The reason she wakes up shouting every night.
The reason she is sitting here right now, in front of this loathsome creature, and not with her daughter.
She needs no further motivation. She takes in a deep breath, gathers all her hatred, and lunges forward.
11: Musalodi
Khaya-Siningwe—Yerezi Plains
Silence. Stillness.
Salo’s aago, avid spinner of tales that she was, once told him that when a whole group of people falls silent at the exact same time, it’s because the devil has walked by. That is how Salo feels when he announces his guilt to his clanspeople: like Arante herself has drifted by on a gust of wind and planted a deathly kiss upon his cheeks.
As she sits on the wicker throne in front of him, the queen’s eyes burn with interest.
He swallows and continues. “My ama, the late AmaSiningwe, killed herself because she thought she was saving me. I don’t understand it. Perhaps she was ill—I will not speak of it. All I will say is that her death robbed this clan of a mystic and plunged us into the depths you have spoken of, Your Majesty, and I know that I am to blame.”
The words pour out of him from a part of his mind he didn’t even know existed, and it shocks him just how much he believes them.
“And I will be the first to admit that I haven’t done much to make up for it,” he continues. “I have shirked my responsibilities. I have failed to gain entry into the esteemed Ajaha, and I have consistently failed to live up to my aba’s name. I am most unworthy, Your Majesty. I know that.”
He risks a glance at VaSiningwe. The deep worry he sees there makes him draw in a shuddering breath. The emotions that come with it sting his eyes. Thank Ama no one can see them.
“But this union you have decided on calls me to action, Your Majesty, because accepting it would mean living with the knowledge that I am the reason my clan has fallen to the hyenas.” AmaSibere sneers to his side; he ignores her. “But how can I? How can I face my clanspeople knowing I am the cause of their shame? How can I face my own aba?”
Salo shakes his head in answer to his own question. “I cannot, Your Majesty, which is why I have risked sacrilege to stand before you now. And here is what I beg of you, Irediti Ariishe, and I do so for the sake of my clanspeople, for my aba, and for the sake of my own soul. Your Majesty, allow me to commune with the redhawk and receive my shards, and should I be successful, allow me to serve my people as clan mystic.”
Laughs abound, all of them mirthless. Salo’s clanspeople are laughing in their shock at the temerity, the sheer insolence that he could suggest such a thing.
“Sacrilege!” AmaSibere hisses, baring her teeth like she would rip him to pieces right there.
When his eyes flick to VaSiningwe this time, his blood chills at what he sees. The man’s jaw is clenched. His eyes hard as stone.
Salo turns away from him and the queen to face his clan, and the anger he sees on their faces weakens his knees. This is not at all what he was hoping for.
Then he spots Nimara sitting on a reed mat somewhere among the crowds, and she nods at him, the only friendly face in a sea of hostility. “Khaya-Siningwe may be small,” he says, finding the courage to continue, “but it is still one of the wealthiest clans in the Plains. Our lands are abundant in iron, gemstones, and moongold. We have rich hunting grounds, a bountiful network of rivers and streams, and fields so fertile we don’t need a mystic to keep ourselves fed. Shall we give all this up to the hyenas, who have always coveted our wealth? Shall we betray our forebears, who fought for this land and left it for us as our birthright? Is it not worth a temporary break in tradition to save their legacy?”
Some clanspeople grow silent and thoughtful. Salo presses his point. “I am not putting myself forward as a permanent solution, Siningwe-kin. I only want to buy us more time. Perhaps in a few comets, our own mystic will awaken and take her rightful place. I will gladly step aside. But our clan’s integrity is at stake—right now. The hyenas are outside our borders—right now. And if we let them in, they’ll destroy us. They’ll stamp out any trace of what makes us Siningwe, and the Yerezi will be weaker for it.”
AmaSibere raises a long finger in warning. “Remember, Yerezi-kin! Our Foremothers barred men from sorcery for a reason. Men do not possess the control and poise necessary to safely wield such power. They are too susceptible to their passions and their pride and their desire to dominate. Allow him to awaken, and he would soon become a tyrant. Just look at the rest of the Redlands. Was it not a man’s Seal that burned in your skies only a week ago? Male sorcerers are abominations. We must not allow one within our borders.”
Many shout in agreement. Salo can’t think of a defense against her words except to say, “I have no will to dominate, AmaSibere, only the will to see my clan free of your clutch.” A few cheers arise.
AmaSibere smiles dangerously. “You say that now, but once you’ve tasted power, you will want more. It is in your nature; you cannot escape it.”
“With all due respect, you don’t know me. You can’t tell me what my nature is and what it isn’t.”
“That may be so, but what you ask for is still sacrilegious. More to the point, it is impossible. You cannot just commune with a redhawk and become a mystic. You need at least a decade of schooling in the language of ciphers. You need to discover your own key to the moon’s power. You need years of experience as an Asazi apprentice. You have none of these.”
“Why don’t we let Ama be the judge of my worthiness? I’m prepared to take that risk.” Salo turns back to the queen, whose little smile is somewhere between wry and cruelly amused. “Your Majesty, would you say that someone who has derived an Axiom is ready to face the redhawk?”
Now the smile wanes, her head tilts, her eyes narrow in suspicion. “Perhaps,” she says.
“Could I press you for a more definite answer, Your Majesty?”
The queen sits back in her throne and crosses one leg over the other. “All right,” she says. “Yes, I would agree with that claim. But why do you ask?”
“Because I derived an Axiom, Your Majesty.”
Gasps. Whispers. AmaSibere laughs. “Take him for flogging. The boy lies.”
“I speak the truth,” Salo says.
“Explain yourself,” says the queen. No amusement now, only intense scrutiny.
“My ama . . . AmaSiningwe wrote about a certain Axiom before she died,” Salo says. “I used her teachings to devise it.”
The queen rises to her feet, and the rest of the world seems to disappear, like she’s sucked all the light from the compound and spooled it around her crown. The shock on her face is so terrifying Salo finds his knees buckling to the ground. He bows his head and braces for the worst.
“You derived your mother’s Axiom? The Elusive Cube?”
It takes him a moment to recover from the fact that the queen knows about the Axiom, then another to shudder at the implications of this, and then he finally says, “I did, Your Majesty.”
“You lie!”
“I tell the truth! By Ama I swear!”
“Look at me,” the queen commands. Salo looks up and is awed once more by the wondrous sight before him, this malaika made flesh. What foolishness to think that he could ever be anything like her. What utter madness.