muchinda, I—”
“I have ordered you to slit someone’s throat, which you said you’d do without hesitation if I asked it of you, and yet here you are, hesitating. Are you a liar, Black River?”
River licks his lips nervously. “No, Muchinda. I hesitate only because . . . because the Maidservant is your trusted lieutenant, and I don’t believe you’d want her—” He stops when the shadows in the hall grow noticeably darker.
“Are you questioning my sanity?” The warlord’s voice is barely above a whisper.
“No, Muchinda.”
“Then why would I ask you to do something I don’t want you to do?”
Letting his shoulders sag, River hangs his head. “Muchinda, I . . . cannot.”
“I see.”
“Anyone else, and I’d do it, but . . .”
“But you are smitten,” the warlord says. “A pity your object of affection doesn’t feel the same for you. In fact, I sense she is quite incapable of any sort of sentiment.” The red eye turns to the Maidservant, and she almost feels its heat. “Isn’t that right, my loyal lieutenant?”
The door in her mind shakes so violently it almost drowns out the world, and for a brief second she’s tempted to yield. But that second passes, and her hatred holds, giving her a reason to stay rooted in this world. “You are right, Muchinda. I am incapable of sentiment.”
In the corner of her eye she catches River’s hurt look, but River isn’t why she is here, why she endures pain and battles the underworld’s call every second of her life. Why she tolerates the chains that bind her. River is nothing.
The warlord leans forward. “Are you loyal to me, Maidservant?”
“Absolutely.”
“Is there anything you wouldn’t do if I asked it of you?”
“You could compel me to do anything, Muchinda,” the Maidservant says. He could always strip her of her will and force her into obedience, but he derives his pleasure from getting her to do his bidding willingly. He knows she would sooner obey him than be stripped of her will. That is his victory.
The gleam of teeth shows briefly through the warlord’s veil of shadows. “Then you know what to do.”
She does, and River doesn’t even fight her. He stands still and watches her with those stupid, trusting eyes of his even as she brings a crackle to the hall by drawing power into her shards. He watches her even as she shapes the Void into a gleaming spear, even as she hurls it toward his chest so that it impales him, bringing him down to his knees as he gurgles blood. He watches her even as he falls to his side and dies.
River is nothing.
You will lose yourself to it.
The Dark Sun rises and begins to descend the steps to his throne. “As much as I enjoyed your sacrificial offerings, whatever agenda led you down this path may have created an enemy we cannot afford.” He stops next to River’s body, but his red eye never leaves the Maidservant. “Your attack put the Yerezi on alert, made them aware of their vulnerabilities, and possibly convinced them we’re a problem in need of solving. Because that is what will happen should the Yerezi queen ever join forces with an ambitious KiYonte king; we will be solved. It would be over for us long before we’d marshaled any sort of credible defense. Do you see now why I am not entirely pleased by your actions?”
River is nothing.
The Maidservant bows, though her chest is a seething cauldron. “Forgive me, Muchinda. I will be more thoughtful from now on.”
“I know you will.” Only n
ow does the warlord spare a moment to take in River’s bleeding corpse, but it is only a moment. He turns his back and begins to make his way toward the exit, stopping after a few steps. “And next time, my dear Maidservant . . .” Shadows thicken all around her like a shroud. “When I ask you why you did something, don’t lie to me. Understood?”
River is nothing.
“Yes, Muchinda.”
The shadows relent. “As a reward for your loyalty, you may extend your roots to the Valau borderlands. The least I can do, everything considered.”
That is enough land to add a sixth ring to her shards, but it is all she can do not to scream. “You are most generous, Great Muchinda.” One day I will cut your head off with a blunt knife.
The warlord nods in acknowledgment and departs, leaving the Maidservant alone in the empty hall with River.
River, who is nothing.
River, who is nothing now but wasn’t nothing before.
The Maidservant discorporates and billows away as fast as the wind will carry her.
PART 5
MUSALODI
THE MAIDSERVANT
ILAPARA
ISA
Fire craft—magic of flame
Controlled combustion of the moon’s essence into extremely destructive fire. Decidedly the most commonly practiced craft.
—excerpt from Kelafelo’s notes
“Why the long face? Did you not get your share of pumpkin porridge?”
“I hate my stupid eyes and these stupid glasses. I hate that I have to wear them all the time. It’s not fair.”
“No, it’s not, but our scars tell the stories of who we are and what we’ve survived, and you, my dear child, have survived things that would have broken grown men. Wear your scars proudly; they do not define your failures but your victories over life.”
26: Musalodi
The Open Wilds of Umadiland
When Salo turned seven, his mother made him honeyed millet bread and took him down to the lake to throw rocks and make them skip over the water. They danced in the shallows and splashed each other silly, the droplets glistening in the sunlight like crystals, their giggles floating like a breeze. And when they returned home, they painted each other’s faces and laughed some more, until their stomachs hurt and they were so tired they fell asleep entangled in each other. It is Salo’s fondest memory.
Now, as he gallops across the open wilds of Umadiland on a giant totem of the Yerezi Plains, he takes refuge in that memory, trying to recover even a speck of the peace of mind he felt that day, the sense that even if he never had anything else, he would be just fine. His surroundings grow dim, and for a moment he imagines he’s not part of the world, like a wandering ghost whose time has long since passed, who can be neither touched nor hurt by the happenings of the universe.
A cowardly thing to do, perhaps, but the alternative is to hurl himself to the ground and weep until he has purged himself of lungs.
Tuk leads the way at a fast trot, but it’s too slow for Salo. He wants to push Mukuni as fast as he knows the cat can go, so fast that his paws barely scrape the ground. Ingacha and the abada are creatures of flesh and blood, though, so there’s no choice but to let them set the pace.
Acacia trees and granite outcrops pass them by like slumbering beasts. Herds of wildebok and para-para stampede away from them on sight. The suns bid the world goodbye in a fiery blaze of color, giving way to a star-speckled sky whose light is enough to see by. No one speaks the entire time.
By tacit agreement, they stop and set up camp next to a creek several hours after nightfall. While the others unsaddle and water their mounts, Salo forages for dry brushwood to make a fire, then divvies up the musuku wine, mealie bread, and dried meats he brought from home—the last of his supplies, so he’ll have to hunt from now on.
They eat quietly. Words feel too much like cheating to Salo. He can still speak and breathe and smoke and eat, but what about the Faraswa people who died because he was too damned self-righteous to let things be? By Ama, was Mhaddisu one of them?
How many people will I kill with my weakness?
When they are done eating, Salo drapes himself with his crimson blanket cloak and lights his pipe. No need to worry about predators with Mukuni around, but distant growls and cackles drift to their camp occasionally, reminding them each time that they are trespassing.
The abada and Ilapara’s buck lie on the grass nearby, watching Mukuni very carefully; the two animals seem to have formed a tentative alliance based on their mutual fear of the cat. I’ll have to do something about that.
Salo stews in his own thoughts for so long he’s almost startled when Tuk addresses him from across the campfire. “Just so you know, my planned route will take us past one of the Primeval Spirits.”
Salo lacks the energy to respond, so he stares morosely at the crackling fire and keeps puffing on his pipe.
Ilapara’s interest, however, has been piqued. She loosens the scarf wrapped around her head, peeling it off a little to reveal a curious frown. “Which one?”
“The Lightning Bird of Lake Zivatuanu,” Tuk replies. “Also known as the Great Impundulu. I intend for us to charter a Tuanu waterbird and sail up the lake. The World’s Vein isn’t far from its northernmost shores—probably a two days’ ride at most. And once we reach the Vein, it’ll be a straightforward journey east to Yonte Saire.”
Salo knows little about the ancient manifestations of Red magic commonly referred to as the Primeval Spirits, as there aren’t any in the Plains. They supposedly have deep and esoteric connections to the lands they roam and are capable of bestowing rare knowledge and spells onto worthy mystics—probably why it is customary for pilgrims of the Bloodway to visit and commune with one or more of them.
Salo might have considered doing so had it not required that he veer far from his planned route to Yonte Saire. But that has happened anyway, so maybe he’ll get to visit one after all. He just can’t be bothered to care.
Ilapara’s frown deepens. “Aren’t the Tuanu highly intolerant of foreigners in their lands?”
“They are,” Tuk says, “but the Tuanu will make an exception for a sorcerer who wishes to commune with the Lightning Bird—if they can pay with something valuable, that is.”
“Something like what?”
Tuk smiles, but it doesn’t lighten his eyes. “Let me worry about that.”
“I don’t like being left in the dark,” Ilapara says. “If I’m following you somewhere, I’d like to know what I’m getting myself into.”
“Fair enough, but I have a good reason for being reticent. I know I haven’t done anything to earn your trust, but I swear I’m only doing what I think is best for all of us.”
Ilapara looks like she wants to argue, but then she purses her lips and crosses her booted feet in front of her. “All right. If you want to earn my trust, how about we start with who the devil you are and where you’re from.”
Tuk smiles into the fire and seems to consider his answer. Eventually he says, “I guess there’s no point in lying, is there. And why should I? I’m not ashamed of who I am or how I came to be.” His lips say one thing, but he starts rubbing his hands together like he’s about to meet the malaika of death. “I came from the Enclave beyond the Jalama Desert, though I’m originally from the Empire of the West, far across the waters you call the Dapiaro.”
That confession immediately draws Salo out of his silent brooding. “You’re from the Empire of Light?”
“The very same,” Tuk replies, and then he seems to struggle with his next words: “I was . . . made there.”
“Made,” Ilapara repeats. “What do you mean, you were made?”
Tuk chews on his lower lip for a long moment. “I’m what they call an atmech, Ilapara, the creation of a heretic necromancer—and by the way, that’s what the Empire calls anyone who chooses the moon over the suns. Heretic. They don’t like lunar magic very much. They like you Red folk even less.”
Salo isn’t distracted
by the attempt to obscure the atmech revelation, because now that he knows, Tuksaad makes a lot more sense to him. “You’re a machine, aren’t you? A vessel powered by a mind stone.”
Tuk’s jaw clenches just the slightest bit. “No,” he says, “I am an atmech. A machine can’t ever be alive, and I am alive.”
This is obviously a sensitive subject, but Salo ignores the cues. “Your bones are metal.”
“My bones contain metal, and even so, the rest of me is flesh and blood. Cut me and I feel pain just like everyone else. I can feel joy; I can fall in love. I have a heart. Does that not make me alive?”
Tuk stares back like he wants an answer to his question, but Salo doesn’t know what to say. What is there to say? It hurts no one to commandeer animal spirits for machines, but dealing with human spirits? Now that’s necromancy: otherwise known as that dirty art forbidden to all Yerezi mystics. How would one even trap a human spirit in a mind stone?
“And what about you?” Tuk says indignantly, clearly upset now.
Salo lifts an eyebrow. “Me?”
“Yes, you. You question my humanity because of what I’m made of when your own eyes are synthetic. Do they make you less human?”
At the mention of his eyes, Salo grits his teeth. “What are you on about?”
“You keep them hidden, but those eyes of yours were made for an atmech, albeit an old-fashioned one.” Tuk tilts his head to one side. “Why do you think I first noticed you? I felt the resonance and recognized it for what it was. I can still feel it. Imagine my surprise.”
Ilapara stares at Salo, and her probing gaze heats up the side of his face almost as intensely as the fire. He doesn’t look at her.
