“I was in the area,” Zezili said. “Humor me.”
“I have humored you a good deal, girl.”
“Before it’s infused, you could destroy it, right? Same as any other mirror?”
“Certainly.”
“What if it was really big?”
“Big, what does that mean? Be precise, Zezili.”
Zezili wanted to tell her it was as big as the Temple of Rhea in Daorian, but suspected her mother wouldn’t believe that.
“Big as a building,” Zezili said.
“Ha,” her mother said. “A building.” She scrutinized Zezili’s face in the mirror. “Well, it’s fairly easy to destroy such a thing before it’s infused, but that would likely require help. A fairly skilled parajista could break it, or perhaps you and half your legion hacking away at it.”
“But once some parajista or tirajista infuses it, that’s it? No one can take it out?”
“Take it out? Are we targeting mirrors now on our military campaigns?”
“It’s important,” Zezili said.
“Indeed.” Her mother pursed her mouth, deepening the creases around her lips. She dyed her hair white to match her weathered face when she came to the salon. Zezili saw long white streaks in it, too bold for natural color. Elder women commanded more respect.
“Once it’s infused, the only one who can break it is the woman who created it,” her mother said. She lifted a finger and pointed at the greened mirror. Zezili watched a tiny crack appear on the bottom right of the glass. It spidered up along the edge of frame, ending abruptly halfway up the face. Her mother pulled her hand away. “It’s certainly possible another who could channel the same satellite could do it, but it would take longer. A woman’s patterns, the way she folds together the metal and power of the satellite, are unique. It would take another tirajista two or three weeks to unravel this mirror.”
Zezili stared long at the crack in the glass. She had never wanted talent; channeling the satellites was a rare gift among Dorinahs. Her mother’s station would have been far more advanced if she’d been more powerful. As it was, she could do a few tricks and infuse weapons and other items, but Zezili had never seen her shape trees into boats or grow and strip orchards with a glance. For the first time in many years, Zezili thought it might be a useful thing. The mirror had still been under construction when she went through. It was possible it wasn’t infused yet. But if it was… Breaking the shadow mirror would require someone to open the gate – one of Monshara’s omajistas – and a parajista to break the mirror. Or maybe an omajista could make a portal and break the mirror, too? Zezili didn’t know enough about how any of it was done yet. And she certainly didn’t have those types of people in her social circles. In truth, she didn’t have much of a social circle. All she could bring were the bodies to fuel the gate. At least she understood the bodies part.
“Thank you,” Zezili said, and turned away.
“Look at that, Haodatia; she thanks me!” her mother said.
Zezili waited until she was clear of the salon before thrusting her helm back on. Being in town made her suddenly self-conscious of her hair. She hated that.
As she began to untie Dakar, she saw Haodatia running after.
Zezili paused.
Haodatia handed her a folded piece of lavender paper. “Your mother wanted me to give you this,” she said, and touched Zezili’s sleeve. “It was good to see you again, Zee.”
Zezili grunted at her and turned away, taking the paper with her. She saw Haodatia’s tentative smile wither. The hairdresser went back inside.
Zezili unfolded the paper and read her mother’s neat script:
Anyone making a mirror that large would require a very talented jista. Our best is Isoail Rosalia. She lives above the traveler’s house outside Lake Morta, doing special projects for Tulana. Tell her I sent you. She owes me a favor.
Zezili crumpled the note and stuffed it into her coat.
She’d need to burn it later. Lake Morta. There was no dajian camp anywhere near there. It was remote and, this time of year, would already be cold. In another month, snow would start to block up the passes around the country there, and she’d have no way in or out until late spring.
Zezili gazed along the clean, neat streets of Saolina. Women stopped under the awnings to chat. Lines of children sat outside the schoolhouse, eating hasty lunches of rice and dried fish. Dajians cleaned out the bubbling fountain of azure-colored stones in the square while traffic of all sorts – yellow carts pulled by bears and dogs, rickshaws, and the occasional ridiculous tirajista-trained organic tricycle – wove their way around the fountain, up and down the blue stones of the street. She loved her country. Loved it fiercely just the way it was, even when it hated her. Her Empress told her murdering dajians would save all of this, but she had heard that before when her mother said that murdering Zezili’s father would solve all of their problems. “We’ll have a fresh start,” her mother had said. “You can forget he had anything to do with you. You’re only mine now. A real Dorinah.” But even without him working inside the house and around the grounds, even after he was many years dead and burned, she thought of him still, and how his face was so like hers, and how she could see his eyes staring back at her when she looked into a mirror.
They had not been able to maintain her mother’s country estate after that. Her mother had tripped on a stair that should have been mended long before, and broken her arm, and lost her livelihood. A woman with only one good arm wasn’t called on as often to make mirrors.
Zezili thought about those consequences, about the ripples, and wondered how powerful were the ripples she made with the hundreds of deaths she was cutting out across Dorinah. Who would clean the fountains? Mend the stairs? Harvest the food? And how long would it be before they came for women like Zezili, too? She was not so insulated as the Empress, maybe. She could see it because she had lived in the country her whole life. She knew the economy relied on dajians, and she knew that there were plenty of women in Dorinah who would happily burn her with them, as if she weren’t a human being at all.
She thought of the day her mother fell and how it changed everything. She thought of how that day would look for Dorinah, when it woke up from the genocide of its dajians and found itself economically ruined… while a storm of invaders burst through the mirror connecting their worlds.
Zezili glanced back at the salon. She had hundreds more dajians to kill in the morning, and she needed to come up with a real plan on how to stop the madness of it all without forfeiting her own life.
26
The clan leaders arrived by dog, by bear, by foot, by cart, by boat, by Line. They assembled in the council house of Clan Osono for food and tea and polite conversation. The tension in the room chilled Ahkio. It took all his courage to smile and greet each clan leader and their companions.
After they settled in, Ahkio shut the windows in his room on the second floor of the council house and turned to face Liaro. Clan Leader Saurika had had the rooms cleared for him; it was a spacious chamber overlooking the square.
Liaro sat in the low divan at the center of the room, legs crossed, arms draped over the back of the divan. “I’m going to be a terrible audience,” he said.
“That’s why I want you to listen to it,” Ahkio said. “If I can convince you I’m competent, maybe I can convince them.”
“I know you too well.”
“Thank you for the vote of confidence.”
“Well,” Liaro said, waving a hand. “Get on with it.”
Ahkio cleared his throat and began to recite the speech he’d prepared to give the clan leaders.
Liaro interrupted. “That’s enough,” he said.
“I haven’t even started.”
“Exactly,” Liaro said. He came over and stood next to Ahkio. “You look like you’re at your sister’s funeral. And that’s over. Back straight. Chest out. And stop hiding your cursed hands. They’ve all seen them a thousand times. Nobody cares.”
“I need to be serious.”
“You’re plenty serious,” Liaro said. “That’s the problem.” He stood straight next to Ahkio, feet slightly apart, shoulders back. It was a supremely confident stance, the one Liaro adopted every night they socialized in the Osono council house, charming women and men alike with an easy smile. Ahkio, by contrast, stayed upstairs with Caisa, going through all of his sister’s and Yisaoh’s books and papers, uncovering old temple maps and ciphered communications that made his head hurt.
“Oma,” Ahkio said. “I’m not you.”
“Listen,” Liaro said. “I’ve seen you on your own, trying to charm people. You’re terrible at it. Far too serious. Nobody wants a brooding leader. They want somebody they can relate to. Somebody they can laugh with and have a drink with.”
“No one wants that. They look at me and see a child.”
“Your sister smiled a lot,” Liaro said. “Mostly when she was pulling something over on them. When it was time to be serious, she was serious. It’s not just about trusting you. It’s about liking you. They think you’re sucking at Nasaka’s breast, and I don’t blame them.”
“Thank you for that thought.”
“You don’t need jokes in this speech,” Liaro said. “But you do need to be more relaxed and less closed. You ever wonder why the women you courted were more likely to come home with you when I was on your arm? It wasn’t my good looks. It’s because people like to laugh. They don’t want to be with somebody who’s been mourning dead people his whole life. You understand?”
Ahkio tried to tuck his hands under his arms. Liaro took his arms and pulled them back out. “Deep breath,” Liaro said. “Look up. Not at the floor. It doesn’t look confident. Don’t be upset. This is what you asked me to do.”
“I know,” Ahkio said.
“If it was easy, you wouldn’t have asked. Now come on. Do the speech.”
Ahkio met his cousin’s look. “Thank you,” he said.
“Don’t get soft now,” Liaro said. “I didn’t like sleeping without you, either.”
He and Liaro had shared a bed – on and off – since they were twelve. Ahkio had never gotten into the habit of sleeping alone; it was half the reason he spent so much time asking women to come to bed with him. The idea of sleeping in a big bed alone was… lonely.
“And thank you for understanding,” Ahkio said. “About Meyna and Rhin and Hadaoh.”
Liaro’s mouth made a thin line. “I’m not happy about it, but I know why you did it,” he said. “Just… don’t burn any more houses down behind you. They will hate you for turning your back on kin. It’s unforgiveable.”
“All right,” Ahkio said. “Here’s what I’m going to tell them.”
“Just keep in mind,” Liaro said, “they’re not going to remember the words. They’ll remember how you made them feel. Make them feel something.”
Ahkio took a breath, and began, “We have reached a point–”
“You’re looking at the floor again.”
The last clan leaders to arrive were Hirosa of Clan Badu and Tir Salarihi’s apprentice, Isaila, acting for Clan Garika. With her were three members of the militia, come to tell Ahkio that Tir, Alais, Gaila, Moarsa, their children, and their children’s children had been successfully escorted to Asona Harbor. They had gone willingly.
“And Meyna?” Ahkio asked.
“By the time we came to escort them, they were gone,” the plump leader of the squad told him. “Cleared out their house here. I don’t expect you’ll see them again.”
Ahkio could have sent the militia out after them, could have set them to tracking Meyna and her husbands to ensure they left the country. Instead, he thanked the squad and dismissed them. Liaro said he was too serious, but more often than not, Ahkio worried he was too soft.
Ahkio seated the clan leaders in the broad common room of the council house. Most brought their apprentices. The loose group drank tea and smoked Tordinian cigarettes and pipes, and the gazes they fixed on Ahkio were clear but wary.
“I would like to speak to you about Tir Salarihi Garika,” Ahkio said. “There are rumors I would like to put to rest. And a way forward I’d like to discuss with you.”
On the other side of the room, Nasaka slipped in. She stood at the back, leaning against a broad window frame. Ahkio wondered if she’d timed it just this way, to break his concentration. He had not called her from the temple and wondered what she was doing here.
“We have reached a point in our history much discussed but never experienced,” Ahkio said, and then wondered if that even made sense. Liaro hadn’t critiqued his words as much as his delivery. He pushed on, hoping he didn’t botch the rest too badly. He tried hard to ignore Nasaka. Teaching ethics often required the gift of persuasion, but persuading a child and persuading a clan leader were two different things entirely. He straightened and stood with feet slightly apart, the way Liaro had. “Our gifted Kai, my beloved sister, has been transformed, far too early and before bearing children. I regret that I am not here to introduce you to one of her gifted daughters, a woman who could lead us through what will be difficult times. I was never intended to lead you. Many of you know I would have preferred it never came to this.”
He paused, gauging his audience. When he was nervous, he talked fast. Keeping a measured tone was especially difficult when half the audience looked bored or angry, as this one did. Then he saw Liaro enter at the back of the room. Liaro leaned against the back wall, on the other side of the door from Nasaka. He nodded at Ahkio. Grinned.
Ahkio mustered up his courage and said, “Nearly any Dhai here could stand against adversity. I have watched us take on great challenges and conquer them, from the Pass War to hundreds of Saiduan blockades of our harbor. But Faith Ahya, the mother of our people, said that if you ever wanted to test a person’s character, you should give them great power. You may think I’m asking you to trust me with power. I understand the fear and uncertainty in that. The Book will tell you it’s Oma’s will, that as the child of the Kai, I am divine. But I know what is within my power and what is beyond it. You. Each of you together make up the real power in Dhai. I am only your arm, the focus of your will. What you decide here today will shape the future of our country. I give my life to you, and my title to you, and our country’s future… to you. That’s what it is to be Kai. And no matter what you have heard or feared, it is your future I wish to help shape, if you will allow it.”
His hands did not tremble. He stood a little taller in the end, because he realized as he gazed at the open faces before him that he had them.
“Now let us discuss the future of Dhai,” Ahkio said as he took his seat among them, “as equals, the way Faith Ahya and Hahko imagined.”
They spent the rest of the day in discussion. As afternoon turned to evening, Ahkio was finally able to excuse himself and find out why Nasaka had invited herself to his meeting.
“What do you have for me?” he asked her.
She drew him out into the fading light of the courtyard. “Ora Almeysia is talking. Are you ready to see her?”
“You brought her here?”
“I am, as ever, your servant,” Nasaka said.
“Sarcasm does not become you,” Ahkio said. “Let me get Liaro.”
“I strongly suggest you speak to her alone,” Nasaka said.
Ahkio glanced back at the council house. In truth, he didn’t want to wade back into the storm in search of Liaro.
“Take me to her, then.”
Nasaka led him to the outskirts of the clan square, where two militia waited for them. For a moment, Ahkio feared Nasaka was leading him off to some bloody death, and his pulse quickened. They followed the skirted women into a tangled clearing. A cart stood at the center of it, wrapped in transparent webbing. Six Oras made a broad circle around the cart. A sizable escort for a single old person, even an Ora.
“What did you do to her,” Ahkio asked, “to get her to talk?”
“She’s been drugged to reduc
e her ability to draw on her star,” Nasaka said. “But that’s all. You should be able to speak to her peaceably.”
Almeysia lay at the bottom of the cart, hugging her knees to her chest. Her tunic and trousers were filthy. The pungent smell of urine wafted up from her body. She did not look at them but stared straight ahead at the webbing wrapping the interior of the cart.
“There are ways to destroy people without marking them,” Ahkio said.
“Read that in books, did you?” Nasaka asked.
Ahkio didn’t give Nasaka the pleasure of replying. He focused on Almeysia. “What can you tell me about Yisaoh?”
Almeysia began to mutter. It took Ahkio a moment to realize it was Woodland Dhai she spoke in.
“She’s not from the Woodland, is she?” Ahkio asked.
“No,” Nasaka said.
“She looks much thinner,” Ahkio said. “Are you feeding her?”
“You have a very poor opinion of me,” Nasaka said.
“That shocks you?”
“No, but it does waste my time.”
“Let me talk to her alone,” Ahkio said. “I expect she’s not keen to talk to you anymore.”
Nasaka took a few steps back. Ahkio waved at her. “Go on. Stand in the circle with the others,” he said.
Nasaka narrowed her eyes but obliged.
Ahkio came to the edge of the cart. “You know Nasaka would have exiled you by now,” Ahkio said, “or worse, if I’d said so.”
She continued murmuring in her singsong dialect. Ahkio tried to puzzle out the words. Woodland Dhai wasn’t so different, but the inflections were sometimes confusing. After a few minutes, he recognized what she was saying – it was a passage from The Book of Oma, repeated over and over:
“All of life is change. One cannot hold on to past glory or strife. All of life leads to death. When one is not afraid of death, there is nothing that cannot be achieved.”
“What is it you sought to achieve?” Ahkio asked. He folded his arms over the rim of the cart and gazed down at her. She looked very old, older than he remembered. Thin and wizened, like some wild crone come down from the Woodlands. Where was the woman who tried to kill him in the Sanctuary? The one who had attacked Roh? Was she just playing at being mad?
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