What she saw at the boneyards still flits across her vision whenever she closes her eyes.
Heads rotting on pikes. A burning wagon in the distance. The silent horror on Salo’s face . . .
I don’t really want to go back to that, do I? And Salo did say he’d pay me handsomely, didn’t he?
So maybe she can stay here with him. Or maybe once she makes enough money, she can go back to Umadiland and pay whatever life debt she might owe.
The possibilities unfold in her mind like branches, and as they ride toward the glistening city at the heart of the Redlands, the conflux of the World’s Vein and the World’s Artery, one thought rings louder than the others.
For now. I’ll stay with him for now.
47: Musalodi
Yonte Saire, the Jungle City—Kingdom of the Yontai
Riding down the World’s Vein into the continent’s beating heart, Salo concludes that the city was built specifically to leave visitors and passersby with an overwhelming impression of the Yontai’s wealth and power.
The redbrick road enters the city from the west so that the waterfalls and their impossible temple loom directly ahead, drawing attention and due reverence to the Shrouded Pylon and its giant ruby. There, the eyes will naturally progress to the gilded warrior west of the waterfalls, a colossal statue with a shield and spear standing at one corner of a flat-topped hill, almost level with the temple. Grand palaces of bamboo, glass, and gold descend from the colossus, peeking through a canopy of lush terraced gardens as if to gloat over their magnificence and taunt onlookers with splendor they will never know.
Then, as the road touches the valley floor, the view slowly vanishes behind dense, living walls of bamboo and towering trees, doubtless grown into such a state by powerful Earth craft, leaving only a tantalizing glimpse through the open city gates. The gates themselves are an imposing latticed sculpture of bamboo struts and gilded effigies, the most prominent of which are the heads of eleven beasts arrayed in a line above the gates, where the four-tusked elephant takes the place of honor. They look down on the road from their lofty perches as if to say: Here is power, if you have never seen it.
To have the gates rising in front of him is almost like a dream to Salo. They are visual proof of just how far from home he’s traveled, so far that home might as well be a figment of his imagination.
What is Nimara doing right now? Does Niko think of me? Why am I here, so far from everything I know and love?
An unexpected tide of emotions floods his eyes with tears, and he has to take a deep breath. The world is a big place, he tells himself. It is an old place. What are my sorrow and guilt to such a world? Who am I to the spirits who roam its lakes, who have seen the stars with their own eyes and have seen the rise and fall of immortal empires? My pain is insignificant, and I should not let it control me.
When they arrive at the gates, the two guards inspecting incoming traffic gape at Mukuni, seeming more impressed than frightened. They are both in brown tunics and aerosteel armor, with scimitars hanging from leather shoulder belts. Like all KiYonte tribespeople Salo has seen thus far, their necks are branded with dark tattoos, though Salo can’t quite make them out from atop his mount.
He presents the queen’s medallion so that they see its Seal. Both guards stiffen at the sight of it. “Allow me to accept that, honored one,” says the taller guard, and then he runs with the medallion to the bamboo shed nearby and emerges a minute later with a light-skinned, barefoot young man in an aerosteel breastplate and robes of crimson brocade. Instead of regular clan marks, he has thin white lines running down his neck. His eyes are cool and distant.
“He must be a Jasiri,” Ilapara whispers with a note of awe in her voice.
Tuk leans closer from his abada, watching the Jasiri approach. “There aren’t many around, but you don’t ever want to get one angry.”
From behind him, Alinata says, “They don’t anger easily, though. Just be respectful, and you’ll be fine.”
Salo has heard of the Jasiri before, and he read about them in the reports the emissary gave him. He appreciates just how feared they are. Apparently, even the most powerful Umadi warlords will hesitate before provoking their ire.
He steels himself, forcing calm into his bones. Thus far his encounters with foreign mystics have not gone well, so he has to be careful about this one.
The Jasiri stops next to Mukuni, proffers the medallion to Salo, and bows his head respectfully. “Welcome to Yonte Saire, Honored Emissary Musalodi Deitari Siningwe. I am Acolyte Kamali Jasiri of the Fractal. We have been expecting your arrival.”
He is statuesque, and he must be in his early twenties, but his elaborately braided beard falls thickly down his chin, making him look somewhat older. Salo is a little taken aback by his politeness as he accepts the medallion.
“Thank you, Red-kin,” he says in thickly accented KiYonte, “though this is the first time I have answered to that title.”
A polite, unreadable smile parts the Jasiri’s beard. “Do you wish to be called something else?”
“I usually go by Salo.”
The smile becomes a slight grimace, like the word tastes bad in the Jasiri’s mouth. “That’s a diminutive of your given name, is it not?”
“It is.”
“Then I’m afraid I cannot comply with your request, Emissary Siningwe. In this city, sorcerers and diplomats will be shown due respect at all times, and you are both.” He looks to his side and beckons a guard mounted on a striped antelope. “This guardsman will guide you to your leased residence in Skytown. I have messaged ahead, so your steward will be waiting to receive you.” The Jasiri bows his head. “Welcome once again, Honored Emissary. I wish you a prosperous pilgrimage and a pleasant stay in the city.”
“Thank you, Acolyte Kamali Jasiri of the Fractal.” Salo isn’t sure what that title means, but he says it in full to avoid accusations of disrespect.
The Jasiri nods and steps aside, letting Salo follow the mounted guard into the city.
“That went rather well,” Ilapara says. “For once.”
Tuk quickly spurs Wakii to catch up to them, surprise brightening his face. “You leased a residence in Skytown?” He tilts his head back and lets out an incredulous laugh. “Oh, my friend. Bumping into you in Seresa is turning out to be the best thing that has ever happened to me.”
“What’s Skytown?” Ilapara asks, and Salo shakes his head, staring at the city ahead of him, no longer a distant dream but a close reality.
“I can’t say I know,” he says.
Tuk’s eyes twinkle like jades in the sunlight, and he smiles. “Well. I suppose you’re about to find out.”
Yonte Saire. The Jungle City. The world’s beating heart. The red star shining beyond his horizons. He will find answers here; Salo is certain of this. Answers to the questions that now plague his thoughts. What is not so certain, however, is whether those answers will kill him.
In the distance, the Paragon strobes once, twice, and three more times after that. And then it stills.
Black magic—magic of the underworld
Breaching the Void to summon creatures from the devil’s domain. Not considered a craft of Red magic but a foreign corruption. Reviled throughout the Redlands.