The warlord nods in acknowledgment and departs, leaving the Maidservant alone in the empty hall with River.
River, who is nothing.
River, who is nothing now but wasn’t nothing before.
The Maidservant discorporates and billows away as fast as the wind will carry her.
PART 5
MUSALODI
THE MAIDSERVANT
ILAPARA
ISA
Fire craft—magic of flame
Controlled combustion of the moon’s essence into extremely destructive fire. Decidedly the most commonly practiced craft.
—excerpt from Kelafelo’s notes
“Why the long face? Did you not get your share of pumpkin porridge?”
“I hate my stupid eyes and these stupid glasses. I hate that I have to wear them all the time. It’s not fair.”
“No, it’s not, but our scars tell the stories of who we are and what we’ve survived, and you, my dear child, have survived things that would have broken grown men. Wear your scars proudly; they do not define your failures but your victories over life.”
26: Musalodi
The Open Wilds of Umadiland
When Salo turned seven, his mother made him honeyed millet bread and took him down to the lake to throw rocks and make them skip over the water. They danced in the shallows and splashed each other silly, the droplets glistening in the sunlight like crystals, their giggles floating like a breeze. And when they returned home, they painted each other’s faces and laughed some more, until their stomachs hurt and they were so tired they fell asleep entangled in each other. It is Salo’s fondest memory.
Now, as he gallops across the open wilds of Umadiland on a giant totem of the Yerezi Plains, he takes refuge in that memory, trying to recover even a speck of the peace of mind he felt that day, the sense that even if he never had anything else, he would be just fine. His surroundings grow dim, and for a moment he imagines he’s not part of the world, like a wandering ghost whose time has long since passed, who can be neither touched nor hurt by the happenings of the universe.
A cowardly thing to do, perhaps, but the alternative is to hurl himself to the ground and weep until he has purged himself of lungs.
Tuk leads the way at a fast trot, but it’s too slow for Salo. He wants to push Mukuni as fast as he knows the cat can go, so fast that his paws barely scrape the ground. Ingacha and the abada are creatures of flesh and blood, though, so there’s no choice but to let them set the pace.
Acacia trees and granite outcrops pass them by like slumbering beasts. Herds of wildebok and para-para stampede away from them on sight. The suns bid the world goodbye in a fiery blaze of color, giving way to a star-speckled sky whose light is enough to see by. No one speaks the entire time.
By tacit agreement, they stop and set up camp next to a creek several hours after nightfall. While the others unsaddle and water their mounts, Salo forages for dry brushwood to make a fire, then divvies up the musuku wine, mealie bread, and dried meats he brought from home—the last of his supplies, so he’ll have to hunt from now on.
They eat quietly. Words feel too much like cheating to Salo. He can still speak and breathe and smoke and eat, but what about the Faraswa people who died because he was too damned self-righteous to let things be? By Ama, was Mhaddisu one of them?
How many people will I kill with my weakness?
When they are done eating, Salo drapes himself with his crimson blanket cloak and lights his pipe. No need to worry about predators with Mukuni around, but distant growls and cackles drift to their camp occasionally, reminding them each time that they are trespassing.
The abada and Ilapara’s buck lie on the grass nearby, watching Mukuni very carefully; the two animals seem to have formed a tentative alliance based on their mutual fear of the cat. I’ll have to do something about that.
Salo stews in his own thoughts for so long he’s almost startled when Tuk addresses him from across the campfire. “Just so you know, my planned route will take us past one of the Primeval Spirits.”
Salo lacks the energy to respond, so he stares morosely at the crackling fire and keeps puffing on his pipe.
Ilapara’s interest, however, has been piqued. She loosens the scarf wrapped around her head, peeling it off a little to reveal a curious frown. “Which one?”
“The Lightning Bird of Lake Zivatuanu,” Tuk replies. “Also known as the Great Impundulu. I intend for us to charter a Tuanu waterbird and sail up the lake. The World’s Vein isn’t far from its northernmost shores—probably a two days’ ride at most. And once we reach the Vein, it’ll be a straightforward journey east to Yonte Saire.”
Salo knows little about the ancient manifestations of Red magic commonly referred to as the Primeval Spirits, as there aren’t any in the Plains. They supposedly have deep and esoteric connections to the lands they roam and are capable of bestowing rare knowledge and spells onto worthy mystics—probably why it is customary for pilgrims of the Bloodway to visit and commune with one or more of them.
Salo might have considered doing so had it not required that he veer far from his planned route to Yonte Saire. But that has happened anyway, so maybe he’ll get to visit one after all. He just can’t be bothered to care.
Ilapara’s frown deepens. “Aren’t the Tuanu highly intolerant of foreigners in their lands?”
“They are,” Tuk says, “but the Tuanu will make an exception for a sorcerer who wishes to commune with the Lightning Bird—if they can pay with something valuable, that is.”
“Something like what?”
Tuk smiles, but it doesn’t lighten his eyes. “Let me worry about that.”
“I don’t like being left in the dark,” Ilapara says. “If I’m following you somewhere, I’d like to know what I’m getting myself into.”
“Fair enough, but I have a good reason for being reticent. I know I haven’t done anything to earn your trust, but I swear I’m only doing what I think is best for all of us.”
Ilapara looks like she wants to argue, but then she purses her lips and crosses her booted feet in front of her. “All right. If you want to earn my trust, how about we start with who the devil you are and where you’re from.”
Tuk smiles into the fire and seems to consider his answer. Eventually he says, “I guess there’s no point in lying, is there. And why should I? I’m not ashamed of who I am or how I came to be.” His lips say one thing, but he starts rubbing his hands together like he’s about to meet the malaika of death. “I came from the Enclave beyond the Jalama Desert, though I’m originally from the Empire of the West, far across the waters you call the Dapiaro.”
That confession immediately draws Salo out of his silent brooding. “You’re from the Empire of Light?”
“The very same,” Tuk replies, and then he seems to struggle with his next words: “I was . . . made there.”
“Made,” Ilapara repeats. “What do you mean, you were made?”
Tuk chews on his lower lip for a long moment. “I’m what they call an atmech, Ilapara, the creation of a heretic necromancer—and by the way, that’s what the Empire calls anyone who chooses the moon over the suns. Heretic. They don’t like lunar magic very much. They like you Red folk even less.”