by C. T. Rwizi
With his free hand Salo picks absently at a frill on his quilt. The motif of a blue flower repeats all over it, blue like lapis lazuli, like the hard planes of the apparition’s face. Remember. “It was strange. So strange. In fact, I’m still not sure I didn’t hallucinate the whole thing. I met some kind of spirit or being, and it told me to find it somewhere beneath a red star—”
“I’m sorry. Did you say something?”
Salo snaps out of his reverie. Nimara is massaging her temples by the door and squinting her eyes like she’s fighting a headache. “You asked me what I saw when I was . . . you know, under,” he says, “and I told you I met this old spirit and—are you all right? You look like you’re about to swoon.”
“Just a headache.” Nimara grimaces and pinches the bridge of her nose. “Might be lack of sleep.” She shakes her head like she’s trying to wake herself. “What were you saying?”
“Uh . . . huh. I was telling you how much I appreciate what you’re doing for me. It must be a chore watching over a grown man all day.”
Nimara smiles. “Believe it or not, I like fixing broken people as much as you like fixing broken machines. All right, Salo. That bowl better be empty when I come back.”
Then she leaves Salo to his bitter slop and to the uncanny feeling, now spreading inside his chest like a cancer, that he might not be alone in the room.
The emissary rides into the kraal the next morning on a majestic quagga charger with white stripes over a chestnut coat. Salo is summoned to the council house not long after.
With a sick feeling in his gut, he slings a crimson blanket cloak over his shoulders and makes his way to the chief’s compound using slow, measured steps. No need for anyone to know he’s still feeling somewhat weak kneed and light headed.
His clanspeople react just as badly as he expects them to. Conversations stop whenever he walks by; eyes swivel and stare. As he reaches the chief’s compound, he passes an old clansman walking the other way. Salo smiles at him as harmlessly as he can, but the man’s eyes widen, and he takes off his straw hat anyway.
“Good day to you, Aaku,” Salo says.
The man clutches his hat for dear life. “Yes, yes, good day, young leopard,” he says, clearly not sure if he should bow or run or say something else. In the end, he chooses to keep walking, albeit rather briskly.
A bitter taste develops in Salo’s mouth. You’d think I’d sprouted a pair of horns. Or a beak. Or grown hideous warts all over my face.
Upon entering the council house, he takes off his sandals and leaves them by the door, then makes his way through the stone archway leading from the antechamber into the main hall.
The walls beyond are lined with tapestries that tell the clan’s entire history, and the waxed floors are carpeted in colorful reed mats and grids of light and shadow—patterns formed by sunlight spilling in through the strategically placed slits all around the walls. A network of exposed beams supports the thatched oval dome.
Five people are already waiting for him inside: VaSiningwe, sitting on his big wicker chair; a pipe-smoking Aba Deitari sitting on the chief’s right; an Asazi Salo has never seen before on his left; and then, surprisingly, Jio and Sibu, both in full Ajaha regalia.
The presence of the last two makes Salo’s skin tingle with a flurry of conflicting emotions. He supposes the two boys are here in their capacities as the chief’s only eligible heirs. Ama knows he could never be chief now—not that he’s ever wanted to be.
They all fall silent when they notice him. He greets them politely and sits on the wicker chair between Jio and Sibu, completing a circle of six.
Sibu gives him a little curl of the lips. Jio won’t look at him.
Aba D pulls his pipe out of his mouth long enough to say, “It is good to see you up and about, Musalodi. Ama be praised.”
Salo manages a weak smile. “Thank you, Aba.”
VaSiningwe, on the other hand, never one to waste time with small talk, goes on to introduce the emissary and welcome her officially to the clanlands, and when that’s done with, he lets her take over.
“First things first, Musalodi—may I call you Musalodi? I’m not sure how to address you without being disrespectful. This is an unprecedented situation, after all.”
She wears a towering orange head wrap and a quick, beguiling smile that says, Let’s be friends, and in the same breath, I’m a better human than you.
“Musalodi is fine,” he says, raking his family with his eyes. He suspects they already know what she’s about to tell him, but they give nothing away.
She smiles again, instantly stealing back his attention. “Thank you, Musalodi. Now, as I was saying, allow me to congratulate you on your successful awakening. I heard it was a close one.”
“It was,” Salo says, “but I feel much better now.”
“Well, I’m glad you pulled through, least of all because your awakening has come at an opportune time.” The emissary frowns a little so that he knows she’s about to be serious. “In fact, this brings me to the point of my visit. You see, certain . . . political winds blowing in the north have caught the queen’s eye, and she’s worried about the real possibility that these winds will evolve into existential threats to our tribe in the not-too-distant future. As to the specific nature of these potential threats, she remains uncertain due to a lack of reliable, up-to-date information—and that’s a significant problem. You can’t prepare for a threat unless you know what it is.”
She gestures at Salo. “Your recent awakening, however, presents a favorable opportunity to rectify this. If Her Majesty can have someone close to these calamitous winds, collecting information and reporting to her on a regular basis, she will be better able to build a picture of the threats we might face in the future. And so, after careful consideration, the queen has decided that you are the best person suited for this task, Musalodi. It is a great honor, if I may say so myself.”
Salo blinks at the emissary, then at the other four men in the hall. His world has stopped making sense. “I don’t understand. Can you please explain? Because it sounds like you’re sending me away.”
“In a manner of speaking,” the emissary says. “Tell me, have you ever heard of the Bloodway?”
He goes very still. This can’t be happening. “Yes,” he forces himself to say. “It is a pilgrimage to the Red Temple of Yonte Saire in the Kingdom of the Yontai. Every three decades a mystic is chosen to walk it with the hope that they’ll bring back a magical treasure for the tribe.”
The tiniest smile moves the emissary’s gold-painted lips. “Indeed,” she says. “The Bloodway is a tradition practiced by every tribe of the Redlands. Knowledge gifted to worthy pilgrims upon reaching the temple’s inner sanctum often becomes lucrative for their tribes. Red steel, talismans, totems—these are some of the gifts Yerezi pilgrims have earned in the sanctum.” She tilts her head curiously. “In fact, your mother was the last Yerezi mystic to walk the Bloodway. Did you know?”
She’s trying to unsettle you, Salo thinks. Don’t let her succeed. “I did,” he says as calmly as he can. “She returned with designs for an alchemical reactor.”
“And what a boon it was for us. It completely revolutionized the way we brew our medicines.”
“Forgive me for stating the obvious,” Salo says, deciding it’s time to defend himself, “but that was twenty-seven comets ago. Three years short of the waiting period.”
“True. However, the thirty-year period is merely a guideline based on the average shortest interval between highly fruitful pilgrimages. It is not enforceable, and three years is an acceptable deviation.”
This isn’t happening.
This isn’t happening.
I can’t breathe.
“Now, as I was saying, you will travel to—and stay in—Yonte Saire as a Bloodway pilgrim, but in truth, you’ll be there as Her Majesty’s eyes and ears and, if necessary, the hand with which she will influence the course of events unfolding there. And to give you the leeway you ne
ed to operate without rousing too much suspicion, the queen has bestowed on you the title of emissary. Your extended pilgrimage will appear as an overture to the Kingdom of the Yontai, our tribe finally opening up to the rest of the Redlands, and what better place to start than the political heart of the continent?”
Salo finds himself laughing. Not the loud sort of laugh, either, but the silent, choking kind, where it’s not clear to others whether he’s laughing or on the verge of tears.
“Contain yourself,” VaSiningwe growls. “There’s nothing funny about this.”
“I know,” Salo says in between breaths. His chest stings. He can feel tears brimming in his eyes. “Not funny at all. It’s absurd.” To the emissary, he says, “Let me see if I understand what you’re telling me. I’m being exiled to Yonte Saire—”
“This isn’t exile at all,” she chimes in.
“I’m being exiled to Yonte Saire,” Salo says, “on the pretext of becoming what is essentially a spy, a job I’m hideously unqualified for. I mean, seriously, me, an emissary, operating—no, spying—in the capital of the most powerful tribe on the continent? I’m the best person for this task? Am I really supposed to believe that? I’ve barely just awoken! Why not send any of the tribe’s other mystics?”
The emissary leans back in her chair, smiles like she’s reassessing her strategy, like maybe he isn’t quite what she was expecting. But she is the queen’s emissary, and that means she’s quick to find another way to work him. “May I be blunt with you, Musalodi?”
“Be my guest.”
“Very well. The simple fact is no other mystic in this tribe is dispensable. You, on the other hand, could leave the Plains for many moons, or even years, and we would not suffer.”
Salo grins, though he feels the sting of bitterness in his heart. “All right, I’ll give you that much. But still, if it’s a spy you want, there are Asazi in the Queen’s Kraal trained specifically for infiltration and espionage. You are probably one of them. So why don’t you go?”
“Oh, but Musalodi,” the emissary says, reflecting his smile, “I am only an Asazi. The power I wield isn’t truly mine. And in a city like Yonte Saire, where power is the only currency that matters, this would define me. I’d be lucky to get an audience with even one of the KiYonte princes; you can forget about the king and the high sorcerers. You, however, are a mystic, powerful in your own right. Moreover, as a pilgrim of the Bloodway and a royal emissary to boot, you would carry significant diplomatic clout and enjoy easy access to the social circles that matter. So when I say there is no one better to send, I truly mean it.”
Flattery. It shouldn’t work. It really shouldn’t. “What about my clan?” Salo says. “I confessed to sacrilege—I risked my life—in service to my clan. Are you telling me it was all for nothing?”
“Not at all,” the emissary says. “But I must inform you that the queen will not allow a man to hold the mantle of clan mystic, as this would go against the philosophy of the Foremothers. I’m afraid this is not negotiable.”
The ensuing silence is such that Salo can hear the thud of his heartbeat just behind his ears.
“That said,” the emissary continues, “in acknowledgment of your service to the tribe, the queen will allow one of her promising apprentices to awaken and serve this clan in a limited capacity until the Asazi Nimara is ready to take over. Rest assured, your clan will want for nothing.”
He can barely believe his ears. A clan mystic must be a member—by blood—of the clan she serves, or the totem will not answer to her. Even so, if the queen can do this now, then why the devil didn’t she do it before?
Salo looks to his family for some clarity but finds only shifting eyes.
But of course. This is what they want, isn’t it? They would rather have him exiled to a foreign land than have him stay and serve as clan mystic. To think he’d actually convinced himself that they would one day come around to the idea. I’m such a fool.
He takes a deep breath to center himself and keep the tears at bay. They probably expect him to cry. All the more reason not to.
“What time frame are we talking about here?” he says. “How long am I expected to be away?”
“The time frame is indefinite for now.”
“Indefinite,” Salo repeats, incredulous and indignant. “Even though there are dangers I know nothing about brewing there. I’m supposed to stay there indefinitely. Is my life so worthless there should be no concern for it whatsoever?”
To either side of him, Jio and Sibu trade meaningful looks and shake their heads. “Something to say, brothers?” Salo says. “But where are my manners; I don’t get to call you that anymore, do I?”
Sibu replies with silent smugness. Jio’s temples ripple as he tightens his jaw and looks away. This only makes Salo more furious. “I mean, who knew a brother could be so expendable? Like an old loincloth you can just toss aside when it gets too smelly.”
“Calm yourself, Musalodi,” VaSiningwe cautions. “This is no place for harsh words.”
“Why don’t you say what you obviously want to say? I’m all ears. Speak, damn it!”
“Musalodi, calm yourself!”
Salo slips two fingers beneath his spectacles to wipe his eyes. Aba D shakes his head and mutters something under his breath. Jio has shrunk deeper into his chair, but he still won’t look at Salo. Sibu has clenched his fists and tensed up like a compressed spring.
“Apologies, Aba,” Salo says, but it’s still anger that moves his lips.
The chief maintains his glare for a lengthy second until at last he sits back in his chair and sighs. He massages his stubbled jaw with a hand, looking like a man twice his age. “Please, Asazi, tell my son what resources you’re giving him.”
“Of course, VaSiningwe.” The emissary reaches down into her reedfiber shoulder bag and retrieves several items: a folder bound with strings, an ornate wooden case, a leather pouch making the telltale clinking sounds of coins, and a red steel medallion.
First, she hands him the medallion. As he brings it close to his eyes to inspect it, his dormant shards detect morsels of power trapped inside, organized into specific patterns. Both sides are emblazoned with a mystic Seal: a tangle of lines and triangles that fools his eyes into seeing two psychedelic suns sinking into a plain of golden grass. Their multicolored rays assault his thoughts like a blast of wind to tell him exactly whom this disk belongs to: a queen.
He draws the medallion away from his face and sets it onto his lap.
Clearly amused, the emissary says, “You are to present that medallion as identification, if necessary. It contains your credentials and proves that you are both a royal emissary and an official Bloodway pilgrim chosen by Her Majesty. I’m told it will grant you access to the money vault she keeps in the city, among other things. It will also be the link between her talisman and yours to facilitate long-distance communication. I don’t have to explain how that works, do I?”
Salo has to smother a groan at the idea of regular communications with the queen. “No.”
“Excellent.”
Next, the emissary hands him the bag of coins. He takes it hesitantly, never having held money before.
“This will be more than enough for your journey,” she says. “Moongold is extremely valuable out there, so be very careful. There will be even more of it waiting for you when you arrive in Yonte Saire. Accommodation, house staff, local security: that has also been arranged.”
Salo knows that moongold is a naturally occurring ore of essence-infused gold, valued for its ability to hold enchantments of Red magic. The arrival of red steel—a physically stronger, significantly cheaper, and much more abundant alternative—largely meant that the Yerezi could build up hefty stockpiles of the mineral, which they use almost exclusively in their dealings with other tribes.
Next, the emissary hands him the folder. “Take your time with these reports. You’ll know a whole lot more about the Kingdom of the Yontai and your mission there once you’ve read them
. I think they will answer many of the questions you have.”
And finally she hands him the wooden case. When he opens it, a set of redhawk scales shimmers up at him, each one like a tongue of moonfire trapped in an ellipsoid of crystal glass.
They say a single active redhawk scale is worth an entire palace of gold and silver. There are seven scales in the case.
“That is the gift you will present to the king when you arrive,” the emissary says. “Keep it safe; it would be highly undignified for you to arrive empty handed. You will be a representative of our people, after all. We can’t have them think us poor and uncivilized.”
Salo considers what she has given him, and he decides that it’s not enough. “Am I supposed to travel alone?”
“You are free to make travel arrangements as you see fit.”
“No, I meant, am I going to stay in Yonte Saire on my own, with no one else from home? A clan mystic always travels with at least two Ajaha.”
“You’re not a clan mystic,” Sibu reminds him and gets a furious look from VaSiningwe for it. Sibu shrinks back and shrugs as if to say, Hey, it’s true.
The emissary ignores the comment. “Use your discretion, Musalodi. Remember: this is your pilgrimage. Tradition dictates that whoever accompanies you does so willingly. Neither the queen nor I can compel anyone to do so. But if you can convince two Ajaha to take your blessing and assist you on the journey, so be it.”
Salo glances at his brothers. They both look away. He opens his mouth with an acidic rebuke, but VaSiningwe beats him to it.
“You will not be alone.”
Aba D nods, so he must know what his older brother is talking about. The emissary watches silently. So do the other two boys.
“I don’t understand,” Salo says.
“You are Siningwe. You have successfully awoken, and there is no other mystic of Siningwe blood alive right now. That makes you the rightful master of the clan totem and staff. I have decided that you will claim them.”
Jio’s eyes go wide. He moves his lips like he wants to say something, but then he shuts his mouth and grits his jaw. Sibu’s face gains a reddish tinge, his nostrils flaring with shock. “But Aba, you can’t! He’s not our mystic!”