by Brandon Mull
The foreign Greencloak raised Conor’s hand high and spoke in a powerful voice. “Good people of Trunswick! News of this day will echo across all of Erdas! In our hour of need, Briggan has returned!”
2 URAZA
STAYING LOW, ABEKE STALKED THROUGH THE TALL GRASS, moving at a slow, steady pace. She stepped carefully, as her father had taught her, advancing in silence. Sudden motion or sounds would send her prey running. If this one got away, she wouldn’t have time to approach another.
The antelope lowered its head to nibble at the grass. It was young, but she knew that it could easily outrun her. If it bounded away, she would return empty-handed.
Coming to a standstill, Abeke eased an arrow to the string of her bow. As she pulled it back, the bow creaked. The antelope abruptly looked up. The arrow flew true, skewering the beast’s heart and lungs from the side. The antelope staggered only briefly before collapsing.
This antelope would matter to Abeke’s village. The drought had made food scarce, and since it showed no sign of relenting, every morsel counted. Abeke knelt beside the fallen animal and spoke in a soft voice. “I’m sorry for taking your life, friend. Our village needs your meat. I got in close and made a clean shot so you wouldn’t suffer. Please forgive me.”
Abeke glanced at the bright sky. The sun had moved more than she had realized. How long had she stalked her prey? Fortunately, she had found game that was small enough to carry. Abeke slung the antelope over her shoulders and started home.
The sun glared down at the baked, brown plain. The brush was dry and brittle, the shrubs withered and thirsty. A few lonely baobab trees stood in the distance, trunks thick, branches sprawling, blurred by shimmering ripples of heat.
Abeke kept her eyes and ears open. People were not the prey of choice for big cats, but that became less certain when food grew scarce. And big cats were not the only dangerous animals roaming the Niloan savannah. Anyone who ventured beyond the village palisade took a risk.
The farther Abeke walked, the heavier the antelope seemed. But she was tall for her age, and had always been strong, and she was excited to show her prize to her father. She tried to ignore the hot sun.
In her village, the men normally did the hunting. Women rarely ventured out alone. What a surprise this antelope would be! What a perfect way to commemorate her eleventh nameday.
Her sister, Soama, might be more beautiful. She might sing and dance better. She might weave better. She might even be a more gifted artisan.
But she had never made a kill.
Just over a year ago, Soama had presented the village with a beaded tapestry on her eleventh nameday, depicting herons in flight over a pond. Many had remarked that it was the most impressive work they had seen from a young artist. But could they eat it in a famine? Would the beaded pond cure their thirst? Would the fake herons ease the pains of their hunger?
Abeke could not resist a smile. To her knowledge, no child had ever brought game as a nameday gift. Did the village need another decorative jar? To hold what water? Her gift would serve a purpose.
To avoid being spotted by the lookouts, Abeke approached her village stealthily. She entered how she had exited — through the damaged slats in the side of the wall facing the ravine. There was some tricky climbing involved, made no easier by the carcass on her shoulders, but Abeke succeeded.
Time was short. Ignoring the stares of her neighbors, Abeke hurried to her home. Like most of the other dwellings in her village, her rondavel had a round base, with stone walls and a conical thatched roof. When she burst inside, she found Soama waiting, looking gorgeous in an orange wrap and a beaded scarf. Abeke was not bad-looking herself, but had long ago lost the contest of beauty to her sister. In any case, she favored more practical clothing, and braids that could be tied back.
“Abeke!” Soama said. “Where have you been? Does Father know you’re back?”
“I went hunting,” Abeke explained proudly, the antelope still resting on her shoulders. “Alone.”
“You went outside? Past the gate?”
“Where else would I get an antelope?”
Soama put a brown hand over her eyes. “Abeke, why must you be so strange? You vanished. Father was worried! You’re late for your bonding ritual.”
“It’ll be all right,” Abeke assured her sister. “I’ll hurry. I’m not as fussy as you. Nobody will complain once they see my fine kill.”
Behind Abeke, the door opened. She turned and looked up at her father, a tall man, lean and muscular, with a shaved head. His eyes were not friendly. “Abeke! Chinwe told me you had returned. I was preparing a group to go search for you.”
“I wanted to offer a fine nameday gift,” Abeke explained. “I brought home this antelope.”
Breathing heavily, her father closed his eyes. He could barely keep control of his tone. “Abeke. Today is important. You are late. You are covered in dust and blood. Your disappearance has put the village in an uproar. Have you no sense? Have you no dignity?”
Abeke withered inside, her pride dissolving, her happiness spoiling. For a moment she could find no reply. Tears threatened to fall. “But . . . I came to no harm. You know how well I hunt. This was a surprise.”
Her father shook his head. “This was selfishness. Wrongheadedness. You cannot offer the antelope as your nameday gift! It is evidence of your misbehavior. What would it say about you? About us? What lesson will it teach other children? You will offer the jar you made.”
“But the jar is ugly!” Abeke said desperately. “An ape could make a better one. I have no talent there.”
“You make no effort there,” her father said. “Returning alive with a kill shows skill, but it also shows poor judgment. We will discuss a punishment later. Make yourself ready. I will go tell the others that we will have your bonding ritual after all. Let Soama help you. If you would look to her example, you would disgrace us less.”
Abeke felt desolate. “Yes, Father.”
After her father left, Abeke unslung the antelope from her shoulders and set it down. Now that she was paying attention, she saw that her father was right — she was covered in dust and blood. She stared flatly at her fine kill. It had become a trophy of shame.
Abeke could barely restrain her tears. Today was supposed to be her day! Her one day. Everything was always about Soama. How thoughtful she was. How lovely. How talented. Today Abeke would drink the Nectar of Ninani. Would she call a spirit animal? Probably not. But today she became a woman. A true citizen of the village. And she had wanted to contribute a special gift.
Abeke wished for her mother. Her mother had understood her better than anyone. But her mother had never been strong, and had been taken by sickness.
Finally surrendering, Abeke started to weep.
“No time for that,” Soama ordered. “You’re late, and you look bad enough already.”
Gritting her teeth, Abeke fought her emotions. Did she want her sister to see her cry? “What should I do?”
Soama crossed to her and wiped the tears from her cheeks. “On second thought, maybe you should cry. We don’t have enough water to wash you.”
“I’m done crying.”
“Let’s get you clean.”
Abeke became as passive as a doll. She didn’t complain about the scratchy brushes or the barely damp cloth. She didn’t offer any opinions about her outfit or her accessories. Abeke let Soama arrange everything, and tried not to look at her antelope.
When Abeke emerged, she found the whole village waiting. After all, today was her day. Starting at her door, everyone stood in two long lines forming a pathway. Abeke had looked forward to this. It had been fun to do it for others.
Her father stared at her sternly — as did most of the other men. Some of the women observed her with disgust, others with pity. A few of her younger acquaintances snickered.
Abeke walked between the people of her village, keenly aware of how she had disappointed them. She wished she could run away and get eaten by a lion.
Instead,
she clutched the awful jug at her side, held her head high, and kept walking. The wind had risen, blowing dust. A cloud muted the sun. Abeke did not smile. She kept her expression neutral.
Abeke followed the winding path of people. After she passed, the lines behind her collapsed as everyone followed her to her destination.
Up ahead, Abeke spotted Chinwe. Standing beyond the end of the path, she wore the green cloak only brought out for bonding rituals, draped casually over one shoulder. The tattoo of her wildebeest was visible on her thin, bare leg.
As Abeke approached, Chinwe started chanting. The villagers echoed each phrase using the old tribal language. Abeke didn’t know what most of the words meant, and neither did the others, but it was tradition.
When Abeke reached Chinwe, she knelt, feeling the gritty dirt beneath her bare knees. Still chanting, Chinwe dipped a small bowl into a large vessel and gazed down at Abeke. She didn’t look angry or disapproving. She looked the same as she did during any bonding ritual — relaxed, and maybe a little bored.
Chinwe offered the bowl and Abeke accepted it. There was only a little fluid at the bottom, colorless like water, but thicker. She drank it. The Nectar tasted like unheated soup, the kind her mother used to make with crushed nuts. It was sweeter, but otherwise strikingly similar. The taste brought tears to Abeke’s eyes.
Handing the bowl back, Abeke looked up at Chinwe curiously. Had that really been the Nectar? Or had Chinwe replaced the Nectar with root-and-nut soup? Chinwe took the bowl from Abeke and kept chanting.
Abeke felt unsteady, sort of dizzy and charged. Did everyone have this reaction? Her senses reached wide. She caught the vivid smell of rain on the wind. She could single out each individual chanting voice, and could tell who was off pitch. She could even hear her father and her sister.
The sky rumbled and darkened. The chanting broke off as everyone looked upward. Only once had Abeke seen a spirit animal called. Hano had done it, the grandnephew of the old Rain Dancer. Abeke had been six at the time, but she didn’t recall any thunder. A soft glow had appeared behind Hano, and an anteater had ambled out of the radiance.
There was nothing soft about this light. A dazzling column blazed into existence, more intense than a bonfire, casting long shadows around the village. Several people shrieked. When the light disappeared, a leopard remained.
Buzzing from head to toe, Abeke stared in wonder. The leopard was large and sleek, almost the size of a lion. Her glossy hide was flawless. Out in the wild, standing this close to such a cat would have been the last thing Abeke ever did.
Nobody spoke. Muscles churning under her pelt, the great leopard walked to Abeke with liquid grace, and nuzzled her leg. Upon contact, the charge throughout Abeke’s body vanished.
Acting on reflex, Abeke coiled slightly. The village suddenly seemed foreign and confining. She needed to get away! What if she jumped? She had the impression that if she desired, she could spring onto the nearest rooftop. She wanted to run free on the savannah, to prowl and hunt and climb.
The leopard rubbed against her hip and brought her back from the bewildering rush of instincts. Abeke straightened, hardly able to believe what was happening. The animal beside her could kill her with a single bite.
“It looks like Uraza,” a child said, breaking the silence.
The comment started a wave of murmurs. The leopard prowled a few paces away from Abeke, almost as if uninterested, but then looked back. The cat did look like Uraza! She even had those legendary violet eyes, flashy as amethysts. But that was impossible. People didn’t summon leopards. Cheetahs maybe, but never leopards or lions, let alone leopards with violet eyes.
Thunder grumbled overhead, and rain began to fall. What started gently soon became a downpour. People tilted their heads skyward, mouths open, arms extended. The crowd offered up laughter and joyful exclamations. A hand gripped Abeke’s wrist. It was Chinwe. She wore a rare smile. “I believe we have found our new Rain Dancer.”
The old Rain Dancer had died more than two years ago. Rain had not fallen on the village of Okaihee since. A few little storms had come close, but not a drop had landed within their walls. Several of the reliable wells had dried up. There had been much debate about how they would break the curse.
“A Rain Dancer?” Abeke marveled.
“It would be difficult to argue against it,” Chinwe said.
Abeke’s father approached, eyeing the leopard warily. “We should get indoors.”
Abeke squinted at him through the downpour. “Can you believe this?”
“Truly, I cannot.” He seemed distant. Was he still angry with her?
“Your daughter has ended our drought,” Chinwe said.
“So it would appear.”
“And she has summoned a leopard. Perhaps the leopard.”
Her father nodded pensively. “The lost guardian of Nilo. What does this mean, Chinwe?”
“I don’t know,” Chinwe said. “It goes against . . . I’ll have to consult someone who sees more deeply.”
Her father considered the leopard. “Is it safe?”
Chinwe shrugged. “As safe as any wild thing can be. It’s her spirit animal.”
Her father regarded Abeke, droplets bombarding his bald head. “The rain is making up for lost time. Come.”
Jogging after her father, her fancy wrap soaked, Abeke tried to understand why he seemed displeased. “Are you disappointed?” she ventured.
He stopped and gripped her shoulders, heedless of the rain. “I am confounded. I should be happy that you summoned an animal. But you have called a leopard! And not just any leopard — one that resembles our legendary guardian. In good ways and bad, you have always been different. And now this tops all of it! Will your beast bring good or evil upon you? Upon us? I don’t know what to think.”
The leopard gave a low growl, not terribly threatening, but not pleased either. Abeke’s father turned and led the way to their home. The leopard followed behind. When they reached the front door, they found a stranger waiting. He wore Euran clothing — boots, trousers, and a lavish blue cloak with the hood raised against the rain. The hood obscured his face.
Abeke’s father stopped near him. “Who are you?”
“I’m called Zerif,” the man replied in a lively voice. “I journeyed here from afar. Your daughter has accomplished the impossible, as was foretold weeks ago by Yumaris the Inscrutable, one of the wisest women in all of Erdas. What happened today will reshape the world. I’m here to help.”
“Then, enter,” her father said. “I am Pojalo.”
The three of them went through the doorway. The leopard followed smoothly.
Soama awaited them, her outfit damp but not soaked. She must have hurried indoors. “There it is,” she said, cautious eyes on the leopard. “Am I dreaming?”
“Isn’t she amazing?” Abeke said, hoping her sister would be impressed. The leopard briefly sniffed the room, then crouched beside Abeke. Stooping, Abeke stroked the damp fur, not minding the smell of it.
“I don’t feel safe,” Soama said. She looked to her father for help. “Must it be indoors with us?”
“She belongs with me,” Abeke replied immediately.
The stranger lowered his hood. He was middle-aged, with light brown skin and a neatly sculpted beard that only covered the end of his chin. “Perhaps I can help. This must all feel confusing. When you awoke today, Abeke, you could not have expected to alter the world’s destiny.”
“Where are you from, Zerif?” Pojalo asked.
“A traveler like me hails from all corners,” Zerif replied.
“Are you a Greencloak?” Abeke felt he had the confidence of a Greencloak, if not the garment.
“I am one of the Marked, but I do not wear the green cloak. I’m affiliated with them, but I concentrate on matters relating to the Great Beasts. Have you heard talk of the battles in southern Nilo?”
“Only rumors,” Pojalo said. “Foreign invaders. Our concerns of late have involved water and food.”
“These rumors are the groans of a dam about to burst,” Zerif said. “War will soon overtake not only all of Nilo, but all of Erdas. The Fallen Beasts are returning. Your daughter summoned one of them. This places her at the center of the conflict.”
Pojalo turned toward the leopard with alarm. “We thought it looked like . . .”
“Not just looks like,” Zerif corrected. “Abeke has summoned Uraza.”
“How . . . ?” Soama whispered, eyes wide and frightened.
“How is unanswerable,” Zerif said. “What she does now is the only question. I offer my assistance. You must act swiftly. This leopard will earn Abeke many enemies.”
“What do you suggest?” Pojalo asked. “She is our new Rain Dancer, and is much needed.”
“Her power,” Zerif stated somberly, “will bring much more than rain.”
Abeke frowned. This stranger Zerif clearly had plans for her, and her father seemed eager to hear him. Did he want to be rid of her? Would he act so eager if Soama had summoned this leopard?
Zerif rubbed his facial hair with two fingers. “We have much to do. First things first — you may have noticed that Uraza appears edgy. I suggest you either give the leopard the dead antelope, or else separate them.”
3 JHI
MEILIN SAT ON A CUSHION BEFORE HER LOOKING GLASS, meticulously applying facial paint. She didn’t mind letting her handmaidens prepare her for festivals or banquets. But today was important. Today she wanted to look just right. And when you wanted something done right, you did it yourself.
After finishing the accents around her eyes, Meilin inspected her handiwork. It was a work of art atop a work of art. People always remarked that she was stunning. She had never needed paint on her face to earn compliments. But now she possessed an allure beyond her natural beauty.
Anybody could get the pale base and striking lips right. But Meilin knew some tricks her handmaidens didn’t — how to properly blend the blush in her cheeks, how to use gold flecks near the eyes, and how a hint of imperfection made her hair more appealing.