The rest of the Degen Jassi shared the platform with the Leba and the imperial pair of father and daughter. The ranks of the ruling class had been thinned after the slaughter the Uloans had inflicted. Many of those who would have shared the splendor of Gebrem’s coronation this day were buried in the City of the Dead.
In contrast, the Imba Jassi were almost fully represented. Only a few of them had been in Khambawe when the Uloans had invaded, and they now outnumbered their city-dwelling counterparts. What this change would mean in the future was yet to be decided.
Although the raiment of the rulers of the outlying lands could not match that of the Degen Jassi, the bearing of the rustic lords was just as dignified. Still, they, too, harbored apprehensions. Under the loose rule of earlier Emperors, the Imba Jassi had enjoyed tacit independence. With a new ruler whose power was strengthened by that of the Almovaads, how long would this level of autonomy last?
That question would be answered at another time. For the glory of this day reflected as much on the Imba Jassi as it was on the people of the city.
A lone drummer occupied a corner of the platform. He was clad in the garb of the primeval Matile, harkening back to the time before the first Leba harnessed the power of ashuma. The skin of a lion cloaked the drummer’s lean frame, and ornaments made from lions’ teeth and claws adorned his arms, legs, and hair.
His drum, called the Negarit, was ancient, made before the time of Jass Issuri and handed down through countless generations. It was huge; the drummer could not have circled it with both his arms. A patina of age coated its dark wood, obscuring hints of figures and symbols carved by the hands of long-dead tribal craftsmen. Only during coronations was the Negarit removed from its place of honor in the Palace, and only the descendants of the first drummer were allowed to play it.
But when the drummer, whose name was Wolde as was that of all his ancestors, struck the Negarit’s surface with the ebony sticks in his hands, the sound was clear and resonant, as though the drum had been carved that very morning.
As Wolde’s arcanely amplified beat echoed throughout the pavilion and far beyond, Kyroun began to recite the long list of Emperors and Empresses of Matile Mala, names only now known to him.
“Issuri,” he began. “Tebede. Mangasha. Tsegaye. Hailam. Bekele ....”
These were names most Matile knew as well as their own. Names of pride, names of power. Names of those who had lifted the Matile Mara Empire to its greatest glory; names of those whose folly had led to its downfall. And, finally, the name of the one who would be entrusted to renew the Empire’s greatness:
“Dardar Asfaw Gebrem.”
The Seer and the crowd fell silent. Gebrem raised his arms, and a soft glow suffused the Crown and Sword of Issuri. Then both royal objects rose from the pedestal and floated toward Gebrem. Gently, the Crown settled onto Gebrem’s head. And the Sword drifted into his waiting hands.
Gebrem raised the Sword high above his head and held it steady. The glow from both the Crown and Sword enveloped him, transforming him into an incandescent icon and suffusing everyone else with him on the platform. As he stood before his people, the new Emperor overshadowed even Kyroun. It was as though Gebrem personified the Matile’s imminent return to the greatness of the past in the aftermath of their near-obliteration.
A spontaneous cheer rose from the crowd: a cacophony of chants and ululations that originated back in the time when the Matile herded cattle and fought clan wars and dreamed of something more, something beyond the confines of their fields and pastures. Caught up in their hosts’ fervor, the Fidi joined the celebration, adding victory songs from their own lands to the tapestry of triumph.
As waves of approbation continued to wash over him, the Emperor Gebrem locked eyes with Kyroun. The Degen and Imba Jassi had met several times, well in advance of the coronation, to discuss what should be done during its immediate aftermath. Alternatives had been discussed. Plans had been made. Tasks had been assigned.
“Now, my friend, our work truly begins,” Gebrem said.
Kyroun nodded.
5
One person in the crowd was not the same as all the others, even though he looked like the rest of the people, and shouted and sang in celebration as loudly as anyone else. But he was different – unique.
As far as he knew, Sehaye, the islander spy, was the only Uloan left alive in Khambawe. He had not crossed paths with any others. There was no longer any danger of discovery; he had long since overcome the madness that had claimed him after Retribution Time had turned into a calamity, although some of it remained, touching his consciousness like strings of spider-silk. In the immediate aftermath of the battle, his disoriented behavior had not been noticed, for it was not unusual. Eventually, his mind calmed, and he did what he needed to do in order to stay alive.
He often thought a similar madness had afflicted the other spies in the city, whose identities in any case remained unknown to him. He did not want to know who they were, or whether or not they still lived. He only knew there had to be a purpose in his own survival. And that purpose would become clear when Legaba decided it was time for him to become aware of it.
In the meantime, Sehaye focused his attention fully on the royal platform: on the pretender who wore the crown that rightfully belonged to Jass Imbiah; on the foreign interloper who had wrongfully assumed the role of Leba. He sensed those two were somehow involved in his own destiny. But he did not yet know how, nor could he even guess what lay ahead.
He knew the answer would come. Legaba would give it to him. And when he received it, he would be ready to act.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Complications
1
The Emperor Gebrem meditated alone in Dardar Agaw’s chamber, where Alemeyu had spent so much of his time. Gone were the elaborate panoply and accouterments that had accompanied his coronation. His crown and royal vestments were close at hand, but now was not the time to wear them. He was clad in simple garb: plain white tunic over senafil, like most Matile of lesser rank. The long braids of his hair were unadorned. When he presented himself to his new god, he did so as an ordinary man, even though he had become much more – a man who possessed the ultimate in both secular and sorcerous power; a combination that had never before been seen on the Lion Throne. Even the great Issuri had been only a warrior, and not a sorcerer as well.
Gebrem sat cross-legged on the bare, stone floor, his hands folded in his lap. His eyes were closed, and his lips set in a straight, unsmiling line within his beard. Gebrem still looked like a man who was approaching old age, his hair rapidly becoming more gray than black. Inside, though, every fragment of his being radiated a vitality he had never known even when he was a youth – the power of Almovaad magic, a power far greater than anything he had ever experienced when he utilized ashuma. At times, Gebrem felt as though he could do anything he cared to do simply by waving his hand. But he also knew better than to fall into the foolish trap of acting as though that belief were true.
Now, his body was in the chamber of the long-dead Emperor Asfaw. But his soul was in the Realm of Almovaar ....
Gebrem stood in the midst of a desert unlike any that existed in Abengoni. Golden sand stretched as far as his eyes could see, merging in the distance with a saffron sky in which no sun was visible. Yet there was light everywhere, emanating from the sky and glowing from every grain of sand.
Dunes rose like the multi-humped back of some gigantic beast slumbering just beneath the surface. Rills of sand rolled like water down the dunes’ slopes, whispering in a language Gebrem could not understand. There was no indication of life’s presence in this sere landscape ... none of the hardy plants and animals that clung to existence in the vast expanses of the Khumba Khourou wasteland, which lay far to the south of Matile Mala.
Yet even though there was no life, there were ... shadows. They were human in shape, but Gebrem saw no one who might have cast them no matter where he looked. After a moment’s thought, Gebrem realized that t
hese shadows must be Almovaar’s Children ...
Heat burned into the soles of Gebrem’s bare feet. A dry, searing wind whipped the braids of his hair into a frenzied tangle and billowed the tunic and trousers away from his lean frame. But the Emperor ignored both the heat and the wind. For he had been to this place before in the months that followed the defeat of the Uloans, though always with Kyroun at his side.
However, the Realm had always been empty the other times he had been there. Never before had he seen these shadows. They stretched in elongated silhouettes on the sand, not menacing Gebrem in any way, but also not reassuring him with their presence. They neither moved not made any sound.
Now, for the first time, he was in Almovaar’s abode on his own, without the Seer present to guide him. After much reflection, Gebrem had decided that if he were to be the true ruler of Matile Mala, it was necessary for him to encounter his new god without the benefit of Kyroun’s well-meaning intercession.
And he had questions to ask Almovaar ... more than he had first imagined, now that he had seen the shadows.
He waited. The shadows waited with him. Before long, an eddy of sand appeared in front of him, a tiny whirlwind no higher than his knees. Slowly, the spiral increased in size until it towered high above him, loftier than the stelae that rose throughout Khambawe, higher than the tallest tree in all the forests of Abengoni. The mighty pillar of sand whirled in front of Gebrem, blasting his face with heat, scoring his skin with granules of grit that stung him mercilessly. Within that pillar, Gebrem could detect the vague, shifting outline of a human form that disconcertingly resembled that of the shadows on the sand.
And still, Gebrem waited, along with the shadows. In his Realm, the god—Jagasti or not—was always the first to speak. When he did, Almovaar’s voice was wind and sand, sibilant as a breeze, yet hard as a stone cliff-face.
You are here alone, Almovaar said. Where is the Seer?
“Kyroun is not the Emperor of the Matile Mala,” Gebrem replied. “I am. There are things I must learn that only you can tell me. And those things are of greatest concern to the Emperor, not to the Seer.”
A gust of wind nearly blew Gebrem from his feet. Sand stung his face and other exposed areas of his skin, and he shut his eyelids tight, lest he be blinded by the flying particles. Still, he stood firm, refusing to acknowledge the sudden fear that was threatening to overwhelm him. And he wondered how long it would be before the relentless wind forced him to flee Almovaar’s Realm.
Abruptly, the wind subsided into a breeze that gently plucked the grains of sand from Gebrem’s skin and clothing. When he opened his eyes again, Gebrem saw that the shadows were gone.
You have cut the cord that bound you to Kyroun, Almovaar said. And you have woven your own cord that binds you to me. That is to the good. I have waited for this moment to come. And now it has. Ask of me what you will, Dardar Asfaw Gebrem.
“You have saved the Matile Mala from destruction,” Gebrem said. “And because of you, we will soon be as great as we were before; perhaps even greater. Everything of which I have long hoped and dreamed will now come true.”
He paused, gathering courage to utter his next words.
“But why did you choose us? Why not some other people, elsewhere in the Fidi Lands? Why did you bring Gebrem back to the land of his far-distant ancestors? What is it here that you want, or need?”
A lengthy silence followed. Gebrem waited. He knew time did not pass in the same way for a deity as it did for a mortal. He often wondered whether time even existed for eternal beings like Almovaar and the Jagasti ...
You needed me, Almovaar finally said. You still need me. For those who are such as I, it is better to be needed than forgotten and forsaken. That is something your Jagasti will learn soon enough.
Gebrem nodded. The answer was less than he wanted, but still more than he had expected from the deity.
“I have another question,” Gebrem said.
Almovaar waited.
“There is a price for everything,” Gebrem continued. “Before our Jagasti became powerless, we paid a price for the ashuma they gave us. And for what you have given him, Kyroun has paid. I can see it in his eyes, even though he does not speak of it.”
He paused, secretly dreading what he knew he had to ask next, and also knowing that he would never rest if he did not ask it.
“What, then, is the price we Matile must pay in return for what you have given to us?”
Gebrem steeled himself for another blast of searing, sand-filled wind from the god. It never came. Instead, the shadows reappeared, surrounding him until they blotted out the golden glow of the sand of Almovaar’s Realm.
Then Almovaar told him what the price would be. And when Gebrem fully comprehended what it was, he devoutly wished for the sand and the wind instead of what he heard.
2
In the heart of the Tokoloshe embassy, a woman was the center of all attention, even though most of the Tokoloshe and their Dwarven kin were elsewhere. The woman was on her back, on a bed. Her stomach was distended, and her breath came in short, choking gasps. She was in labor. And she was the first Tokoloshe woman to be in that state for a long time, even by that long-lived people’s reckoning.
Several other Tokoloshe women surrounded the one who was about to give birth. They were far from certain about what they needed to do; they could only rely on memories of ancient folklore, as well as their intuitive understanding of the birthing process, and the magic all Tokoloshe carried at their core. Yet for all their capabilities in a score of arcane arts, birthing was far more difficult for the Tokoloshe than it was for either humans or Zimwe. Tokoloshe pregnancies lasted longer, and their babies were larger in proportion to their mothers’ bodies, and thus much more difficult to deliver.
The woman in labor, whose name was Izindikwa, struggled to fend off the pain that lanced through her in unrelenting cycles. The others around her chanted birthing-spells that were, at best, only half-remembered. Izindikwa tried to concentrate on the ball of light that hovered over her, spilling pale illumination onto her heaving abdomen.
But her concentration slipped away from her. And she uttered a low moan that quickly rose to a long, lingering cry of pain. The sound echoed throughout the embassy, and the women surrounding Izindikwa cringed as it continued despite their best efforts to soothe her. The oldest woman, whose name was Chiminuka, grimaced as though she was herself experiencing Izindikwa’s agony.
Izindikwa’s cries also affected the men, who were gathered in the great hall that had been the scene of joyous feasting, drinking and other merriment not long before. When Izindikwa’s pregnancy had been confirmed months earlier, the celebration of the happy occasion had lasted more than a week. And when the women had indicated she was due to deliver, more festivities had followed. But now, with the birthing imminent, the Tokoloshes’ gaiety was gone. They feared for Izindikwa’s life – and that of her child.
“Is she going to die?” Hulm Stonehand asked.
He was sitting in a stone chair. On his lap, his hands were knotted into tight, rock-like fists. Sweat covered his broad brow and trickled into his thick beard. Like most fathers at birthing-time, he felt as though he were useless ... powerless. As harrowing and distressing as the combat against the Uloan invaders had been, to Hulm’s mind this waiting was far, far worse, primarily because waiting was all he could do.
Hulm looked into the eyes of his friend, Rumundulu. Rumundulu could not answer him. Neither could any of the other dwarves and Tokoloshe gathered in the huge underground chamber. They sat at unadorned tables and stared at empty plates and mugs, or at their equally empty hands.
Izindikwa had been the only Tokoloshe woman to conceive after the copulatory tempest that had followed the dwarves’ arrival from Beyond the Storm. Hulm was the acknowledged father of the child-to-be, and had received many accolades from the Tokoloshe. In that one child of hope, the future of the Tokoloshe people would be assured ... if the child survived.
A
nother scream from Izindikwa tore into the chamber. Hulm rose from his seat. Rumundulu laid a restraining hand on his arm. Hulm shook it off violently and took a step away from the table.
“Let me go!” Hulm bellowed. “I have to help her!”
Rumundulu reached out again to hold Hulm back.
“Help her how?” the Tokoloshe asked. “What can you do?”
Hulm looked as though he were about to strike Rumundulu. Other Tokoloshe and dwarves around them tensed in anticipation of a need to intervene in case Hulm followed through on that impulse.
Then the blaze in Hulm’s eyes dimmed. His breath escaped in a sorrowful sigh, and he slumped back into his seat. Relieved, the others also relaxed – until Izindikwa’s next outcry assaulted their ears.
Hulm’s hands knotted into massive lumps of bone and muscle. Rumundulu laid his own hand on Hulm’s shoulders.
“We can only wait, my friend,” he said as softly as his rumbling voice would allow. “We can only wait.”
Hulm remained silent. Still, his huge fists slowly relaxed.
In the birthing chamber, Izindikwa continued to battle the pain. Struggling to implement knowledge that had been learned but never before put into practice, the Tokoloshe women laid their hands on Izindikwa’s abdomen. They could feel the movement of the infant inside her. Before, the movement had started, then stopped again. This time, it continued in a rapidly increasing rhythm.
“Now,” said Chiminuka.
The Tokoloshe women unleashed a stream of benign, undifferentiated force from the centre of magic within each of them. There was no specific chant or spell involved; no spectacular flashes of eldritch energy; no rambling chants or incantations. It was the simple manifestation of the women’s desire to end Izindikwa’s suffering and ease the long-awaited passage of the new Tokoloshe into the world.
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