Flattery. It shouldn’t work. It really shouldn’t. “What about my clan?” Salo says. “I confessed to sacrilege—I risked my life—in service to my clan. Are you telling me it was all for nothing?”
“Not at all,” the emissary says. “But I must inform you that the queen will not allow a man to hold the mantle of clan mystic, as this would go against the philosophy of the Foremothers. I’m afraid this is not negotiable.”
The ensuing silence is such that Salo can hear the thud of his heartbeat just behind his ears.
“That said,” the emissary continues, “in acknowledgment of your service to the tribe, the queen will allow one of her promising apprentices to awaken and serve this clan in a limited capacity until the Asazi Nimara is ready to take over. Rest assured, your clan will want for nothing.”
He can barely believe his ears. A clan mystic must be a member—by blood—of the clan she serves, or the totem will not answer to her. Even so, if the queen can do this now, then why the devil didn’t she do it before?
Salo looks to his family for some clarity but finds only shifting eyes.
But of course. This is what they want, isn’t it? They would rather have him exiled to a foreign land than have him stay and serve as clan mystic. To think he’d actually convinced himself that they would one day come around to the idea. I’m such a fool.
He takes a deep breath to center himself and keep the tears at bay. They probably expect him to cry. All the more reason not to.
“What time frame are we talking about here?” he says. “How long am I expected to be away?”
“The time frame is indefinite for now.”
“Indefinite,” Salo repeats, incredulous and indignant. “Even though there are dangers I know nothing about brewing there. I’m supposed to stay there indefinitely. Is my life so worthless there should be no concern for it whatsoever?”
To either side of him, Jio and Sibu trade meaningful looks and shake their heads. “Something to say, brothers?” Salo says. “But where are my manners; I don’t get to call you that anymore, do I?”
Sibu replies with silent smugness. Jio’s temples ripple as he tightens his jaw and looks away. This only makes Salo more furious. “I mean, who knew a brother could be so expendable? Like an old loincloth you can just toss aside when it gets too smelly.”
“Calm yourself, Musalodi,” VaSiningwe cautions. “This is no place for harsh words.”
“Why don’t you say what you obviously want to say? I’m all ears. Speak, damn it!”
“Musalodi, calm yourself!”
Salo slips two fingers beneath his spectacles to wipe his eyes. Aba D shakes his head and mutters something under his breath. Jio has shrunk deeper into his chair, but he still won’t look at Salo. Sibu has clenched his fists and tensed up like a compressed spring.
“Apologies, Aba,” Salo says, but it’s still anger that moves his lips.
The chief maintains his glare for a lengthy second until at last he sits back in his chair and sighs. He massages his stubbled jaw with a hand, looking like a man twice his age. “Please, Asazi, tell my son what resources you’re giving him.”
“Of course, VaSiningwe.” The emissary reaches down into her reedfiber shoulder bag and retrieves several items: a folder bound with strings, an ornate wooden case, a leather pouch making the telltale clinking sounds of coins, and a red steel medallion.
First, she hands him the medallion. As he brings it close to his eyes to inspect it, his dormant shards detect morsels of power trapped inside, organized into specific patterns. Both sides are emblazoned with a mystic Seal: a tangle of lines and triangles that fools his eyes into seeing two psychedelic suns sinking into a plain of golden grass. Their multicolored rays assault his thoughts like a blast of wind to tell him exactly whom this disk belongs to: a queen.
He draws the medallion away from his face and sets it onto his lap.
Clearly amused, the emissary says, “You are to present that medallion as identification, if necessary. It contains your credentials and proves that you are both a royal emissary and an official Bloodway pilgrim chosen by Her Majesty. I’m told it will grant you access to the money vault she keeps in the city, among other things. It will also be the link between her talisman and yours to facilitate long-distance communication. I don’t have to explain how that works, do I?”
Salo has to smother a groan at the idea of regular communications with the queen. “No.”
“Excellent.”
Next, the emissary hands him the bag of coins. He takes it hesitantly, never having held money before.
“This will be more than enough for your journey,” she says. “Moongold is extremely valuable out there, so be very careful. There will be even more of it waiting for you when you arrive in Yonte Saire. Accommodation, house staff, local security: that has also been arranged.”
Salo knows that moongold is a naturally occurring ore of essence-infused gold, valued for its ability to hold enchantments of Red magic. The arrival of red steel—a physically stronger, significantly cheaper, and much more abundant alternative—largely meant that the Yerezi could build up hefty stockpiles of the mineral, which they use almost exclusively in their dealings with other tribes.
Next, the emissary hands him the folder. “Take your time with these reports. You’ll know a whole lot more about the Kingdom of the Yontai and your mission there once you’ve read them. I think they will answer many of the questions you have.”
And finally she hands him the wooden case. When he opens it, a set of redhawk scales shimmers up at him, each one like a tongue of moonfire trapped in an ellipsoid of crystal glass.
They say a single active redhawk scale is worth an entire palace of gold and silver. There are seven scales in the case.
“That is the gift you will present to the king when you arrive,” the emissary says. “Keep it safe; it would be highly undignified for you to arrive empty handed. You will be a representative of our people, after all. We can’t have them think us poor and uncivilized.”
Salo considers what she has given him, and he decides that it’s not enough. “Am I supposed to travel alone?”
“You are free to make travel arrangements as you see fit.”
“No, I meant, am I going to stay in Yonte Saire on my own, with no one else from home? A clan mystic always travels with at least two Ajaha.”
“You’re not a clan mystic,” Sibu reminds him and gets a furious look from VaSiningwe for it. Sibu shrinks back and shrugs as if to say, Hey, it’s true.
The emissary ignores the comment. “Use your discretion, Musalodi. Remember: this is your pilgrimage. Tradition dictates that whoever accompanies you does so willingly. Neither the queen nor I can compel anyone to do so. But if you can convince two Ajaha to take your blessing and assist you on the journey, so be it.”
Salo glances at his brothers. They both look away. He opens his mouth with an acidic rebuke, but VaSiningwe beats him to it.
“You will not be alone.”
Aba D nods, so he must know what his older brother is talking about. The emissary watches silently. So do the other two boys.
“I don’t understand,” Salo says.
“You are Siningwe. You have successfully awoken, and there is no other mystic of Siningwe blood alive right now. That makes you the rightful master of the clan totem and staff. I have decided that you will claim them.”