by C. T. Rwizi
She inhales deeply, thinks before she lets it out, and then decides to take the plunge. “The prince regent,” she says. “Tell him that I accept his proposal and that he can start preparing for bride-price negotiations with my cousin.”
The votary manages to keep his expression unchanged, but the way he falls very still betrays his surprise. “Will that be all, Your Majesty?”
“Don’t tell my cousin. I will let him know myself.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
As the votary leaves to deliver her message, Isa walks to stare out the window at the gilded warrior who’s been taking up much of her thoughts lately. I will play this game for now, she tells herself, because I have no choice. But I must find a way to make the game end on my own terms.
46: Ilapara
Approaching Yonte Saire, the Jungle City—Kingdom of the Yontai
Ilapara leads the way east along the World’s Vein as they race toward the Jungle City.
Her buck has grown so confident in his newfound power it’s almost a chore to restrain him from going too fast, but the thrill of edging him to the limits of her strength has become addictive to her, so much so that she doesn’t mind the gradual burn she’s developed in her thighs and in her arms and in her—by Ama, her entire body is sore. Whenever this journey ends, she’ll collapse into a heap of bones and sleep for a week, bed or no bed.
The traffic begins to thicken as they race toward the city. The World’s Vein becomes somewhat wider and paved with red bricks. Even so, they are forced to slow down due to the sheer volume of riders, beast-drawn carriages, and clunky spirit-powered carts clogging the road.
Ilapara has never been to the Yontai before, but something tells her that this kind of traffic isn’t the norm. Not even for the Vein.
Bamboo villages on either side of the road, some empty, others bustling with activity; no discernable reason for this difference. Men and women walking along the edges of the road, many balancing heavy loads on their heads, babies slung on their backs, young children trailing behind—entire families, perhaps. Why the mass movement? And yet farmers in straw hats look on from their fields, so not everyone is on the move, but they’re watching because this kind of movement isn’t normal, else they’d be beating back the encroaching jungles with their machetes like they’re supposed to be.
Ilapara can’t pinpoint exactly what it is about this picture that’s not sitting quite well with her. She feels the itch to stop one of these people and ask what they are running from, but she knows that asking the wrong questions—more precisely, being seen asking the wrong questions—can get a person killed. So she decides to keep her eyes open for now and ask questions later.
She rides abreast of Salo the whole time, while Tuk trails behind with the Asazi riding pillion on his abada. Salo doesn’t notice her stealing glances at him now and then because he’s locked inside his own head, more so than usual, at least. The little crease on his forehead tells her he’s trying to solve a puzzle that both troubles and intrigues him. Makes her wish she could pry open that inscrutable head of his and find out what he’s thinking.
They should have never made it anywhere near the Jungle City given the forces that rose against them. More to the point, those dangers could hardly be the result of Salo stepping in to save a Faraswa thief from execution. Clearly something else about him caught the Dark Sun’s attention, something compelling enough for his lieutenants to pursue him well out of Umadiland.
The thoughts have been sending uneasy shivers down Ilapara’s spine. Who are you, Salo, and why am I here with you?
The city of Yonte Saire comes into view when the World’s Vein rounds a peaked hill and the jungles fall away on one side, becoming a sprawling vista of towering gilded statues, landscaped gardens, and latticed bamboo domes both large and small, some paneled with glass, others with gilded struts and shingles, all of them gleaming like precious stones in the afternoon sunlight.
So much to gape at, and though it all siphons the wind from her humbled lungs, leaving nothing there but breathless awe, Ilapara’s eyes are drawn to the twin waterfalls hung like drapes of fine gossamer on the city’s eastern rock face, so tall they seem to dwarf everything beneath them.
Really it’s one waterfall, but it’s sheared in half at the top by the improbable: a citadel of stone and bamboo perched at the lip of the precipice like a naturally occurring feature of the river—because how could human hands have built such a thing?
What’s more, two thin spires rise from within the citadel to soar high above its walls, and between them hangs a red gemstone of mammoth proportions, so immense she can almost see its gleaming facets even from miles away, and it hangs in thin air, perhaps held in place by its sheer magnificence, or by some other force Ilapara cannot begin to comprehend.
“The Ruby Paragon,” she murmurs. “The Shrouded Pylon, the Red Temple; it’s all real.”
She thought the stories she’d heard about them were lies. Now she knows she was right; they were lies, but only because they didn’t do the truth any justice at all.
She realizes she’s stopped when Salo brings Mukuni to a halt next to Ingacha. He takes in the city with speechless wonder, as if words would only be a travesty of what he truly feels. Then some hidden realization slowly dawns on his face, and he gapes at the distant Paragon like it has enchanted him.
“What is it?” Ilapara asks impatiently.
“Along a scarlet road,” he says in a near whisper, “past a gateway beneath a red star. It shines far beyond your horizons.” He slowly shakes his head. “I can’t believe I didn’t figure it out before.”
Moments like these make her wonder if Salo is truly sane. “Figure what out?”
And just like that, the enchanted look turns into a sad smile. “Nothing. Tell me, my friend: Do you believe in fate?”
He says friend, but she isn’t sure that’s what they are.
Why am I here?
“I believe in the consequences of the choices we make,” she says. “I believe in accountability. Why, do you?”
“I don’t know.” He looks toward the Red Temple. “But . . . I think I’ve been brought here, somehow.”
“You’re here because the queen allowed you to awaken and commanded you to walk the Bloodway,” Ilapara says. “A consequence of the choices you both made.”
“But what if she commanded me to walk the Bloodway because I’m meant to be here?”
“Then she acted without choice,” Ilapara says. “She was compelled by forces unseen, like a pebble on a matje board, which means she can’t be held accountable for her actions—in which case no one can. Are you willing to accept that?”
She knows where his mind goes when his face hardens. “I think she still had to make the choice,” he says. “She could have decided not to.”
“Then it’s not fate.”
“No, but maybe something put the choice in her hands.”
“Something like what?”
He smiles like he knows something she doesn’t and nudges Mukuni into motion. “That’s the question, isn’t it?”
Tuk and Alinata finally catch up to them. Ilapara’s disquiet must be evident on her face, because Tuk studies her and says, “All right there, Ilapara?”
Alinata says nothing, but amusement dances in her eyes.
“I’m good.” Ilapara prods her kudu into following Salo.
Why am I here?
Her whole body is still thrumming with the excitement of the battles she fought along the way. Hard for her to admit, but she’s never felt so full of life. This is why she left home. For adventure, and to make her own path and become her own woman.
And yet . . . it rankles to have to depend on someone else. She knows she’s stuck with Salo and Tuksaad and now this Asazi spy. She can’t turn around and go back to Umadiland.
Thinking about the life she left behind floods her with conflicting emotions. On one hand, she’d eked out a life for herself back there, made useful contacts, built up a rep
utation. Another month, and she might have finally made it onto a caravan. But on the other hand . . .
What she saw at the boneyards still flits across her vision whenever she closes her eyes.
Heads rotting on pikes. A burning wagon in the distance. The silent horror on Salo’s face . . .
I don’t really want to go back to that, do I? And Salo did say he’d pay me handsomely, didn’t he?
So maybe she can stay here with him. Or maybe once she makes enough money, she can go back to Umadiland and pay whatever life debt she might owe.
The possibilities unfold in her mind like branches, and as they ride toward the glistening city at the heart of the Redlands, the conflux of the World’s Vein and the World’s Artery, one thought rings louder than the others.
For now. I’ll stay with him for now.
47: Musalodi
Yonte Saire, the Jungle City—Kingdom of the Yontai
Riding down the World’s Vein into the continent’s beating heart, Salo concludes that the city was built specifically to leave visitors and passersby with an overwhelming impression of the Yontai’s wealth and power.
The redbrick road enters the city from the west so that the waterfalls and their impossible temple loom directly ahead, drawing attention and due reverence to the Shrouded Pylon and its giant ruby. There, the eyes will naturally progress to the gilded warrior west of the waterfalls, a colossal statue with a shield and spear standing at one corner of a flat-topped hill, almost level with the temple. Grand palaces of bamboo, glass, and gold descend from the colossus, peeking through a canopy of lush terraced gardens as if to gloat over their magnificence and taunt onlookers with splendor they will never know.
Then, as the road touches the valley floor, the view slowly vanishes behind dense, living walls of bamboo and towering trees, doubtless grown into such a state by powerful Earth craft, leaving only a tantalizing glimpse through the open city gates. The gates themselves are an imposing latticed sculpture of bamboo struts and gilded effigies, the most prominent of which are the heads of eleven beasts arrayed in a line above the gates, where the four-tusked elephant takes the place of honor. They look down on the road from their lofty perches as if to say: Here is power, if you have never seen it.
To have the gates rising in front of him is almost like a dream to Salo. They are visual proof of just how far from home he’s traveled, so far that home might as well be a figment of his imagination.
What is Nimara doing right now? Does Niko think of me? Why am I here, so far from everything I know and love?
An unexpected tide of emotions floods his eyes with tears, and he has to take a deep breath. The world is a big place, he tells himself. It is an old place. What are my sorrow and guilt to such a world? Who am I to the spirits who roam its lakes, who have seen the stars with their own eyes and have seen the rise and fall of immortal empires? My pain is insignificant, and I should not let it control me.
When they arrive at the gates, the two guards inspecting incoming traffic gape at Mukuni, seeming more impressed than frightened. They are both in brown tunics and aerosteel armor, with scimitars hanging from leather shoulder belts. Like all KiYonte tribespeople Salo has seen thus far, their necks are branded with dark tattoos, though Salo can’t quite make them out from atop his mount.
He presents the queen’s medallion so that they see its Seal. Both guards stiffen at the sight of it. “Allow me to accept that, honored one,” says the taller guard, and then he runs with the medallion to the bamboo shed nearby and emerges a minute later with a light-skinned, barefoot young man in an aerosteel breastplate and robes of crimson brocade. Instead of regular clan marks, he has thin white lines running down his neck. His eyes are cool and distant.
“He must be a Jasiri,” Ilapara whispers with a note of awe in her voice.
Tuk leans closer from his abada, watching the Jasiri approach. “There aren’t many around, but you don’t ever want to get one angry.”
From behind him, Alinata says, “They don’t anger easily, though. Just be respectful, and you’ll be fine.”
Salo has heard of the Jasiri before, and he read about them in the reports the emissary gave him. He appreciates just how feared they are. Apparently, even the most powerful Umadi warlords will hesitate before provoking their ire.
He steels himself, forcing calm into his bones. Thus far his encounters with foreign mystics have not gone well, so he has to be careful about this one.
The Jasiri stops next to Mukuni, proffers the medallion to Salo, and bows his head respectfully. “Welcome to Yonte Saire, Honored Emissary Musalodi Deitari Siningwe. I am Acolyte Kamali Jasiri of the Fractal. We have been expecting your arrival.”
He is statuesque, and he must be in his early twenties, but his elaborately braided beard falls thickly down his chin, making him look somewhat older. Salo is a little taken aback by his politeness as he accepts the medallion.
“Thank you, Red-kin,” he says in thickly accented KiYonte, “though this is the first time I have answered to that title.”
A polite, unreadable smile parts the Jasiri’s beard. “Do you wish to be called something else?”
“I usually go by Salo.”
The smile becomes a slight grimace, like the word tastes bad in the Jasiri’s mouth. “That’s a diminutive of your given name, is it not?”
“It is.”
“Then I’m afraid I cannot comply with your request, Emissary Siningwe. In this city, sorcerers and diplomats will be shown due respect at all times, and you are both.” He looks to his side and beckons a guard mounted on a striped antelope. “This guardsman will guide you to your leased residence in Skytown. I have messaged ahead, so your steward will be waiting to receive you.” The Jasiri bows his head. “Welcome once again, Honored Emissary. I wish you a prosperous pilgrimage and a pleasant stay in the city.”
“Thank you, Acolyte Kamali Jasiri of the Fractal.” Salo isn’t sure what that title means, but he says it in full to avoid accusations of disrespect.
The Jasiri nods and steps aside, letting Salo follow the mounted guard into the city.
“That went rather well,” Ilapara says. “For once.”
Tuk quickly spurs Wakii to catch up to them, surprise brightening his face. “You leased a residence in Skytown?” He tilts his head back and lets out an incredulous laugh. “Oh, my friend. Bumping into you in Seresa is turning out to be the best thing that has ever happened to me.”
“What’s Skytown?” Ilapara asks, and Salo shakes his head, staring at the city ahead of him, no longer a distant dream but a close reality.
“I can’t say I know,” he says.
Tuk’s eyes twinkle like jades in the sunlight, and he smiles. “Well. I suppose you’re about to find out.”
Yonte Saire. The Jungle City. The world’s beating heart. The red star shining beyond his horizons. He will find answers here; Salo is certain of this. Answers to the questions that now plague his thoughts. What is not so certain, however, is whether those answers will kill him.
In the distance, the Paragon strobes once, twice, and three more times after that. And then it stills.
Black magic—magic of the underworld
Breaching the Void to summon creatures from the devil’s domain. Not considered a craft of Red magic but a foreign corruption. Reviled throughout the Redlands.
—excerpt from Kelafelo’s notes
Epilogue
Yonte Saire, the Jungle City—Kingdom of the Yontai
Somewhere in the gloomy labyrinths beneath the world’s beating heart, where the suns never shine and reptilian monsters prowl unseen, the Enchantress enters a subterranean sanctuary, where she has come to visit the apostate sibyl who calls it home.
Attar of bloodroses trails behind her as she walks, the heels of her gold-encrusted shoes clicking on the wet floors. She has covered her face in a diaphanous scarlet veil and clothed her hands in matching gloves. Dirt will not cling to her robes of violet Dulama silk, nor will the stench of sewage p
ervading the tunnels overpower her perfumes.
To the pair of masked Jasiri guardians walking two steps behind her—they are her escorts, courtesy of one of her Faro friends—she is an oasis of glamour in the foulness of the undercity. They perceive her as fragile, a delicate flower in need of their protection; the Enchantress knows this because she made it so.
What they don’t know—indeed, what she will never let them know—is that she is a mystic herself, whose power is hidden beneath a field generated by her metaformic jewel. They don’t know that her perfumes, grace, poise, beauty, and allure are in fact specialized spells of a kind. Like a spider hidden in the shadows, she has woven them surreptitiously around their minds, ensnaring them in fervent loyalty to her. Their devotion is so complete they would slit their own throats if she only commanded it.
The Enchantress smiles at the thought. Jasiri guardians, arguably the world’s deadliest warrior mystics, and she has them wrapped around her little finger like twine.
She has come a long way from the sniveling victim she once was.
They enter a dimly lit chamber within the sanctuary, a shrine of sorts, with the stone carving of a stylized eye ensconced within a niche on one wall, candles arrayed beneath it so that it seems to move in the wavering light, like it’s alive. The Enchantress lifts her veil and studies the blue hieroglyphs painted onto the wall behind the statue. They all bear the faded quality of age.
This sanctuary is old. It’s been here for decades at least.
She purses her lips, displeased. Damn these cultists. Like cockroaches, they spread everywhere no matter how many you crush beneath your boot. How in the world did they infiltrate the Red Wilds without anyone noticing until now? The Enchantress would shed much blood to know the answer to that question.
“Welcome to the Sanctuary of Vigilance, Your Highness.” A bright-eyed woman of middle age has materialized next to her, dressed in a patterned blue caftan and a matching head wrap, no trace of fear in the depths of her gaze, only mild curiosity.
