The Totem-Maker (part twenty-eight)

The Totem-Maker

Chapter Three

I Am the Cause

(part twenty-eight)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I knew what his confession would be. Mumas was an oddly uncalculating man. Yes, with the pertinacity of a mole paddling at her blind tunnel, he could make trouble for others. He would tell himself this was not making trouble, this was his office. That he felt himself alone in performing it, must seem all the more reason to persist.

“You blame yourself for belittling Mumas. And before such guests! You saw it, how weak at that moment he was. Mumas, a man you’d had nothing to do with, who was not your friend, or Cime’s, or the others’… Whom you felt affronted you must care for, take time to speak to. More than that. You saw how it tortured him, his footwork polishing the reputation of one he despises…”

My smile was faint…showing only in the eyes, perhaps. Sente was in gloom.

“He despises Cime,” I said, “and he cannot resist the dream of a strong protector. The Prince does not belong to Monsecchers. The Prince is not loved, as Mumas is not loved. But he, as the old story goes, is feared. Mumas grew to wish harm to you, the Lord Sente who thwarted him, who might have paid but played instead, showing off his empty coffers. Laughing at Cime’s deputy. Mumas had faith the Prince would destroy you…he did not suspect the intricacies of the Prince’s plan. You also wished harm to Mumas. Which you could bring about easily enough.”

“Which I did. Easily enough. You credit me with eyes to see…I doubt that of myself. Will the gods really allow me to thrive? I have killed a man. Without honor. Without malice. Without cause.”

 

Before the great day arrived, I had one more visitor. Sente did not require Cime’s wife, in her recovery, to climb ladders…or to enter his stable at all. I was taken to a chamber, a sleeping room open to the air, along the terrace where I’d met him; and after Lady Pytta left us, he told me I would stay.

“You won’t run. But feel free, if you like. I can make excuses.”

Escorting her away, she in her own melancholy, he had caught Pytta’s eye, and they’d sighed together. As to his plans, the Prince found persons fallen in his way immaterial. Until the marriage had come off, Sente could not offend.

After, he must try very hard not to.

“Tell me about my Lord Cime’s heir,” I’d begun.

From folds of the large garment she still wore, she drew my sack of tiles and tablets. “Don’t tease. I have come to ask you the same.”

I did enjoy the games, and would the company; I did not trouble her to name which, but chose a pattern best suited to a newborn’s first forecast.

“Is he a morning child?”

“You ask.”

 

 

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Such commonplaces, of one possibility from two or three, have no magic in them. But because the games are fun, my subjects do not want badly to think. (And I have seen practitioners tease with an ill will, cast a false guess to draw a true answer.)

 

A boy, born in the day’s first quarter, calls for a pattern of rays, and a clean line between, dividing in four parts for the stages of life. Each half has four up-triangles, and four down-triangles. All values are as the tile reveals; there are no tricky reversals. Each down-triangle gives a negative, each ray of the sun-sign applies to a house—of riches, marriage, children, war, peace, friends, enemies, length of life.

I shook the bag and threw, selecting only tiles with their faces hidden, that at their landing had formed lines of import. I took three from a right-hand arc, and laid them in the direction of the moon’s waxing. Riches, marriage, children. Two I laid, one at the center of the sun, the other on one of her rays, for length of life. I threw again, commenting to Lady Pytta as I did, keeping her apprised of my purpose.

And so I had said, “I am throwing for war, for enemies. Last, for friends and peace.”

“Put it all away.”

I hesitated.

“No, never turn them. This is not passing weather—something is happening to us. I wanted to feel happier, knowing the future. And now I feel I trust you too much. You’ll be kind, but what will you see? I think a void. I think the gods will not answer. Peace and friends, long life…can my son come into his own? Now? If Cime stays in the Prince’s favor, still the Prince profits from war. He will only invite more of his soldiers, and they will only take more…more of our fields, our houses, our knights and horses and gold, our sons and daughters. I’ll not bear it if I see you softening the blow.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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I Am the Cause

The Totem-Maker (part twenty-nine)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(2018, Stephanie Foster)