“We are not just mystics, Yerezi-kin. We are emissaries of the Red Moon. Through us, Ama Vaziishe heals your ailments, powers your machines, irrigates your crops, and shields them from disease. Through us, she gives strength to your Ajaha, warriors so mighty they can prevail over creatures of the underworld. Through us, your Asazi can study the arcane and advance knowledge, and you are protected from callous and destructive uses of magic.”
The queen lets her somber gaze roam the rapt compound, and Salo remains still, face impassive, safe in the knowledge that his eyes are hidden behind reflective lenses.
“But ten comets have passed since a mystic last resided in this kraal,” the queen continues. “Ten comets since this clan was cut off from Ama’s full embrace. While your Ajaha have thrived—and this is in part because the blessing they carry draws from my power, a compromise I made to tide you over until a mystic awoke from among you—while their strength is unquestionable, many aspects of your community have suffered. You have failed to retain Asazi in your villages, forcing you to barter for medicines and other basic goods that should be freely available. You have relied too much on bride-price to restock your herds of livestock, which die at a greater rate because they lack the necessary protections from disease.”
Unsurprisingly, the old councilmen seated behind the queen, who themselves own sizable herds of oxen, murmur in disagreement.
She doesn’t acknowledge them. “And then a quarter moon ago, my beloved kin, a foreign mystic came to Khaya-Siningwe and performed a ritual so evil it took the lives of twenty-seven of your clanspeople. I say twenty-seven, but what does this finite number really mean? Can it truly express the loss we suffered in any meaningful way? The lives cut short? The families torn apart? It cannot, Yerezi-kin, for the lives that were taken from us were each and every one of them infinitely valuable. And do not think that this loss was felt only here in Khaya-Siningwe; we all felt it. This crime was committed against every man, woman, and child with Yerezi blood in their veins.
“Which is why I can no longer sit idly by and watch this continuing decline, for the Yerezi way demands that I intervene. As the Foremothers wisely said: I am, because we are. That is the Yerezi way. First and foremost, above all allegiance to clan, chief, and mystic, we are one people, and it is my responsibility as queen to ensure that we thrive as a whole. While war after war has ravaged much of the Redlands, our unity has kept us safe throughout the centuries, and it will continue to do so as long as we hold it sacred.”
The queen glances briefly behind her, first at VaSiningwe, and then at AmaSibere. When she turns back to face the clan, Salo holds his breath.
“Therefore, after considerable deliberation with VaSiningwe and his council, as well as VaSibere and his council, I have come to the decision that your two clans shall become one and the same.”
And there it is. The clan’s death sentence, the eventuality people have been whispering about for years, though no one ever expected it to actually happen.
Do you know what difference you could have made, Salo?
A defiant murmur rises from somewhere beneath the musuku tree at the center of the compound, low at first, and then it spreads, and then it roils into an uproar as clansman infects clansman with rage and indignation. Enough for most to forget their fear—this is the Siningwe clan, after all, not exactly known for its cowardice.
“We will never join with Sibere, Your Majesty!” comes a voice. “We will burn before we let those hyenas rule us!”
Salo looks and sees that it is Jio who has spoken. Sibu, Niko, and the other young Ajaha around him rattle their spears in agreement, repeatedly striking the ground with their blunt ends. A few of the older men and women shake their heads, but everyone else seems inspired by their bravery. The boys in front of Aba D’s hut start to jeer at AmaSibere. Hundreds of voices rise to clamor for attention, and the queen lets them persist for a full minute.
Then a storm of ravens surges from behind her and gathers on either side of her into her two honor guards: an athletic Ajaha warrior with a savage blade clinging to his back, and a dark Asazi maiden, resplendent in pale beads and red steel.
Silence grips the compound. The honor guards need not make any threats; this not-so-subtle reminder of their presence is threat enough, and so is the eerie calm on their youthful faces. Theirs is the calm of trained killers who know that their bones draw deeply from a powerful mystic.
“This is not unprecedented, Yerezi-kin,” the queen says without a trace of hesitation or annoyance. Her decision has been made, and her commands carry the force of law. “Those of you learned in history will know that we were once a collection of a hundred small but weak clans, most with no clan mystics to make them viable. But over time we realized that larger clans built around a chief and a clan mystic were far more successful, so we united, until only eight clans remained. The time has come for another unification.”
She seems to wait for another uproar; none comes, though fury blazes openly on the faces of many clanspeople. Salo watches from a distant place inside his mind, his limbs rigid as stone.
“I am not blind to the historical rivalry between the Siningwe and Sibere clans,” the queen continues. “But this union is critical. This clan needs a mystic’s protection, and I am confident AmaSibere will not fail you in her duties. I urge you to put aside your differences at this great juncture and work together with your new clanspeople. Know that I do not make this decision out of malice but from necessity. We face calamitous times ahead, Yerezi-kin. It is clear to those of us who can read the signs: lost rituals of Black magic resurfacing, the Umadi growing more organized, whispers of war between the Great Tribes. If we are to survive these tribulations, if we are to preserve our way of life, we must be watchful and united, now more than ever.”
Then Queen Irediti returns to her wicker throne and gives way to the witch AmaSibere, the clan’s supposed future mystic, whose long-limbed beauty is as wickedly predatory as a scaled hyena, her clan’s totem animal. She even resembles a scaled hyena with those three horns affixed to her copper circlet and the way she laughs with her eyes and shows too many teeth, like a plunderer who’s finally clutched her heart’s desire. She’s never in anything but black: black beads, black skirts, black bangles, black lips, black kohl—an eternal widow. Even the long witchwood staff in her hands is painted black, save for the lines and circles of inlaid red steel running down its length.
As she takes center stage, the clan’s disgust is a wave of heat prickling Salo’s skin.
“I know many of you are unhappy with Her Majesty’s decision,” the witch begins with sympathy as fake as her teeth are white, “and I want you to know that I understand. Truly, I do. Clan Siningwe was once a great clan, and when you lost your mystic ten comets ago, I was deeply saddened, for I knew her quite well.”
The clan hisses. She basks in it like a scavenger in carrion. Their hatred is her victory. “I also want you to know that this unification will not mean a loss of your independence,” she goes on. “VaSiningwe will remain your chief, and this kraal will remain the center of your administration—for now. We will not enforce any laws upon you, and I speak on VaSibere’s behalf. However, in time, the centers of power will have to consolidate into a single coherent whole . . .”