by C. T. Rwizi
A mystic, no doubt, though not a powerful one. Probably one of those pesky independents who run around “helping” the poor with their magic. The Enchantress wonders why the Faros tolerate them at all. This woman alone has likely proselytized many converts into her cult.
“You draw power from the Mother,” the Enchantress says and gestures at the carved eye with a gloved hand, “yet you insult her by bowing to false idols. Do you not fear her retribution for such flagrant apostasy?”
The woman remains calmly impassive. “I do not reject the Mother, Your Highness. I only accept that she is merely one of many expressions of the greater good and that there are other expressions that can work through us just as well. If the Mother did not approve, I doubt I could still call upon her benevolence.”
“I wonder if you’d say the same thing about mystics who consort with the devil. The Mother allows them to keep drawing from her, does she not? Even after they’ve sullied their souls. Do you mean to tell me that she approves?”
“I wouldn’t know, Your Highness. Would you?”
Silence falls between them and thickens as they stare at each other, and to her credit, the woman remains cool as frost. Such composure when I could have your head with the snap of a finger. The Enchantress ends the staring contest with a smile. “I have come to consult with the Sibyl Underground. Is she free to see me?”
“As a matter of fact, she is. I can take you to her now.”
“Excellent.”
“If you would please follow me, Your Highness.”
The apostate mystic proceeds to lead her down dingy tunnels with wall-mounted crystal lamps barely bright enough to illuminate the many figures milling about. The Enchantress frowns in distaste when a little Faraswa girl in a dirty blue tunic almost bumps into her as she scurries after her friends.
They have children here. And Faraswa living among them. This isn’t just a cultist sanctuary; it’s a thriving community.
They have grown far too comfortable in this city.
The Jasiri cause quite the stir as they follow her deeper into the sanctuary. Cultists blanch and turn around; children huddle together in the corners, pointing and whispering. Their reaction doesn’t surprise the Enchantress; the eyeless masks of the Jasiri—fashioned to resemble weeping skulls with horns—are never welcome sights to those who have cause to fear the authorities.
The apostate mystic leads her into a chamber lit by so many candles the walls seem on fire. Wax flows thickly down the candlesticks, and a flowery aroma pervades the air, a change the Enchantress welcomes with a relieved breath.
Like well-trained pets, the Jasiri do not enter; they stand guard by the door outside, arms folded over broad chests, enchanted spears balanced on their ends.
Beyond the door, a girl not yet old enough to sprout breasts sits on a grass mat in the center of the chamber, her shaved head bowed, her chest encumbered by beaded necklaces, folded legs hidden beneath a voluminous layered skirt. Bones and other mysterious articles are strewed on the mat around her. A table and a wicker chair sit in one corner.
“Your guest has arrived, Reverence,” the mystic announces, and the Enchantress fails to conceal her surprise.
“You were expecting me?”
“I expected someone,” comes the sibyl’s juvenile voice. She still hasn’t raised her head. “Please, sit. Have some tea.”
The woman motions the Enchantress to sit by the table and then proceeds to serve her aromatic spiced shaah in a porcelain cup. She has an inscrutable expression as she sets the teakettle back onto the table. The Enchantress notices with a quirked eyebrow that the tea is still hot enough to steam.
“I’ll be right outside if you need me,” the woman says and then glides out of the chamber.
While she takes off her gloves and sets them on the table, the Enchantress studies the so-called Sibyl Underground. She knows that her gift of foresight is an ancestral talent unique to Void mystics of a now-extinct tribe of hunter-gatherers who lived in the Umadi savannas. Hard to imagine that this girl is the last of them, the world’s last soothsayer. A child. She must be something truly extraordinary to have built an Axiom and faced a redhawk at her age. A pity she had to go and entangle herself with cultists.
The Enchantress lifts her cup and takes a sip. Perfect. “You knew this was my favorite tea, didn’t you,” she says, breaking the long silence.
“I knew only that my guest would appreciate it,” the sibyl replies without lifting her head.
“I do. Thank you.”
“You are welcome.”
The Enchantress wonders briefly how to extract the information she has come for. Her Faro accomplice wouldn’t give her the full picture of what’s going on, wouldn’t say anything about the key or where to watch out for it, expected her to simply trust that things were under control. But she’ll be damned if she lets herself sit in the dark. If the Faro won’t tell her, she’ll have to find out for herself.
She sips from her cup. “Do you really see the future, Reverence?”
“But how could I?” the girl says. “One cannot see that which is not set in stone. I see only possibilities, and even then, small fragments. The future is an infinite number of threads branching away from a single continuously moving point: the present. Through the Void I see many more threads than you do at any given time, so I am able to tell which ones are thicker. That is not the same as prophecy.”
“So you do guesswork, essentially.”
“Exceptional guesswork, Your Highness.”
“Can you guess why I’m here, then?”
“You are here to help me, of course.”
The Enchantress feels a mirthless smile breaking on her face and sits back in her chair. “Am I, now.”
“I believe so, yes,” the sibyl says. “There is a great disturbance in the threads of time. Something is in motion, but there are too many threads affected for me to pinpoint where the disturbance is coming from. I need a piece of information, a trail or a scent—something that will help me focus. You are about to give that to me.”
For a moment the Enchantress wonders if this girl is truly as young as she looks. “Perhaps I am.” She gazes into her tea while she orders her thoughts. It would not be wise to reveal too much, at least not before she has pried the answers she seeks from the girl. Then it won’t matter what she sees. “Someone with a key to something old and very powerful is approaching this city. I need to know everything you can tell me about them, if they really exist, anything to help me identify them when they arrive.”
The sibyl finally raises her head, and all the light in the chamber flees, pooling at the edges and corners as if a tangible cloud of darkness has materialized to push it away. At the center of it the sibyl’s eyes are impossibly black windows into the Void, bordered by weak halos of light.
The Enchantress shivers despite herself.
“A key . . .” In the unsettling gloom the sibyl turns her head like she’s tracking movement in the chamber, and the Enchantress thinks she sees mounting awe in the child’s expression. “Yes, a key is the source of the disturbance. Although . . . it is only part of it. A small part. A vital part.” She gasps, her soulless eyes fixing on something in blank space. “Oh, these are ancient threads.”
The Enchantress frowns as a prickle of anxiety turns to impatience. She needs her answers before the sibyl sees too much. “Tell me what you see, Reverence. Tell me about the one who brings this key.”
The sibyl pries her gaze away from whatever she was looking at and picks up the bones on the mat. The Enchantress watches her rattle them between her cupped palms only to scatter them in front of her. She is quiet for a long time as she peruses the bones, a spread hand moving over them with its palm facing downward.
Finally the Enchantress loses her patience. “What are you doing?”
“Do you know of the Great Forgetting?” the sibyl says, and the Enchantress has to struggle to hide her alarm.
What has she seen?
“I
know of the legend. Supposedly there was a night several thousand years ago when all history was erased from the minds of every human being alive. Why do you ask?”
“It is no legend but truth.” The sibyl keeps moving her hand over the bones. “These bone fragments belong to an ancient queen, a woman of great consequence who lived before the Great Forgetting. Though her deeds are lost to us, they touched so many threads of time that she serves as a lodestar to those of us with the dark sight.”
The sibyl’s hand stops when the halos around her eyes brighten. And then, with a bloodcurdling voice as old as she is young, a voice that seems to transcend time itself, she says: “I see a prince with a bow, riding a terrible beast of the wild with fur as white as sap. A warrior cloaked in blood follows him, then a seeker of justice shrouded in the night, then a maiden of death who wields the Void . . .”
Before the Enchantress can puzzle out what this means, the sibyl withdraws her hand like it has been scorched by fire. “Oh no.”
The Enchantress edges forward in her chair. “What is it? Tell me.”
“So much death . . . so many threads crumbling to ash . . . the riders bring doom upon this city.”
A thrill of fear and excitement runs through the Enchantress. She traces a lacquered nail over the rim of her teacup, feeling it tremble in her hand. So it’s true. The key to the Ascendancy’s power has been found. “Is that all you see?”
Now the sibyl looks straight at her with those horrific eyes of hers, and the Enchantress burns with the sudden desire to know exactly what she sees. “You must not let the prince pass through the gates. You must stop him. Save this city!”
The Enchantress decides that it is time to leave. Clearly she has extracted as much use from the young sibyl as she ever will. She places her teacup on the table and picks up her gloves. “You have been most helpful, Reverence. And thanks for the tea.” And then she rises from her chair and makes for the exit, only to stop at the sibyl’s desperate pleas.
“You don’t understand the scale of the destruction we face, Your Highness,” the child cries. “You must stop the prince before he brings ruin upon us all. Surely it is why you are here.”
With a chilled smile the Enchantress turns around, and she lets a morsel of her power peek through the veil she hides it under. “But ruin is exactly what I seek, my dear sibyl.”
The sibyl stares in shock. If she could not see the threads of time that touched the Enchantress before, she can certainly see them now. “You,” she whispers.
“Indeed.”
The Enchantress leaves the chamber without another word, and just before they reach the portal to the undercity, she turns to her masked Jasiri and whispers, “Put spies near the city gates. I want to know the moment someone rides in on a white beast, something sizable and likely predatory. He will be traveling with three companions.”
“As you wish, Your Highness,” says one of her masked guardians, and his voice comes out with a harsh metallic edge.
“And one last thing.” The Enchantress casts a glance down the tunnel, where the hum of voices can be heard, the sounds of cultists living their lives and raising families in these sewers like rats. “Purge the sanctuary. No one gets out of here alive.”
A brief silence as the two Jasiri share a look. “What of the sibyl, Your Highness?” says the one who spoke before, and the Enchantress lets a silent gaze answer his question. His fiendish mask conceals his face, but the hesitation is clear in his voice when he speaks. “But she is the last soothsayer. The late king consulted with her regularly. She was under his protection.”
“Am I flinching?”
After a pause, the Jasiri nods. “It will be done.”
And it will; of this she is certain. The Jasiri will not fail to carry out her orders to the fullest extent, and the Cult of Vigilance will be wiped from this city once and for all.
A smile stretches her lips as she leaves the sanctuary. It falters, though, when she hears the first screams behind her, but she forces it to hold.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I may have begun the journey toward publication alone, back when Scarlet Odyssey was still a concept in my mind and I first started typing in an empty Word document. But I gained many allies along the way, and I would not have crossed the finish line without a whole team of people cheering me on until the very end. Words cannot adequately express my gratitude for their help in making my dreams come true, but I’m compelled to use them anyway. So here they are.
First, to the woman who raised me: Thank you. You’ve been a constant source of encouragement throughout my life, even when you didn’t understand why I was spending so much time tapping on the keyboard of my computer. I am the man I am today because of you, and I would not have completed this book without your emotional support, which you delivered with neither conditions nor judgment. Ngiyabonga kakhulu.
Next, to my three sisters: It is a joy to watch you grow into capable young women, and I count my blessings each day for the fact that I have you all in my life. Thank you for being you. You make me feel like the luckiest older brother in the world. Ndinotenda.
To Julie Crisp, my agent: You were more than just the saleswoman for my manuscript. Your enthusiasm and editorial insights helped me craft it into something meaner and better. This book would not be what it is without you. Thank you.
To Adrienne Procaccini, editor at 47North: Thank you for taking a chance on this project and making me feel like a valued member of 47North since day one. You’ve provided me with more support than I ever anticipated. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
To Clarence Haynes, my developmental editor: Working with you has been an absolute pleasure. You took the best parts of the manuscript and made them shine even brighter. You also gave me the courage to write the story exactly as I wanted to write it, and for that, I am very grateful. Danke schön.
To Laura Barrett and the copyediting team: Thank you for polishing up my work and making me look good in the process. Your hard work is deeply appreciated. To the PR and marketing team at 47North, in particular Kristin Lunghamer and Megan Beatie: Thank you for doing what you do, because I certainly couldn’t have done it myself. Seriously, you’re awesome.
Thank you to Shasti O’Leary Soudant for designing the book’s cover. Another thank-you to Jasmine Robb, the producer of the audiobook, and another to Korey Jackson, Janina Edwards, Susan Dailan, Kimberly Woods, and Robin Eller, the amazing narrators who brought the audiobook to life. Thank you all for being a part of making my dreams come true.
I also want to thank my beta readers, who were vital during the early stages of the project. Ondřej, Lydia, Gary, Jamie, Rishabh, Joe, Nero, Ted, Lindy, Kora, Martha, Kristin, and Cillian—you guys are the best.
To anyone I didn’t mention by name, please know that I still appreciate you.
And lastly, but definitely not least, I want to thank you, the reader, for taking a stroll with me into the world of Scarlet Odyssey. None of it would have been possible without you, and I pray that we get to take more strolls together in the future.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Debut author C. T. Rwizi was born in Zimbabwe, grew up in Swaziland, finished high school in Costa Rica, and got a BA in government at Dartmouth College in the United States. He currently lives in South Africa with his family and enjoys playing video games, taking long runs, and spending way too much time lurking on Reddit. He is a self-professed lover of synthwave.
