As the priest faltered, the Voice cleared her throat. “Gorumim would speak with Hasha, chief of Kelun Clan,” she announced.
Toril watched consternation play across his father’s gaunt features.
“I’ll hear him shortly,” Hasha rasped. The Voice began to protest, but Hasha raised a hand. “Even he can wait for the knot. We will hurry.”
The priest abandoned his homily and jumped to the binding procedure. “Woman and Man awoke in the dawn of the world,” he recited, uncoiling a cord that braided Toril’s indigo parijan color into Malena’s silver, “and all the first day, they were alone. And when night came, darkness pressed upon the land, and every creature sought its nest. Then did Man yearn; yea, and Woman trembled.
“And Five Who Speak conferred, and of their number, Gitám offered to comfort them. And He did give them to one another, and said, ‘Be one.’ And He breathed fire into their hearts and into their tears, and He did fling the tears heavenward, and they became zhuril, the stars.
“Then Man said, ‘What does it mean?’
“And Gitám said: ‘I will teach you to be a light in the darkness, and together you will seed the firmament with the fire that I give you. And in the morning I will come.’”
The priest paused. At this point the bride was supposed to finish the recitation.
“And Woman felt the fire in her heart, and smiled,” Malena lilted.
The priest turned to Toril. “Man, will you be one with Woman in tears, in darkness, in fire, and in dawn?”
Toril lifted Malena’s wrist and placed his left palm against her right. His fingertips splayed past hers like shadows cast by the pale ovals of her nails. Her touch was light, rigid.
“Yes,” he said.
The priest repeated the question to Malena, and received a second yes. Then he opened his fist and grasped the end of the cord between finger and thumb. “I bind you together, as The Five ordained, in the promise that dawn will come. You are Toril en-Noemi ur-Hasha sa-Pena-Kelun; become Toril i-Malena. You are Malena en-Shavir iv-Sanina sa-Teluilsir-Kelun; become Malena i-Toril.”
As he spoke, he wove the thread around their fingers, beginning away from the thumb, working back and forth twice. Malena met Toril’s gaze and smiled slightly.
The crowd, gathered in ochre dusk in the courtyard surrounding the durga, remained silent until the priest lifted their bound hands for all to see. Then a smattering of applause and the pluck of oud and dulcimer signaled the end of formalities.
After the priest unwound the cord and handed it to the groom, Toril leaned toward Malena. “I must attend the Voice,” he whispered. “I’ll return to the feast as soon as we’re done.”
Malena’s composure wobbled. “Gorumim only summoned your father.”
“I know. But if I don’t go, I’ll be called later. Best to get it over with.” Over Malena’s shoulder, Toril could see Hasha shuffling to the council chambers, leaning on the Voice.
“Then I will come, too. A bride should not host a feast alone.”
Toril shook his head. “It is business for the clan chief.”
His new wife’s look was eloquent. He could tell that she wanted to point out the impropriety of his own participation. Perhaps she also wanted to reiterate her discomfort presiding at a table in front of strangers, with no one from Toril’s family beside her.
He wished he had time to explain. Malena had only seen Hasha for half a day, when he was projecting cheer and grace for the wedding. The man had never recovered from the heartbreak of his wife’s death, and nagging illness had further sapped his vitality—a fact that they’d worked hard to hide from the public. Hasha’s mind was as sharp as ever, but more and more he relied on Toril to do the legwork of administration.
“Everyone heard the summons; they’ll understand if we’re gone for a little while,” Toril finally said. When Malena drew breath to protest again, he lowered his tone even more, lips brushing her ear. “If you don’t believe I’m more interested in hanging your heartstone than attending to politics, I’ll convince you shortly.” He stepped back and smiled at her blush, then winked and hurried away.
The Voice was just clearing her throat when Toril closed the door from the hall. Hasha waved him over to his seat at the head of the rosewood table that dominated the room.
“Gorumim, Lord Protector of the Realm, to the chiefs of the southern clans,” the Voice began, her tone sinking into a baritone gravel like the speaker she proxied. “Osipi incursions along the border require our urgent attention. A war council of the clans is therefore convened in Bakar, at ninth hour tomorrow.”
Toril and his father exchanged glances.
“Arrive quietly and with minimal retinue, that we may confer in private. May this Voice be earnest from the chief of Kelun Clan,” the Voice concluded, features relaxing as her tone regained its feminine timbre. “That is all.”
Hasha’s cough broke the silence that followed, his rounded shoulders heaving as he struggled for breath between each spasm.
“Dægezhív izíg,” Toril murmured. The words for breathe easy in the magical tongue were not ones he’d studied in his years of training, but he’d looked them up and used them often in recent months.
At his naming ceremony, he’d mourned his failure to walk the path of the sata. Now he considered the Five’s gift of ordinary human life, and a magic talent to go with it, a blessing. Toril’s power was all that kept his father breathing, he sometimes thought.
He felt a tingle on his lips as the utterance formed. When heat bit his tongue, Toril finished exhaling, then closed his eyes and allowed his chest to expand, focusing on the sensation of inflow. His knees trembled; healing magic plumbed the life force of its user more than any other kind. It was exhausting, even for someone with his aptitude.
In a moment Hasha straightened and shook his head. “Evil tidings,” he panted, gesturing toward the Voice.
Toril nodded weakly.
“The same message went to all the clan chiefs?” Hasha asked the Voice.
“I assume so,” she said. “What is your reply?” The formula at the end of the message was a demand—polite, but unequivocal—that Hasha confirm his intention to attend with an immediate response.
Hasha stared at the saffron-robed woman until she cast her eyes down. “I will tell you when I’m ready, Sister. We are the raja’s loyal subjects, but the Kelun do not dance when his favorite general snaps his fingers.”
“What osipi incursions is Gorumim talking about?” Toril wondered aloud, as the silence became awkward. Kelun holdings encompassed most of the Sumago Mountains and shared much frontier with Merukesh. But osipi travelers favored more populous lowland roads, both for convenience of travel and the warmth they needed; as a result, he seldom saw the gold-skinned race.
“Pavilshani Clan is always complaining about how the osipi deplete game on the grasslands this time of year. They feed like locusts,” Hasha observed.
“And they pay to hunt there. That’s hardly an incursion.”
“I agree. But lately the tone of the complaints seems more ugly. I heard rumors of a lynching earlier this month in Sotalio.”
“Osipi did the lynching?”
“They were on the receiving end. Maybe that got some ahu mad enough to retaliate.”
Toril shuddered. The ahu were particularly fearsome osipi warriors; if any decided to repay mistreatment in kind, woe to their intended target.
“A minor feud doesn’t mean we should go to war,” he said. “Gorumim’s just looking for an excuse to levy more men into the Guard.”
“Perhaps. But we can’t afford to ignore the summons. If others vote to fight, Kelun will end up involved whether we like it or not.”
Toril sighed. Clans held land in fief from the raja; as long as they paid tribute and provided troops as agreed, they were semi-autonomous. But if they defied the raja or ignored a mandate from a quorum of peer clans, their fief could be eroded or wholly revoked.
“You really shouldn’t travel
at all, but if you go, you need time. Tell him you’ll come in a week. Gorumim isn’t this far south. He will use a shimsal instead of attending in person; a delay will not inconvenience him all that much.”
Hasha rubbed his beard. “I think the timing is important, somehow. We’re the only ones who can get to Bakar on such short notice, so he must have begun notifying the other clan chiefs days ago. If I keep them waiting, they won’t like it.”
“He waits to tell you until you can’t refuse or delay without insulting the other clans,” Toril growled. “But if his spies are as good as rumor says, he probably knows you’re not well enough to ride so hard.”
“I don’t like it either. The date is annoying. But it’s the subject of the council that troubles me most. War is always hungrier than its keeper expects. I feel fey.” Hasha paused, saw Toril’s expression, and grimaced. “Never underestimate a sata, son. Gorumim has outlived four generations of rajas; he knows how the game’s played. I think he wants to force me to pass the staff to Rovin.”
Toril grunted. Rovin headed another Kelun parijan; his ambition to become chief was well known. He was prosperous, and he’d married well. Two of the parijans were in his pocket. Hasha’s sterling reputation, wits, and considerable fortune were all that forestalled a challenge.
The summons was an ideal lever to pry Toril’s father from power. Only a clan chief could represent his people at a war council. Hasha could not damage the prestige or influence of the clan by ignoring Gorumim’s summons, or by arriving late. Yet he could not travel quickly in such poor health. The graceful way out was to appoint a successor, and Rovin was the inevitable choice.
A year earlier, Toril would have dismissed the idea angrily. But tumors beneath the ribs made his father’s retirement imminent, one way or the other. He could not deny the logic of it.
Hasha began to laugh. For a moment it degenerated to a cough, but he gasped and managed a final chuckle. “Hah! I’ll teach Rovin to scheme. And Gorumim, too.” He turned to the Voice, who looked as stymied as Toril.
“Sister, you may send my reply now. Say: ‘Let this Voice be earnest from the chief of Kelun Clan, who will arrive in Bakar at the appointed time.’”
The Voice bent over her quill, shorthand flowing across the parchment as she scribbled. When finished, she used a knife at her belt to slice off the written portion, rolled it tightly, walked to the nearest lamp, muttered an incantation, and held the paper to the flame. She caught the ash with her other hand as it sagged, and, closing her eyes, rubbed it on her ears. Again she whispered.
“The ride will kill you!” Toril burst out, when the magic was done.
Hasha smiled at his son and turned to face the Voice. “Now I need you to be a witness.”
“A witness to what?” she asked.
He turned to Toril. “To my son taking the staff. He will go to Bakar as chief of Kelun Clan.”
“What?” Toril exclaimed. “They won’t take me as a proxy. And you can’t appoint me. I’m not a parijan head.”
“I didn’t say I was appointing you.”
Several heartbeats passed while Toril absorbed this. “But the only other way to take the staff is by challenge.”
Hasha waited.
“That’s why you need a witness?”
Hasha nodded.
“Don’t ask me to fight you,” Toril said, turning pale. “You’d be better off riding to Bakar.”
Hasha snorted. “I don’t know whether to be proud of your loyalty, insulted by your over-confidence, or impatient at your guesswork. This is your moment, Toril. I’ve trained you for it for years; Gorumim just chose the timing.”
Toril’s forehead wrinkled.
“When is a challenge won?” his father prompted.
“If the vanquished can draw his weapon nevermore,” Toril quoted, “and it be witnessed, then shall the staff be taken.” His words slowed as he considered. “It usually means a fight to the death. But Feonil became chief of Itaxu Clan when he blinded Telo in a duel. Telo could never use the sling again...”
“Now you’re thinking like a clan chief. I told you history would be useful.”
“Hifir cut off the hand of Etasín...”
“I see a better way for you.”
“What?”
Toril’s father glanced at the Voice. “Mark what we say,” he instructed. “You will doubtless be questioned, and I won’t have this disputed on a technicality. The word of the Sisterhood ought to satisfy any of the parijan heads.” He turned back to Toril. “Do you challenge me for the staff of Kelun?”
“Not if I have to hurt you.”
“Trust me,” Hasha said. His eyes drilled into Toril’s. “Do you challenge me?”
Toril held his father’s gaze. Obviously Hasha had some plan, but he didn’t want to explain it. The Voice was listening; collusion would invalidate any passing of the staff.
But how was Toril supposed to cooperate with a plan he didn’t understand? A challenge was serious business. Both men’s lives and reputations were at stake. Each was honor-bound to do his utmost, using whichever weapon the chief chose, to defeat the other. No quarter could be given.
The maimings in the history books were considered legitimate, but who could guarantee such an outcome in the heat of combat? Could he even bring himself to wound his father if he had the chance?
Would Hasha just surrender? That might allow Toril to claim victory long enough to attend the council, but the staff would have to be relinquished eventually. Enraged by flouted customs, the clan would repudiate any of Toril’s decisions, and Hasha and Toril would become outcasts. Worse still, the entire parijan would be dishonored.
Hasha was still staring at him, demanding an answer. He’d asked for trust...
“Of my own free will, I challenge you for the staff of Kelun,” Toril announced, scarcely able to believe the words coming out of his mouth. “Here and now I will defeat you with whichever weapon you choose, or forfeit my life in the attempt.”
“The challenge is made and cannot be retracted,” the Voice said, confirming adherence to protocol. She turned to Hasha.
“I accept,” Hasha said. “Let the will of The Five be done.”
The Voice nodded gravely. “The weapon?”
“Magic.” Hasha rang the bell on the table to summon a servant. “Fetch me some clay,” he said to the young girl who opened the door. “The kind they use for pottery.”
The surprise on Toril’s face faded into a grin.
Like the Voice, who’d written words and rubbed ashes on her ear lobes to transmit a message to a remote listener, Hasha was a hand—someone who kindled magic by focusing on tactile sensations from the palm or fingers. He no doubt wanted the clay so he could sculpt whatever effigy he needed to attempt an attack on Toril.
Hand magic was slow, and Hasha was weak. As the majority of folk who could not kindle at all, he did without magic in his day-to-day business; the effort to work it depleted him for even the smallest effect.
Toril, on the other hand, was a gifted lip. If he knew proper words, he could just speak them—and the act of shaping mouth and throat focused power to his bidding. In fact, his talent triggered regular boasts within Toril’s clan, and within his own parijan in particular; no labimancer of comparable ability had emerged from the southern regions in quite some time.
Magic was unquestionably a mortal weapon, but Toril’s father had laid a foundation for cleverer use. All Toril had to do was terminate Hasha’s kindling, and the conditions of the challenge would be satisfied. Hasha wouldn’t miss what he didn’t need anyway, and no blood would be shed. Nobody could impugn Hasha for losing.
The older man had a reputation as a wily strategist, but this would go down as a true masterstroke. Rovin and Gorumim would be furious but unable to dispute the outcome.
So how do I do it? Toril wondered. His studies of magic had been diligent, but he knew of no way to suppress another’s magical abilities directly.
The kindling is the key, he th
ought. A fire can’t begin without a spark. If he could prevent Hasha from applying his talent...
Numb his hands? Toril searched his memory but could recall no way to express that particular idea in the ancient language that conveyed magical intent. Rougher phrases jostled. Let your fingers burn? Forget what you’re thinking? Feel nothing in your touch?
He didn’t want to do harm; anything he said needed to be precise, without side effects.
Rapping at the door, the servant entered with a bowl of potter’s clay, wet with slurry. Behind her, Toril could hear the sound of clapping and revelry as the feast crescendoed.
What would his new wife think when she heard he had deposed his own father in the first moments of their married life? Would she believe his explanation?
What about his in-laws? They already suspected his meddling in the matchmaking that led to betrothal; would his absence at the feast be interpreted as additional evidence that he disrespected tradition or them?
“I am ready,” Hasha announced.
Toril met the Voice’s questioning look with a nod.
“Then begin,” the Voice said. “Fight with honor.”
Hasha bent to his clay, fingers shaping something that Toril couldn’t identify.
The mischievous curl to his father’s lips brought a vocabulary item to mind—something Toril had learned so he could torment the tutor who’d first taught him the rules of magic.
It was perfect.
“Zujizgæ, gizro enazhegúv goa mabizher,” he whispered, lingering over the syllables of the third word for maximum effect. Fingers, may you always itch with magic.
The incantation’s prickle flared, sweeping across and into his tongue as it morphed into an itch. He clenched his lips until the desire to rub was overpowering, then spit out the magic with a puff of breath.
At once, the discomfort in Toril’s mouth subsided. Hasha flinched and looked up at his son, his concentration broken. A half-formed mouth glistened under his hands. He scratched his knuckles.
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