Silence thickens in the air as the totem brings his metallic snout close to Salo’s face. Salo sees himself through the totem’s eyes, and it’s like looking into a strange mirror. Even after all the growing Salo has done, Mukuni still stands taller, as tall as any quagga stallion, though infinitely more terrifying.
“Hello, old friend.” Salo raises a hand to stroke the fur beneath Mukuni’s right ear. “It is good to see you again.” For a beast with no flesh, the fur is surprisingly soft, just as soft as Salo remembers, and Mukuni purrs just like he used to when Salo was a child. The sound triggers a flood of bittersweet memories.
Purring again, the cat lies down on his belly in an unmistakable show of submission.
Murmurs of dissent. Muted arguments. But a hush descends as VaSiningwe steps forward with a raised hand. Before he speaks, he gives Mukuni a long wary glance laden with emotion. Seeing AmaSiningwe’s pet alive again can’t be easy for him, not when he saw him last on the night of her death.
“We are honored that our totem has returned to us,” he says to the clanspeople. “This kraal is as much his home as it is ours, and it is always an honor to have him among us. As chief of the people who claim his name, I bid him welcome.”
He preempts the brewing clamor with a raised hand. “This is not a debate, Siningwe-kin. The totem has always chosen whom he serves, and if he has chosen my son, we must respect that decision.” His eyes burn into one particularly vociferous young man in a red loincloth. “You will respect that decision. That is an order.”
Fury seethes on the young man’s face, but he says no more.
“I am glad that Mukuni has chosen this moment to return,” the chief continues, “for my son faces a journey to lands far beyond our borders in service to this clan—in service to our clan. I was worried he would have to go alone, but now I shall sleep better knowing he has found a formidable companion to accompany him.” The chief’s expression softens as he turns to Salo, and his voice too. “I wish you well, Musalodi. Know with every step you take that you are in our hearts and prayers—always.”
“VaSiningwe.” Salo goes down on one knee, his eyes filling with moisture. “I thank you,” he says, and he means it, more than he’s ever meant anything in his life.
Soon the totem is saddled up and ready to go. Salo’s plan is to ride northwest into Khaya-Sikhozi and spend the night at the chief’s kraal there. He will likely receive a cold and awkward reception, but it would be rude for him to sleep in their grazing lands without paying them a visit. Then, first thing tomorrow morning, he will cross the borderlands and ride toward the World’s Artery.
He fastens the staff to a harness and straps his belongings to the back of the saddle. He’s about to climb onto the cat’s back when Aaku Malusi walks up to him. The sight of the old man drives a pang of shame and guilt into his heart. He really was about to leave without bidding him farewell.
“Aaku,” he says, unable to meet his friendly gaze. “I came by your hut to say goodbye, but you weren’t there.” The truth, but still. Besides Nimara, no one visited him in the bonehouse as frequently as Aaku Malusi. He deserves better.
The old man smiles, no sign of hurt or offense in his expression. Instead, an unusually lucid glimmer dances in his eyes, and he’s not leaning on his walking staff. Salo hasn’t seen him look this hale in a long time.
“All is well, my child,” he says. “You had many other things to worry about, and in any case, I knew I’d be seeing you off now.” He looks around to make sure he won’t be overheard before leaning closer. “Listen, Musalodi. I wanted to give you this.” Almost timidly, Aaku Malusi unfurls the fingers of his free hand to reveal a ring of twined, rough-hewed witchwood set with a round little stone of citrine quartz. “I’ve had this ring since I was a boy but never the courage to wear it. I would be honored if you took it.”
Salo hesitates, but the expectant look on the old man’s face forces him to accept the ring. The witchwood flexes ever so slightly as he slips it onto his right middle finger, making a perfect fit. He feels its fibers humming with patterns that will come to life should he feed them essence. A dormant enchantment, perhaps?
He tests this by pushing just the slightest bit of essence into the ring and is amazed when a small yellow star ignites inside the citrine rock, bathing his face in a brilliant glow. A ring of Mirror light.
“May it brighten your way in your darkest hour,” Aaku Malusi says, his eyes shining with emotion. “Go well, my child, and may Ama guide your steps.”
Salo feels his own eyes begin to water. “I don’t know what to say, Aaku. Thank you.”
“No, my child. It is I who must thank you, for you have given a hopeless old man something to believe in. Now go, and make sure you come back.”
People are still watching, people who have ill-treated and scorned Aaku Malusi for longer than Salo has been alive, but he doesn’t care. He embraces the old man, hoping the contact will convey what words cannot express. A tear rolls down his cheek when he lets go, and he doesn’t bother wiping it.
He has to force himself to climb onto the totem’s saddle, to keep moving, to leave everything he’s ever known behind. It’s all he can do not to turn back and beg for everything to go back to the way it used to be.
The cat begins to move, and Salo is almost shocked to be reminded of how smoothly he stalks upon the ground, how silently, like a boat rocking gently on the waves of a calm lake.
He’s a good twenty paces down the road when he can finally handle looking back and waving his last goodbye at the people he’s leaving behind. Nimara, the friend who’s never turned her back on him. Aaku Malusi, the friend he took for granted. The chief, a father who has always tried to do his best for a son he doesn’t understand. His clanspeople, many of whom will never accept him. And a familiar silhouette watching him from atop the now-vacant watchtower, wearing armor pieces that glint like stars against the blue sky.
Perhaps in another world, in a different time, Salo would have stopped right there and then and said to the figure, Come with me, and it would have been so.
But now, as they stare at each other for the last time in a long time, all he can do is wave once and look away.
20: Isa
Yonte Saire, the Jungle City—Kingdom of the Yontai
In an ancient temple at the heart of a continent, in a chamber awash with the torpid light of glowing rubies, before an audience of temple votaries, Jasiri guardians, clanspeople, young Sentinels, and a high mystic, a king wears the mask-crown for the first time.
This is no throne room—far from it, in fact—but she sits upon a high wooden chair on a dais, raised so she can overlook the small crowded chamber and see the anxiety and fear sketched onto the faces of all those present.
She knows how they feel. The gold and ivory chains of her forefathers burden her shoulders; sweat drenches her brow behind the mask-crown. She is afraid, just like the people looking up at her, but she is king now, and a king must never show his fear. So she swallows it up and projects an outward vision of calm and resolve, just as her father would have done.
The mask-crown is a heavy thing, a moongold artifact enchanted to give its wearer the head of a four-tusked elephant with a lofty crown of spikes, overlarge on her face because it was designed long ago to be worn by imposing, battle-tested men, not girls nearing the cusp of womanhood. Still, it clings to her face, failing to dent her posture if only because she cannot allow it to, as if by conquering the mask-crown, she will conquer the horrifying reality that it now sits upon her face.