by C. T. Rwizi
Kelafelo refrains from shivering. “But what will it make me do?”
“On the night of the full moon, you will sacrifice the Faraswa girl beneath the light of my Seal. Given how much you care for her, the act will agonize your soul so thoroughly no secret of the Void will remain hidden to you, and the Axiom you have been striving for will be yours.”
For a full minute, Kelafelo sits there in silence, shocked, sickened, horrified by what she has heard. Then the horror mutates into a violent storm of anger that leaves her clutching her quill so tightly it breaks in half. “You heartless monster. This is why you bought her, isn’t it? Why you had me grow attached to her? You knew what you’d ask of me.”
The Anchorite gives her an ugly snarl. “I told you there would be a price to pay when you limped here with half your guts hanging out of your belly, didn’t I? Well, the time for you to pay has come. But I don’t see why you are so upset. This will ultimately benefit you more than it does me. You will add to my power through this sacrifice, but you will receive the greater gift.”
Kelafelo knows she’s not going to pay the Anchorite’s price. She knows where that decision is going to take her, but she keeps it off her face. She has learned to hide her thoughts from the old woman, and she does not wish her to sense the half-formed plans already running through her mind. “I must think on this,” she says. “You can’t expect me to agree without thinking about such an act first.”
The Anchorite gives a careless wave. “You’d be better served by not thinking about it at all, but be my guest. The full moon is two weeks away, in any event. You have until then to prepare yourself.”
Without another word to the old mystic, Kelafelo rises from her mat, folds it, picks it up, and walks off. “Aka!”
“Yes, Mama?”
Akanwa has been running after the chickens all afternoon, and her bare feet are caked with dust. She’s grown into her own over the months, and little by little she has carved herself a place in what remains of Kelafelo’s heart. At the sound of her name, she stops running and beams at Kelafelo, clutching a wooden doll in her fidgety hands.
Kelafelo returns the girl’s smile, wondering how she once struggled to see that she is beautiful. “Come, Aka. Let’s warm some water for your bath.”
“Okay. I’ll get the firewood.” And Akanwa bounces off merrily, wholly innocent of the evil that has been meticulously planned for her.
For the rest of the afternoon, Kelafelo is aware of the pair of milky eyes watching them from beneath the witchwood tree, but she pays no attention to them lest they see through her.
37: The Maidservant
Lake Zivatuanu
On a beach along the Zivatuanu’s southeastern shores, the Maidservant quietly surveys what remains of the death squad she has just rescued from a heavily armed Tuanu patrol.
She was shadowing the Yerezi mystic’s waterbird through the Void, matching, mile for mile, its progress deeper into the jungles of the Yontai, when she sensed a fierce battle raging southeast of her position. Upon drawing closer to investigate, she discovered that the death squad she’d sensed earlier, unlike the other groups who’d been pursuing the Yerezi boy, had not given up chase at the borderlands but had instead decided to follow him along the lake’s eastern shore. A Tuanu patrol had intercepted them not long after.
Now they know why the other groups chose to turn back.
Before they were ambushed, they boasted one disciple and twenty men, each riding a giant kerit bear. The disciple is dead now, only a dozen of his men are still walking, and just one kerit came out unscathed. The rest are either dead or bleeding out on the beach.
By the red skulls on their faces, she knows the men are a squad of reavers—a militia pledged in service to the Dark Sun and currently under Sand Devil’s command. Just the sight of them wearing those masks makes the Maidservant’s blood boil with maddening anger, but she cools it with the knowledge that she has a greater aim to achieve. She is not here to kill them.
The stench of blood and offal swirls with the breeze. The lone unwounded kerit is feasting on a Tuanu corpse by the wash of waves on the sand while the surviving men nurse their wounds or finish off the animals too injured to be of further use.
The Maidservant picks her way across the bloodied beach and toward the squad’s captain, who is at present kneeling next to a younger man lying supine on the sand. As she approaches, she notices the ghastly wound festering on the younger man’s leg, wet with a black discharge. Given how he’s shivering and drenched in sweat, she figures that whatever injured him was poisoned. He’ll be dead inside of an hour.
“Captain,” she says, coming to a stop nearby.
The captain raises his dirt-smeared face. He’s taken off his mask, so she can clearly see the sorrow lining his heavy brow. He’s holding the younger man’s hands between his own like they’re something precious, and there’s a clear resemblance between them.
A father and son, most likely. Problematic. She wants the captain focused and useful.
“Those forsaken Tuanu used some kind of poisoned magic bow,” the captain says in a gravelly voice. “One shot was enough to take down our beasts. If not for you, we’d all be dead.”
And all she had to do was appear. The mystic-fearing Tuanu cowered into the jungles as soon as they saw her emerging from the Void in a chaotic vortex.
“Captain, you are alive because I have use for you,” she says. “You serve me now. Understood?”
The captain’s eyes fall to his shivering son, then come back up glistening with worry. “Yes, Maidservant. You are a chosen one of the Dark Sun, and we serve you in that capacity.”
Not a very subtle way of saying: We won’t turn on our master for you even though you saved our lives. Brave of him to say something she could easily take as an insult.
She chooses not to. “How many of your men are incapacitated?”
The captain searches the beach, his solemn gaze lingering on the bodies in red masks. “Five dead, three injured. My boy’s the worst of them.” He squeezes his son’s hand when the young man starts coughing uncontrollably, and the Maidservant sees the spark of determination that comes alive in his eyes. “We’ll send all three injured ahead on my beast. He’s the only one they didn’t hit. He’ll get them home in time.” The captain is about to get up when the Maidservant decides to douse that spark with ice-cold water.
“I’m afraid that won’t do.”
His voice hardens. “Why not?”
“We will leave the injured behind. I will take you, the surviving beast, and the men who can still fight. We will continue our pursuit of the Yerezi mystic through the Void.”
His eyes widen with shock at first but quickly narrow in anger. “My son—”
“Is already dead, Captain,” the Maidservant finishes. “The best you can do for him is end his suffering and go after the one who led you here. We have a mission, and it is pulling away from us as we speak. Can I count on you, or will you fail me and your lord?”
A war plays out in the captain’s eyes, but he is a reaver, and he knows where his loyalties must lie. Eventually, the weight of resignation settles on his face, and he looks down at his son. His voice comes out like broken glass. “I am with you, Maidservant. Please give me a moment alone with my son.”
Somewhere deep inside, a current of pity stirs, but she chokes it until it dies. “Very well,” she says. “But we leave in five minutes. The Tuanu retreat was likely tactical. We need to be gone before they return with reinforcements.” And then she walks toward the water to stare into the horizon.
Her thoughts have already left the beach and are many miles away, with the Yerezi boy. It’ll be a risk to chase him deeper into the Yontai. The high mystics have coven acolytes spread across the kingdom, and one of them might detect her. Not to mention the boy’s Void-wielding shadow, who she’s certain is already aware of her.
She’ll have to be cautious and patient. Bide her time.
“We are ready, Maidserv
ant,” comes a voice behind her. She turns around and sees the somber captain standing with his surviving men, the bloodlust still burning in their eyes despite their near brush with death—or perhaps because of it.
Something black and monstrous coils inside the Maidservant, a strong desire to shred these men into a red paste, but she diverts her hatred into her shards. They ignite with the moon’s power, and she sends them all into the Void.
38: Isa
Yonte Saire, the Jungle City—Kingdom of the Yontai
In a hallowed temple where rubies twinkle on every wall and gold gleams so abundantly as to be worthless, a king strides resolutely down a long hallway and knocks on a high priest’s door.
She has worn one of her best garments—formfitting, strapless, and ivory as pearls, with delicate swirling patterns that shimmer like gold. Her hair has been plaited into thick braids interlaced with golden strands. An intricate gorget of colorful, concentrically arranged beads frames her face, which she has painted with the understated wickedness of a girl who knows things other girls do not.
She is a mortal king about to beg favor from a god, a young woman eager to take her destiny into her own hands, and she has tried her damned best to look the part.
The door opens to reveal Itani Faro’s lanky form, dressed in a loose crimson boubou and soft slippers. With that smoking pipe pressed between his lips, he might have appeared benignly old, perhaps even grandfatherly, but the maze of scarified designs running across his face leaves no doubt as to what he truly is. It’s also in his bearing and his dark, knowing eyes and the way they see past the material world to the truth hidden beneath.
She came here as a proud king, but the instant she looks into those eyes, she knows he sees her for what she truly is: a little girl, liar, pretender.
“My soul,” she says to him. “I will offer you my soul if you help me banish the marks and end the clans.”
A question has been plaguing her in her dreams of late: How can a game piece on a board ever claim to be powerful when it is but a slave to the hand that moves it? This morning she awoke with the answer: a game piece can never speak for itself, but a king can kneel before a god and beg for mercy.
The god before her gives her a hard, long look, then steps aside, gesturing into the room with his pipe. Suppressing a sigh of relief, Isa walks in and takes a moment to be surprised by her surroundings.
Instead of a barren chamber with ruby lights and impersonal golden ornamentation, the Arc’s suite of rooms is rather cozy: warm crystal lamps like little drops of sunrise, Dulama rugs with thick piles, couches with plush upholstery, the sweet scent of incense coiling in the air. Not quite luxurious as much as it is comfortable. And surprisingly human.
She turns to face him and puts on a polite smile. “Your home is lovely, Your Worship.”
The other six Faros have grand palaces in Skytown, but the Arc has lived in the Red Temple for as long as she can remember. These rooms are his home, and though she wasn’t sure what she expected, this certainly wasn’t it. What does it mean that gods live as we do?
“Take a seat, Your Majesty.” The Arc motions her to the sofas, where he sits across from her and tortures her with a long silence while he smokes and stares at her. Finally he says, “Would you like something to drink?”
Isa clasps her hands together on her lap. She suddenly feels silly for dressing up so ostentatiously in these rather modest chambers. “I’m fine, Your Worship.”
“I don’t usually invite people in,” he says. “Mostly because people don’t usually come knocking.”
She knows she should probably apologize, but what’s done is done. “I wouldn’t have come if I felt I had a choice.”
“You would sacrifice eternity to save your people.” Not a question. Not really. Simply an observation he’s made, and if Itani Faro has seen it in her, then it must be true.
“Without hesitation, Your Worship.”
“Then perhaps you are stronger than I thought.”
Something cold wraps itself around her spine. “Will you accept my offer, then?”
“No.”
The waterfall beneath them is a distant tumbling roar. For a second Isa wishes she could just hurl herself over the edge of the citadel and fall away from the world and all its worries. Then that thought turns to steel in her veins and becomes a searing question: Why not?
Why not risk everything right now, commit herself to this moment? And if she fails, she can at least say that she tried.
She rises to her feet, slowly. The Arc watches her, and she watches him right back. And slowly, she brings her knees to the floor, her hands pressed together in supplication. She, the King of Chains, the Great Elephant who straddles the center of the world and rules its beating heart, kneels on the floor and abases herself before a god. “You could be young again, Your Worship. I know you’ve done it before. I know it is why you have lived for so long. You could live longer still. Take my soul; help me help my people.”
And what does the god do in the face of such a humble, desperate plea?
He laughs.
The Arc’s hollow laugh fills the charmingly comfortable rooms, joining the tumbling waterfall to mock Isa for her foolishness, her sheer stupidity, that she could so openly accuse a Faro of partaking in such a revolting ritual.
She should know better. The things the Shirika do to prolong their lives might be open secrets, but no one, not even a king, should speak of them.
Isa’s cheeks burn with shame, and her vision clouds over with tears.
“You are a brave woman, Your Majesty.” And the tone of his voice says what he leaves unsaid: I have killed many others for slights much less than this. You have no idea how close to death you came. “But your offer is pointless.”
“I understand.”
“Because you will need your soul if this is going to work.”
She looks up at him, confused. His eyes hold no malice but pleasant surprise.
“It seems I severely underestimated your resolve. Perhaps you are courageous enough to do what is necessary.”
Tentatively, she dares to hope. “So . . . you will help me?”
“I will try,” he says. “I have always wanted to help your people, Your Majesty. I just didn’t think you could handle the responsibility, and I could not countenance forcing it upon you. But it is clear to me that I was mistaken.” Setting his pipe on the low table between them, he rises to his feet and motions her to do the same. “Come. There is something I must show you.”
Mechanically, detached from her reality, she does as she’s told and follows him out the door.
What people call the Red Temple is actually a citadel with many buildings connected by a network of vaulted walkways. The true temple sits at the heart of the citadel, directly beneath the Ruby Paragon, and it is here that mystics come to commune with the Mother. As far as Isa knows, only mystics and votaries—folk who forsake their clans and dedicate their lives to the Mother—are allowed inside.
Which is why she stops when the Arc opens the temple’s looming doors and walks in without a word.
He tosses back a questioning look when he notices she’s not following.
“But Your Worship,” she says. “I am unsanctified. I am neither mystic nor votary. I cannot walk through these doors.”
The Arc smiles grimly. “I am the high priest of this temple, Your Majesty, and I say you are welcome. Now please follow me.”
They say that death comes quickly to the unsanctified who linger in the Mother’s presence, but Isa lacks the courage to disobey, so she runs a finger over her heart, mumbles a quick prayer, and steps gingerly across the threshold, following Itani Faro into the antechamber and down a dingy staircase.
They come to a floor whose high ceiling and walls of stone are tinged red by floating ruby lights caught in artistic wicker contraptions. Thick pillars and a low circular wall surround a pool of water several yards from the foot of the staircase. The Arc says nothing until they stop next to th
e pool. An eerie pink glow dances over the water, concealing its depths. A nervous shiver tells Isa it’s probably much deeper than it looks.
“What do you know of the Covenant Diamond, Your Majesty?”
She pulls her gaze away from the pool, surprised by the unexpected question. “Only the stories I was told as a child, Your Worship. To become princes, eleven men sacrificed their kin to the Shirika—excuse me, to an ancient cabal of mystics.” Isa looks away from the sorcerer. “They built a pyre so big it burned fiercely enough to compress everything into a single yellow diamond, and when all was said and done, their princedoms were sealed in blood. Is there any truth to the stories?”
If the Faro is offended by her slip of the tongue, there is no trace of disgust in his voice. “It is true that the Diamond was made from the ashes of the pyre, but that was many days after the fires were extinguished. But yes, the stories are unusually accurate given the fickle nature of legends.”
Shock bleaches Isa’s fear away, and she manages to meet his gaze again. “So the Covenant Diamond really exists? But . . . what is it, really? More importantly, where is it?”
“Both very important questions,” the Arc says. “Possibly the two most important questions any KiYonte could ask. The Covenant Diamond holds the Blood curse that brands every child born to a KiYonte man with his clan mark. So long as the Diamond exists, the curse will carry on, and so will the marks.”
“So the Diamond must be destroyed to get rid of the marks,” Isa concludes.
“Precisely. Which brings us to your second question: Where is it? Let me ask you a question, Your Majesty: If you were a mystic and you were tasked with the Diamond’s safekeeping, where would you put it?”