“But what, Yerezi-kin, are convictions, if not blind dogma, unless they are tested against fact? We know as a matter of course that no men are suited to serve as Ama’s intercessors, that they are not nurturing enough, that they are too prone to tyranny to wield her power, but how much of this knowledge is preconception, and how much of it is based on objective observations of our world?”
The queen scans her audience, perhaps waiting for someone to answer her questions. No one does.
“Some of you might point me to the Umadi warlords and the Dulama god-kings and say, Here is objective evidence for the unsuitability of mankind, but how can we be certain that their manhood is the true problem? Could their tyranny not simply be a by-product of their flawed but extrinsic understandings of Ama’s will? Would that not explain why so many women sorcerers throughout the Redlands turn to tyranny as well? How do we know that a man raised in Yerezi tradition, who has seen firsthand the warmth and benevolence of Ama at work—how do we know that such a man would not be different, as his Foremothers were different from their tyrannical sisters?
“Musalodi poses all these questions, Yerezi-kin,” the queen continues, “and I believe that we must answer them sooner rather than later, lest they fester in our minds and destroy the fabric of our society. Let his success or failure be the test of our convictions; let us know that we believe what we believe because it is true, not because we want it to be true—starting now.”
She motions to her Asazi honor guard, who nods and makes for the altar with her earthen bowl. Salo is pretty certain the liquid inside is an alchemical solution of false fire. While the queen continues her speech, the Asazi begins to sprinkle the altar with the liquid.
“For every Red mystic,” the queen says, “the path to Ama Vaziishe begins with a simple question: Can your mind prevail over agony? The answer will determine whether you are worthy to continue, or whether your journey must end before it has begun.”
The altar dramatically increases in brightness as it erupts into a blaze of crimson false fire, illuminating all the faces watching from the boats with a red glow. Salo has known what was coming all along, and he’s tried to harden himself, but now he finds his limbs so crippled by fear he can barely breathe.
The queen turns to face him and infuses an unforgiving bite into her voice. “I assume you are satisfied with your Axiom and that it is an original work of your mind. If not, this is your last chance to say so.”
Unconsciously he rubs the red steel serpent clinging to his left wrist. “I am satisfied, Your Majesty.”
“Then the time has come for you to call down your redhawk.” She gestures at the altar. “Place your arms into the fire and prove yourself worthy before your clan and before Ama herself.”
Salo might have asked to call the whole thing off were it not for the queen. His fear of her is the only thing that gets him moving toward the burning altar.
False fire is an ingenious blend of Earth, Mirror, and Blood craft—alchemy, illusion, and sensory manipulation—and now the altar has become a shadowy outline wreathed in its red flames. A forbidding wall of heat presses against Salo as he approaches.
A mirage, he tells himself. A hollow imitation of the real thing. Can’t hurt you. Just do it.
So he forces himself to stop thinking. With a shout he steps up to the altar and thrusts his arms into the inferno.
An old tome of magical theory Salo once read claimed that the deepest truths of the world can often be glimpsed at the height of agony.
But in the first few excruciating heartbeats after he touches the fire, heartbeats that each seem to stretch to infinity, Salo gleans no truths from his agony but that of his own stupidity and imminent death, for there is no possible way he can survive such consuming heat.
His shout rises several octaves into a full-blown scream. The stench of burning meat fills the air around him, his vision clouds over, and the sum total of his existence condenses down to a sensation of pure, unadulterated torment.
By some miracle, however, he finds a fragment of sobriety floating somewhere in the deepest recesses of his mind, a place conditioned through years of gambling with a mental artifact. With every ounce of willpower he can summon, he gathers all his thoughts onto this fragment, clinging to it like a drowning victim to a piece of driftwood.
The world is immeasurably old, he tells himself. Larger than I can ever imagine. What is my pain to such a world? What is my agony when it isn’t even real? I am insignificant, and so is my pain.
And yet he can see his flesh sizzling and smoking, and every part of him wants to pull out before the fire consumes him.
His whole body trembles. Tears pour down his face. Bone appears beneath the ruins of his burnt flesh, and still he keeps his arms in the flames. He’s about to reach the absolute limit of what he can take when something stirs in his blood. Then a slow explosion of ecstasy spreads from his core to the rest of his body, joining the pain to overload his senses.
He instantly knows in a way he could not have known before, he knows, that this risen thing, this intangible spark, is what gives mystics the ability to draw power from the heavens and unleash it upon the world as magic. The spark was dormant in his blood, but now that he has come face-to-face with it, now that his agony has pierced the veil of his ignorance, it has awakened.
Salo feels the altar, though he does not know how—he feels it reaching up into the heavens and announcing his presence, his awoken power, and he feels something responding to this call, something that catches fire as it begins to descend . . .
The pain abates while the euphoric sensation spreads to his extremities. He gasps like a newborn taking its first breath.
“You may retract your arms from the flames, Musalodi,” the queen says behind him, and Salo slowly obeys, inspecting his hands with speechless wonder. They are tingly and cold to the touch but otherwise unharmed.
The island stews in crushing silence, save for the waves breaking on the rocky shore. As he rejoins the queen to face his clan, she gives him the barest nod of approval, just the slightest incline of her head that, from someone like her, might as well be glowing praise. An unfamiliar wave of pride makes him stand taller before his clanspeople.
“A young redhawk learns to fly when its mother casts it into a ravine or over a precipice,” the queen shouts, “where, faced with impending doom, it must quickly come to terms with its true nature or perish. And many do perish. Those who fail to challenge themselves are dashed upon the rocks and forgotten, their carcasses left for maggots and scavengers.”
She raises a finger and smiles. “But those who succeed, Yerezi-kin, those become undisputed rulers of the skies, ferocious and fearsome, because they have met death and survived. It is said that the great Empire of Light, those sun worshippers beyond the endless seas of the Dapiaro, have buildings and machines that can defy gravity, but not even they can soar as high as the redhawk. Not even they can reach the heights it surpasses as easily as it breathes.
“And so it is with those who claim kinship with Ama Vaziishe. Greatness awaits in the folds of her embrace, but the path there is treacherous. Musalodi, your clansman, must now be judged by the redhawk. If he has been honest in his work, he will receive his cosmic shards. If he has not, then he shall die, as many others have died before him. But none of you here shall pity him, for he has made his choice freely. Ajaha, into positions. Everyone else, remain still and silent. You will not move without my permission.”