The presence of the last two makes Salo’s skin tingle with a flurry of conflicting emotions. He supposes the two boys are here in their capacities as the chief’s only eligible heirs. Ama knows he could never be chief now—not that he’s ever wanted to be.
They all fall silent when they notice him. He greets them politely and sits on the wicker chair between Jio and Sibu, completing a circle of six.
Sibu gives him a little curl of the lips. Jio won’t look at him.
Aba D pulls his pipe out of his mouth long enough to say, “It is good to see you up and about, Musalodi. Ama be praised.”
Salo manages a weak smile. “Thank you, Aba.”
VaSiningwe, on the other hand, never one to waste time with small talk, goes on to introduce the emissary and welcome her officially to the clanlands, and when that’s done with, he lets her take over.
“First things first, Musalodi—may I call you Musalodi? I’m not sure how to address you without being disrespectful. This is an unprecedented situation, after all.”
She wears a towering orange head wrap and a quick, beguiling smile that says, Let’s be friends, and in the same breath, I’m a better human than you.
“Musalodi is fine,” he says, raking his family with his eyes. He suspects they already know what she’s about to tell him, but they give nothing away.
She smiles again, instantly stealing back his attention. “Thank you, Musalodi. Now, as I was saying, allow me to congratulate you on your successful awakening. I heard it was a close one.”
“It was,” Salo says, “but I feel much better now.”
“Well, I’m glad you pulled through, least of all because your awakening has come at an opportune time.” The emissary frowns a little so that he knows she’s about to be serious. “In fact, this brings me to the point of my visit. You see, certain . . . political winds blowing in the north have caught the queen’s eye, and she’s worried about the real possibility that these winds will evolve into existential threats to our tribe in the not-too-distant future. As to the specific nature of these potential threats, she remains uncertain due to a lack of reliable, up-to-date information—and that’s a significant problem. You can’t prepare for a threat unless you know what it is.”
She gestures at Salo. “Your recent awakening, however, presents a favorable opportunity to rectify this. If Her Majesty can have someone close to these calamitous winds, collecting information and reporting to her on a regular basis, she will be better able to build a picture of the threats we might face in the future. And so, after careful consideration, the queen has decided that you are the best person suited for this task, Musalodi. It is a great honor, if I may say so myself.”
Salo blinks at the emissary, then at the other four men in the hall. His world has stopped making sense. “I don’t understand. Can you please explain? Because it sounds like you’re sending me away.”
“In a manner of speaking,” the emissary says. “Tell me, have you ever heard of the Bloodway?”
He goes very still. This can’t be happening. “Yes,” he forces himself to say. “It is a pilgrimage to the Red Temple of Yonte Saire in the Kingdom of the Yontai. Every three decades a mystic is chosen to walk it with the hope that they’ll bring back a magical treasure for the tribe.”
The tiniest smile moves the emissary’s gold-painted lips. “Indeed,” she says. “The Bloodway is a tradition practiced by every tribe of the Redlands. Knowledge gifted to worthy pilgrims upon reaching the temple’s inner sanctum often becomes lucrative for their tribes. Red steel, talismans, totems—these are some of the gifts Yerezi pilgrims have earned in the sanctum.” She tilts her head curiously. “In fact, your mother was the last Yerezi mystic to walk the Bloodway. Did you know?”
She’s trying to unsettle you, Salo thinks. Don’t let her succeed. “I did,” he says as calmly as he can. “She returned with designs for an alchemical reactor.”
“And what a boon it was for us. It completely revolutionized the way we brew our medicines.”
“Forgive me for stating the obvious,” Salo says, deciding it’s time to defend himself, “but that was twenty-seven comets ago. Three years short of the waiting period.”
“True. However, the thirty-year period is merely a guideline based on the average shortest interval between highly fruitful pilgrimages. It is not enforceable, and three years is an acceptable deviation.”
This isn’t happening.
This isn’t happening.
I can’t breathe.
“Now, as I was saying, you will travel to—and stay in—Yonte Saire as a Bloodway pilgrim, but in truth, you’ll be there as Her Majesty’s eyes and ears and, if necessary, the hand with which she will influence the course of events unfolding there. And to give you the leeway you need to operate without rousing too much suspicion, the queen has bestowed on you the title of emissary. Your extended pilgrimage will appear as an overture to the Kingdom of the Yontai, our tribe finally opening up to the rest of the Redlands, and what better place to start than the political heart of the continent?”
Salo finds himself laughing. Not the loud sort of laugh, either, but the silent, choking kind, where it’s not clear to others whether he’s laughing or on the verge of tears.
“Contain yourself,” VaSiningwe growls. “There’s nothing funny about this.”
“I know,” Salo says in between breaths. His chest stings. He can feel tears brimming in his eyes. “Not funny at all. It’s absurd.” To the emissary, he says, “Let me see if I understand what you’re telling me. I’m being exiled to Yonte Saire—”
“This isn’t exile at all,” she chimes in.
“I’m being exiled to Yonte Saire,” Salo says, “on the pretext of becoming what is essentially a spy, a job I’m hideously unqualified for. I mean, seriously, me, an emissary, operating—no, spying—in the capital of the most powerful tribe on the continent? I’m the best person for this task? Am I really supposed to believe that? I’ve barely just awoken! Why not send any of the tribe’s other mystics?”
The emissary leans back in her chair, smiles like she’s reassessing her strategy, like maybe he isn’t quite what she was expecting. But she is the queen’s emissary, and that means she’s quick to find another way to work him. “May I be blunt with you, Musalodi?”
“Be my guest.”
“Very well. The simple fact is no other mystic in this tribe is dispensable. You, on the other hand, could leave the Plains for many moons, or even years, and we would not suffer.”
Salo grins, though he feels the sting of bitterness in his heart. “All right, I’ll give you that much. But still, if it’s a spy you want, there are Asazi in the Queen’s Kraal trained specifically for infiltration and espionage. You are probably one of them. So why don’t you go?”
“Oh, but Musalodi,” the emissary says, reflecting his smile, “I am only an Asazi. The power I wield isn’t truly mine. And in a city like Yonte Saire, where power is the only currency that matters, this would define me. I’d be lucky to get an audience with even one of the KiYonte princes; you can forget about the king and the high sorcerers. You, however, are a mystic, powerful in your own right. Moreover, as a pilgrim of the Bloodway and a royal emissary to boot, you would carry significant diplomatic clout and enjoy easy access to the social circles that matter. So when I say there is no one better to send, I truly mean it.”