by C. T. Rwizi
“Silly girl. Men such as those who attacked your village deny their humanity not because they are strong but because they are cowards.”
“I find that hard to believe, Mamakuru.”
“It is true. They fear unraveling under the crushing weight of their guilt, their love, compassion, so they scour themselves free of these attributes to make what they do easier. But this is not strength! It is weakness masquerading as strength! Those who are truly strong embrace their humanity; they shoulder the weight of it and then persevere in spite of it.”
Now Kelafelo tilts her head, defiance slipping into confusion. Why embrace something one must then persevere in spite of?
“The strong face their guilt, the consequences of their actions, the sorrow they’ve caused, and they weep over it, and yet, if it will further their own ends, they will readily shed rivers of blood,” the Anchorite explains. “To torture and sacrifice another soul while feeling the full weight of the crime upon your shoulders, and then to do it again, and again: now that is strength. Use your hatred, yes, but don’t kill your humanity. The spiritual agony of defying it is what will lead you to your greatest Axiom.”
Kelafelo has never feared the Anchorite before. Not truly. But now she feels something disquieting stir in her core. The men who attacked her village and killed Urura were evil, but their evil was mindless in its intensity, bestial. Far more terrifying is the evil that knows exactly what it is, that contemplates itself, philosophizes its own nature, an evil that Kelafelo can now see for the first time behind the Anchorite’s milky eyes.
How did she miss it?
“I will think on what you’ve said, Mamakuru.”
The Anchorite gives her a knowing smile. “You do that. In the meantime, I think you are ready for the next stage of your learning.”
Kelafelo fails to conceal her surprise. “I am?”
“Indeed. There is something we must collect before you begin.” With the aid of her walking stick, the Anchorite rises from her stool and gestures for Kelafelo to do the same. “Come. Let us take a walk down to the river.”
The calm and coppery waters of the River Fulamungu can be seen glittering from the Anchorite’s hut through a copse of tall shrubs. The river is navigable almost as far inland as the World’s Artery, so it’s not uncommon to see boats and the occasional ship gliding by.
While Kelafelo stands next to her along the riverbank, the Anchorite starts to chew on a dry stick of licorice root, as is her wont when she’s in a philosophical mood. That’s how Kelafelo knows she’s about to be tested.
“The Blood Woman blessed Umadiland with arguably one of the most powerful ancestral talents in the Redlands,” she begins. “No other tribe can rival our capacity to grow our powers. It takes years of meditation, study, or ritual sacrifice for every other mystic to achieve the same growth in power we can achieve in mere weeks by simply rooting our cosmic shards to our lands.” The Anchorite spits out a chunk of desiccated root. “Now, given this incredible advantage, tell me why Umadiland is not an empire with dominion over all the Redlands.”
Deciding that the lecture will probably be yet another polemic against the tribe—the Anchorite is fond of these—Kelafelo responds accordingly. “Because our mystics don’t build strong Axioms, Mamakuru.”
“Explain.”
She takes a moment to consider everything she’s learned and proceeds with caution, thinking over every word. “While it is true that the number of rings on your cosmic shards determines how much essence you can draw per unit time, the quality of your Axiom is a far more significant factor in determining the speed and efficacy of spell casting and charm creation. Fundamentally, the Axiom dictates how much of this raw essence is converted into useful magic and how fast. So even if your shards provide you with a stream of essence as forceful as this river, if your Axiom is rubbish, then little of that power will ever be usable.”
The Anchorite acquires a distant look as she mulls over the answer. Eventually, she tosses her root into the river. “That answers why you might want a good Axiom, but not why Umadiland is where it is today.”
Kelafelo hesitates. “I guess . . . I’m not sure I know.”
“It is quite simple. Instead of using our ancestral talent to uplift ourselves, we have used it as an excuse to get away with rubbish, as you’ve so accurately described it. Why slave over an Axiom when rooting yourself to even a small piece of land can add a whole ring to your cosmic shards? All you need is an Axiom that works, and then you can make up for its deficiencies by conquering more and more land. A solid plan, yes?”
Kelafelo takes some time to think. “There is a fatal flaw to that logic, Mamakuru. Spellwork with inefficient Axioms is vastly more taxing to the mind, and you can forget about casting charms.”
A little smile appears on the Anchorite’s weathered face. “Then you understand something many of our tribe’s young men do not. From the day they are born, they dream of becoming warlords. They teach themselves the art of death and violence but do not bother to master the language that underpins the art of magic. And why? Because that would require that they actually use their brains—a waste of time in their eyes. They want the Blood Woman’s power but are too lazy or stupid to apply themselves.”
Kelafelo’s attention is slightly drawn away from the Anchorite when a rowboat appears upstream. She can make out two men inside, one shirtless with his back toward her—the rower—and the other in an olive-green robe. A third, much smaller passenger sits next to this second man. A veil covers her hair as is customary for young Umadi women and girls, turquoise as the sky on a clear day.
The Anchorite continues with her lecture, as if oblivious to their approach. “Do you know how most of them discover their Axioms? Not through hard work and effort, I can tell you that much.”
The boat is steadily approaching, and Kelafelo can now make out the rower’s shoulder muscles as they bulge and the water pouring down the blades of his moving oars. She answers the Anchorite without taking her eyes off them. “I saw a man awaken once, back when I still lived in my uncle’s village. He’d never read a book in his life, but one day he drank an elixir that made him see visions, and two days later he faced the redhawk. Last I heard he was a disciple somewhere in the south.”
“A cheap trick. Those elixirs force the mind to string together random ciphers along predetermined pathways. The result can sometimes be unique and workable enough to survive an encounter with a redhawk—but not always, which is why so many of our young men die at their awakenings.” The Anchorite shakes her head with disgust. “No intellect required, no scholarship, no effort whatsoever. And people have the audacity to call such a thing an Axiom.”
The boat has now completely captured Kelafelo’s interest because the rower seems intent on navigating toward them. He’s looking over his shoulder as he powers the vessel closer and closer toward the riverbank. Kelafelo looks at the Anchorite with a question on her lips. The woman continues her lecture.
“Is it any wonder that Umadiland is the poorest and weakest of the Great Tribes? We are so weak we cannot even conquer a tiny tribe of bone charmers with no more than nine mystics to their name.”
Kelafelo’s head swivels back to the Anchorite. “Bone charmers? Do you speak of the Yerezi?”
“They never have more than nine mystics,” the Anchorite says. “Yet we have hundreds. But because they value erudition over expediency, those nine mystics are too powerful even for a whole tribe of warlords. That is the worth of a well-devised Axiom. Nine learned mystics standing against an entire tribe of illiterate fools.”
The Anchorite’s milky eyes take on a chilling fierceness. “I have gifted you with knowledge that has accelerated your learning, but do not mistake my intentions. All I have done is give you the bricks and mortar. You will design and build the edifice. You will sweat over it, bleed, cry. You will be broken. Even if it takes you ten comets, you will derive an Axiom worthy of the name, or you will die trying. Is that clear?”
> A tremor runs through Kelafelo, and her throat bobs. “Yes, Mamakuru.”
By now the boat is close enough for her to clearly make out the faces of those onboard. Her eyes lock on the robed man, whose bald pate glistens with sweat in the suns. As soon as he comes within earshot, he puts on an oily smile and addresses the Anchorite. “Greetings, great healer. We have brought your parcel, as you requested.”
From the array of golden rings poking out of his ears and the many bones attached to his necklace, Kelafelo guesses he’s a merchant from somewhere along the World’s Artery.
“Bring her to me,” the Anchorite says, and the merchant makes a motion to his rower. Kelafelo watches anxiously as the khanga-wearing rower beaches the front of the boat on the riverbank, rises to his feet, and picks up the girl in the turquoise veil. She lets herself be handled like a docile lamb.
Once on dry land the rower places the girl in front of the Anchorite and presents her with a flourish.
Her eyes are crimson. They gravitate to the ground, and she fidgets with her hands in palpable fear. Kelafelo is struck by just how young she is, not more than six.
The Anchorite steps forward and grasps the girl’s shoulder, turning her around slowly so she can inspect her as one would inspect livestock on sale. The eyes, the obsidian complexion, the slight bulge in her veil, like it’s hiding a pair of curling horns—all confirming what Kelafelo already suspects: that the girl is Faraswa. The idea that the Anchorite has purchased her makes Kelafelo more than a little sick. In Umadiland and beyond, the word Faraswa is practically interchangeable with slave.
The Anchorite steps back and gives her verdict. “She is older than what I requested.”
Still on the boat, the merchant—a slaver, apparently—spreads his hands and gives a vulpine smile. “Supply is limited, great healer. I did the best I could given the time frame.”
The Anchorite regards the girl once more and purses her lips. “Not ideal, but I suppose she’ll have to do.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” the slaver says with a flash of teeth, the avarice behind them obvious. “I assume you have the payment we discussed?”
From the folds of her hide kaross, the Anchorite produces a vial of cloudy liquid and hands it to the rower. “Any woman who drinks a thimbleful of this will conceive multiple offspring for the rest of her life.”
The slaver eyes the vial with undisguised hunger as the rower walks back toward him. When it is finally in his hands, he holds it up to the suns briefly before it disappears into his robe. He smiles again. “Thank you for your business, great healer. This will be most helpful. Call on me again should you need my services.”
The two men row away, leaving the young Faraswa girl alone with two strangers. Dread raises the hairs on Kelafelo’s nape. “Mamakuru, what is going on? Who is this girl?”
The old woman turns around and begins to shuffle back toward the hut. “Name her whatever you wish. You will care for her. Bathe her, feed her. You will be affectionate toward her as you would be to your own daughter.”
Kelafelo had started to follow the Anchorite, but at the mention of her daughter, she stops dead. “What? Why? That child is not my daughter, and I will never—”
She silences herself when the Anchorite spins around with surprising nimbleness, leveling a warning finger at her chest. “You will do as you are told, girl, and you will not question me. Are we clear?”
She wants to strangle the old woman, but she fights the urge by reminding herself why she is here. After a few deep breaths through flared nostrils, she gives in.
“As you wish, Mamakuru.” She looks back toward the riverbank, where the Faraswa girl is still waiting with her eyes downcast. A wave of disgust washes over Kelafelo, but she hides it behind gentle words. “Come, young one. Let’s go home.”
And the girl follows.
13: Musalodi
Khaya-Siningwe—Yerezi Plains
Heaven’s Intermission, or the last twenty-one minutes of the day—a day being twenty-four hours and twenty-one minutes long—is supposedly a time when the heavens lean closer to the world to oversee the death of an old day and the birth of a new one. It is during this time that an aspiring mystic must appeal to their chosen patron in the skies and hope that they are found worthy.
As midnight approaches, Salo makes his way down to the small jetty by the lake, figuring that if he borrows one of the boats moored there and rows himself to the clan’s sacred island, he’ll avoid any potentially acrimonious encounters with angry clanspeople. He doesn’t need to take a lamp. The moon is full overhead, and the spirals of the Devil’s Eye constellation have come out to play, hanging over the south like a distant whirlpool of luminous milk.
As he approaches the lake, he sees that someone is already there, a broad-shouldered figure sitting at the end of the jetty with his legs dangling over the edge, staring at the waters in pensive silence. Several boats are moored on either side of him, large, narrow shapes floating quietly in the gloom. He has no armor tonight, no necklaces or furs, just his crimson loincloth.
He must sense Salo’s presence but doesn’t look over his shoulder.
Salo hesitates and stops, frozen by a terrifying thought.
What if he hates me now?
Niko was not among the rangers who tossed the reed at him earlier tonight, but are they still friends? It’s entirely possible that when he turns his face to look at Salo, those kind brown eyes of his will instead be filled with rage and contempt.
Salo realizes right then just how much this would kill him. It would kill him more completely than the crushing void he felt when his brothers disowned him. He would not survive.
“You’re here,” he says, treading forward with the caution of a condemned man to the executioner.
Niko still doesn’t turn away from the lake. “It’s a good place to think,” he says. Then: “Is it time already?”
“Almost.”
His shoulders rise as he draws in a deep breath. “You’re really doing this, huh?”
“I guess,” Salo says after a pause.
“Think you’ll make it?”
“I hope so.”
“You sound calm.”
“Honestly, there hasn’t been enough time for me to worry.”
“I guess not.” Finally Niko gets up, dusting himself off. “Come on, then. I’ll row you there.”
A wave of relief washes over Salo. It is short lived. Niko won’t meet his eyes when he undoes the moorings attached to one of the boats or when they sit facing each other and he begins to row toward the island in strong, regular motions. The silence thickens and stretches in the space between them, until Salo begins to feel that Niko is pulling further away from him by the second.
“My brothers threw the reed at me,” he says.
Niko keeps his eyes on the floor separating their feet. “I know.”
“I noticed you weren’t there.”
He pulls hard on the oars, and they creak in their oarlocks. He still won’t look at Salo. “It was stupid, what they did. I get why they’re angry, I really do, but they didn’t have to take it that far.”
Salo doesn’t miss the emphasis on how much he gets their anger. “Are you angry with me?”
“I don’t know what I feel.”
“What do you want to feel?”
“Not confused.”
“About whether to be angry with me?”
“About everything, Salo! About you. You confuse me. A lot. I know you can’t help it, but sometimes I wish you were just . . . normal. Life would be easier for everyone.”
He looks away, and they say nothing more after that, the air between them much too charged for words.
I’m not normal, Salo thinks. Have I always been like this, or was there a point where I went from normal to not normal?
Eventually they arrive at the island on its west-facing bank. Salo holds his sandals as he carefully steps out into the shallows, where the cold water bites into his legs.
“Thanks for rowing me,” he says, and Niko acknowledges his gratitude with a simple nod. He’s gone back to not looking at him.
“I assume you have to go back,” Salo says, peering at the lakefront from whence they came. A procession of rowboats and oil lamps is already gliding toward them.
“There’ll be others who don’t have boats,” Niko says. “You’ll be fine here, right?”
“I think so.”
For a moment Niko looks like he wants to say something. But then he starts turning the boat around with his oars. “Good luck,” he says. “Stand strong and fearless.”
Strong and fearless are the last things Salo will be today, or any other day for that matter, but he thanks Niko anyway and wades to shore, holding his sandals in one hand.
The altar at the island’s center is a raised slab of granite whose sides are engraved with esoteric figures that glow a furious red, as if an inferno of moonfire were raging within the rock’s interior.
Memories of the last time he was here inundate Salo’s mind as he approaches it: his ama, a striking woman in scarlet and copper, plunging a witchwood knife into a hapless ewe over the altar as the New Year’s Comet burned like a blue streak of fire across the heavens. He didn’t know it back then, but people were terrified of her.
She was secretive. Her smiles were cold, enigmatic. She was frosty with most people, though she lavished him with uncritical affection. He wonders what she would think seeing him here now, about to face his awakening.
Remember.
A cold shiver makes him turn from the altar and sit on a patch of grass while he waits for everyone else to arrive.
The boats form a floating crescent in the shallows around the island’s western bank. None of the clanspeople come ashore—as with all awakenings, they will watch from their boats. About sixty or more boats are present by the time a string of darkness shoots up from the kraal on the plateau in the distance. Ravens.
Everyone watches them cut across the starlit skies at great speed, only to descend upon the island and swirl down in front of the altar. Salo rises to his feet as the queen emerges from the black maelstrom like a ghostly puzzle coming together, feathers becoming flesh and copper, honor guards flanking her.