by C. T. Rwizi
The Maidservant sees how the trauma of the memory comes to overshadow the memory itself, so much so that it blurs and becomes an indistinct but painful wound in his soul, a wound that will never heal. It comes to haunt and define every minute of his life, and she sees how his agony draws him to all things magic, fueling his quest to understand his mother’s actions.
She sees how his memory of slaughtering the person he loved most becomes a deeply crippling fear of violence and confrontation, leading him to shirk the warrior’s path and become an outcast among his tribespeople. She sees how he wilts under their jeers, how he finds refuge in the study of magic, how the thing his mother tortured him for becomes his obsession, and how, altogether, these were the secrets that led him to his power. A power he still doesn’t understand.
“I killed her,” the boy says again, and the Maidservant wants to tell him that it wasn’t his fault, that he wasn’t given a choice, just like she wasn’t given a choice, but the memories shift before she can open her mouth, and they prove her wrong.
She did have a choice.
She sees herself.
On the day she attacked his kraal, a dark vortex of mindless hate. She feels the boy’s confusion as he heard the first screams, then his fear when he spotted the Seal in the skies, then his shock when he witnessed her fell spirits slaughter his people. She feels his devastation at the senselessness of it, that such cruelty could come to them unprovoked.
She sees Monti. The young boy he wished were his brother. He saw a lot of himself in the boy and secretly entertained notions of teaching him everything he knew about magic. She feels the heartrending loss of him, the debilitating guilt of failing to protect him, the hatred of his murderer, and all of it echoes the things she felt on that rainy night as she lay by her hut’s threshold with her belly sliced open, back when she went by another name.
She sees all this, and it is a damning, inescapable mirror showing her a truth she has known for some time but refused to acknowledge: That she long ago became the very thing she set out to destroy. That she is no different from the men who slaughtered Urura.
That in fact, she is worse.
She sees this, truly sees it, and it breaks her.
But she is not alone in her visions. In the fleeting moment during which she sees his life, the boy sees hers too.
Her love for Urura, her devouring hatred when she was violently taken away from her. He sees her journey to the Anchorite’s hut, her lessons in the mystic arts, her brief second chance with Akanwa, and her eventual fall into darkness when she murdered her mentor and cursed herself with a compulsion that would bind her to her enemy.
He sees how she lost herself to killing for the Dark Sun, how each kill became easier and weighed less on her soul, until she could burn down entire villages without a second thought. He sees how her quest for freedom from the curse made her hungry for power, how she convinced herself that the only way she could find this freedom was if she gave herself entirely to the underworld. He sees how she lost herself to it, all of her crimes, all of her atrocities, all the blood she spilled and the suffering she wrought.
He sees her down to her rotten core.
This is who I am.
I am evil.
I am irredeemable.
I am lost.
I am unworthy of Urura’s love.
The thought is a scream echoing into the deepest fissures of her blackened soul. It is a wave that swells and roils inside her until she is drowning. She thinks it will consume her, choke her, dash her against the jagged edges of her guilt, but then another wave crests over the first, foreign and intrusive like a burst of sunlight in a universe that has never known a star. It says: You don’t have to be.
The Maidservant screams. She harnesses all her will, all her strength, and with the entire stream of magic she can summon, she pushes against the portal in her mind and severs the connection to it.
She feels the boy’s mind wrenching free of hers, and then she’s back in the glade, lying on the forest floor not far from him. Her limbs trembling with grief, she crawls away, trying to escape his merciful words. She climbs to her feet, and there is a moment in which she looks down at him and he looks up at her, and where she saw hate and fear not long ago, she sees confusion, pity, and even mercy.
You don’t have to be.
The words torture her with their hopefulness; they sting and burn her because she knows she doesn’t deserve hope. How could she, after all she has done?
And yet she felt him look at her soul and see something worth saving.
Tears blur her eyes. She backs away from him, this boy who would feel pity for her despite what she did to him. She discorporates into a thousand flies and hurtles away from the clearing.
The words follow her. Well into the twilight skies and beyond. They follow her, and they stay with her.
44: Musalodi
Bonobo Province—Kingdom of the Yontai
The world sways on its axis.
A cloud of flies surges away. Ravens burst out of thin air, and two bodies come tumbling to the ground, instantly curling into shivering balls. In his disoriented state, Salo takes a while to realize that the bodies are Tuk and Ilapara.
Almost passing out from the wave of relief that washes over him, he gathers himself up and staggers toward them, calling their names. By the time he gets to them, Ilapara is on all fours, while Tuk has sprawled on his back like he doesn’t ever intend to get up. Alinata materializes next to him, hugging herself and looking mildly peeved.
He searches the trees but sees no sign of the Maidservant. He felt her pull away from him after her life flashed before his eyes; now she’s already far enough that he can’t sense her with his shards. “Are you all right?” He extends a hand to help Ilapara up to her feet. Her hand is cold to the touch but not cold enough to warrant shivering.
“Peachy,” Tuk answers from the ground. “Just reeling from the most disturbing experience of my life.”
A relieved chuckle escapes Salo’s lips. To the Asazi he says, “You held up longer than I expected. I was worried you’d been hurt.”
She frowns like she’s tasted something bad and turns her face away. “Not hurt. Just imprisoned. A hazard of the trade, I suppose.”
Knowing Asazi and their perfectionism, he’s certain this will be a big slight to her pride. At least that’s the worst of her injuries.
He looks about the clearing, noting Mukuni sitting on his haunches protectively next to the other warmounts. The cat has a few scratches on his spotted coat but is otherwise unharmed.
“Where’s the witch?” Alinata says, searching the trees with a wary look. “I assume you defeated her, given we’re all still alive.”
You don’t have to be, he said to her after he saw her torment and felt the force of her guilt. It’s not your fault, is what she said to him when she saw what he did to his mother.
In some ways Salo always knew. At least he suspected, but his memories of that night felt so unreal he couldn’t be sure what actually happened.
How he willingly and consciously killed his mother.
Even now his mind recoils from the memory, rejecting it. But he saw the truth with his own eyes, and there’s no denying how much it all makes sense.
It wasn’t your fault.
He hated the Maidservant for what she’d done to Monti. He wished her all the evil in the world . . . and yet, what he saw, the things that had been done to her . . . How can I still hate her now?
“She’s gone,” he says.
Alinata studies him. “Are you sure?”
“She’s no longer a threat to me or any of us.” Of this he is absolutely sure. “I appreciate your help, by the way. I’d probably be dead without you.”
“Think nothing of it,” Alinata says, and an amused light enters her eyes. “All things considered, I think you handled yourself rather well.”
Ilapara has ventured off to find her spear; she returns with it, looking at Alinata like she’s seeing h
er through new eyes. “Is the Void . . . always like that?”
The corners of Alinata’s mouth lift ever so slightly. “You get used to it.”
“Respect, Ali,” Tuk says. “I seriously don’t know how you do it.” He finally forces himself up, springing off the ground with unexpected energy. He attempts to dust himself down, but the mud won’t budge. He sighs. “I suppose the campsite’s ruined now. Perhaps we should find somewhere close to a river? A bath and a change of clothes might be in order.”
Salo’s gorge rises as he takes in the remains of the dozen men he helped kill, strewed about the forest floor. He tears his eyes away before the queasiness can set in. “What do we do about the bodies? I don’t know any spells for funeral rites.”
“We leave them,” Ilapara says.
Tuk nods in agreement. “I have no problem with that. Do you?” He looks at Alinata, who shakes her head quietly, then at Salo.
When he communed with the Lightning Bird, Salo felt a new vein of power opening in his shards, almost as if his communion had broken through some barrier of ignorance and deepened his connection to the moon.
Now he feels the same stirring again, a new aspect of his Axiom opening up to him, an arcane energy with power over the patterns of light. Mirror craft.
He stares at his glowing arms as his shards adjust to this new sensation, wondering if the memory of his own hand driving a blade into his mother’s belly broke through yet another barrier of ignorance.
But why? he thinks. Are my own memories and knowledge keeping the other crafts from me?
What else is he supposed to remember?
Noticing that Tuk and the others are still waiting for him to respond, he lowers his arms and shakes his head. “We don’t owe them anything, we don’t have the time, and I’m tired.” He exhales loud and long. “Let’s just get out of here.”
As they pack up and leave, Salo’s thoughts drift back to the Maidservant and the brief experience they shared when their minds entangled in the Void.
He thinks about how much he hates her for what she did to Monti, for unearthing that horrible memory. He thinks about the change he felt in her just before they were severed, the feeling that beneath all that hatred was a woman desperate to find peace. He also thinks about how there may still be hope for her and how this makes him want to forgive her despite everything.
All of it makes him weary to the bone.
45: Isa
Yonte Saire, the Jungle City—Kingdom of the Yontai
The old stories say that the foot of the city’s colossus is where the first Saire king made a covenant with the Shirika by sacrificing his beloved firstborn son to them. It is said they drank his blood and feasted on his flesh, keeping him alive with spells, that he lay screaming in agony for days on end with his guts exposed to the sky, his torment paid in exchange for Saire supremacy over the rest of the Yontai.
It is said that afterward, the new king dug a grave with his bare hands, wearing them down to shredded stumps, softening the earth with his blood and tears, and upon his son’s grave he built a gilded monument so that no one would ever forget the terrible price he had paid.
Isa never gave much thought to the legend, never wondered about what had been done to put her dynasty in power, but now it’s all she can think about.
She stares at the colossus across the city from her chamber in the Red Temple, wondering what the young man was thinking as they tore the flesh off his bones. Did he appreciate the sacrifice he was making for his clan and family? Or did he curse them all and curse his father? What would she have thought?
Behind her, a knock comes on the door, two quick raps, then four, then three.
“Come in,” she says without turning away from the city.
A draft of wind rushes in through the window when the door opens, and then there’s a sharp intake of breath. “I apologize, Your Majesty. I’ll wait outside until you’re . . . er, decent.”
Isa turns to face her guest, somewhat annoyed by his prudishness. “This is who I am, Obe. No lies, no chains, no frills. This is all I have left of myself. And it’s nothing you haven’t seen before, so come in and shut the door.”
The young warrior hesitates and takes a peek down the corridor. Eventually he slips in, shutting the door so gently she barely hears it click. He leans against it, folding his arms as he takes her in, and for the longest moment he speaks with nothing but those intense eyes of his, caressing her body with them, and it’s enough to make her shiver.
“I hate this, Isa,” he says. “I hate seeing you so unhappy. It kills me that I can’t do anything about it.”
Bars of light from the adjacent blinds stripe his face, showing it to be creased with worry.
She looks out the window. The gilded colossus across the city looks back at her, judging her. “You being here is enough,” she says.
“I feel like a better man would do more.”
“And a better king wouldn’t need you to.”
Obe Saai lets out a long breath. She hears him walk toward the bed, then feels him come closer. Gently, lovingly, he drapes a silken gown around her naked back, letting his hands linger on her shoulders, thumbs rubbing idle circles on her nape. His breath is warm against her cool skin, and right now it’s the only thing that’s real to her.
“You’re wrong, you know,” he says.
She feels his voice ripple down her spine. “Oh? How so?”
“You’re not all you have left. You have me too.”
“I know,” she says.
“You have your cousin.”
“That’s true.”
“And many others who would gladly give their lives for you, for their king.”
Slowly, she untangles herself from him, wrapping the gown around her body. She drifts to the foot of the large bed taking up much of the chamber, and there she sits like she’s carrying the weight of a mountain. “I know, Obe; I know these things, and I’m not ungrateful, but it’s not enough. I’m sorry, but it isn’t.”
You will have to die, Your Majesty. You will have to play games, and eventually, you will have to be the piece sacrificed for the greater good.
He looks down at her like he’s sad she can’t see how wrong she is. Obe is not simple by any means, but his world is painted in stark colors, with no room for ambiguity. He proceeds to pace the width of her chamber, his hands on his waist. “I used to look up to him, you know? My uncle. But now . . .” Obe shakes his head, pausing to look down at Isa, his hurt and confusion written in the lines of his face. “He shames me, Isa. He’s a disgrace to every Saai in the kingdom, and his scheming will be the death of us all.”
A reckless impulse veers into Isa right then. Knowing she is stoking a fire, she says, “He’s still your uncle.”
His eyes spark with strong emotions, and he seems to loom taller in the room. “He is nothing to me, and if he thinks the Sentinels will just lay down our arms and let him butcher innocents in this city, then he’s in for a surprise—bond or no bond. I’ve been talking to my comrades, and there’s a real”—Obe brings his fingers together as he thinks of the appropriate word—“cohesion, you know? We’re all fired up, for you, for our king. We’re not going anywhere, not even if the motherdamned Shirika threaten to rain fire down on us.”
She’s witnessing the hubris of youth, passion yet to be tempered by experience and disappointment. She takes it anyway, because it’s hers and hers alone.
Isa leans back onto her elbows and brings one foot onto the bed, leisurely, parting her legs, letting the silken gown slip down her body. Obe is a fire, but he can burn hotter still. “You’ll have to obey them,” she says. “The gods must not be defied.”
He wears the light-green tunic of the King’s Sentinels, but the insignia on his breast and the marks on his neck are those of the Saai clan. He slips out of the tunic now and stands naked before her, a strong, powerful, striking silhouette against the sunlight flooding in through the open windows. “For you, Isa, I would declare war on heav
en,” he says, and she knows he means it. At least right now.
But she needs to hear more.
Make me feel alive, she says with her eyes. Remind me I am young and beautiful.
He comes toward her, answering her silent request. He smells like the earth, like the lush jungles of her kingdom, like the roaring waterfall gushing beneath them. He leans closer, pushing her flat onto her back. “For you I would align my soul with the powers of hell.” His voice is dusky; his eyes blaze with fervid reverence. “For you I would storm the golden gates of the Infinite Path and raze its ivory walls to the ground.” He kisses her neck, scorching her skin, singeing her, making her shudder. “I would do these things for you, or I would die trying, because no heaven is heaven without you in it.”
And at last, he captures her lips in a possessive kiss, this Saai warrior, the blood of her mortal enemy, her lover. She is an empty shell, but Obe is life and energy. He is hope, the only thing she knows to be true in the universe, and so she yields to his fire and his zealous worship, and she burns in it.
She burns, and she says to herself, I am powerful, I am adored, I am absolute, a king, a goddess, and nothing on this earth can touch me.
Isa knows she’s a liar, but lies are all she has left.
When Obe leaves, she begins to play the game that has been set for her.
She summons Jomo’s clerk to her chambers and has him sit while she paces nervously, gathering her courage. She can’t see all the pieces on the game board just yet, nor read the moves that have been made, but she can see that she has been maneuvered. That much is clear to her now.
She just can’t do anything about it.
The irony. To be a king, and yet to be powerless.
“I have a message I need you to send via mirrorscope,” she tells the clerk at last. The young votary already has a pen and a pad in hand. He looks up when she makes a cutting gesture. “I don’t want anyone finding out about this just yet, so nothing on paper.”
“Of course, Your Majesty.” The votary puts his pen down and then asks, politely, “To whom will this message be sent?”
