The Totem-Maker (part thirty-five)

The Totem-Maker

Chapter Five

The Mustering Grounds

(part thirty-five)

Cime, at the court’s adjourning, waited, standing where the great hall opened to the lesser, Sente at his side. I saw every face measure me, many gaze towards the dais, imagining Mumas…

Mumas had not left his place. He and his counsellor sat together, backs to us all. I could not guess if shock held him fast, or loathing for the people of Monsecchers. Cime pinched my counsellor’s tunic (this was respect in our land, to touch the clothes, not the body). He steered us by the row of lecterns, where a clerk of Banque’s would find an empty place, and one of the court’s bring tablets.

Our group gained a fifth, a man who served the Prince closely. He seemed not a knight, but more a Recorder of Acts.

Acts, however, the northerners marked in tattoos and burning brands, in disfigurements of ears and noses. Their naked arms told legends, their cheeks and brows were peppered with beads, burrowed under flesh, colored with indigo. Some showed constellations…the stars were everyone’s, I realized.

And wondered what the northern tales might be, of the Great Walker, the two Chariots…

Our escort’s head was shaved, a mountain driven in with bone slivers, tiny ribs thrusting up in a spider’s crouch, a campaign badge for conquering the land of Lotoq…he was quiet, listening. His eyes were studious, and I felt he was learning our language.

My question, had I not swallowed it, would have been, am I free? Will an officer return me to prison? Will I be marched in four days to the fort, given a knife, await a sign to begin battle? Will I stand at some distance from Mumas, will he look me in the eye, will I pity him too much to wish him dead, but yet…

Younger, quicker…ruthless; a dirtier fighter, willingly…

Will I kill Mumas? Because I know, at the last, I will fight to live.

Blinking my eyes against the sun, I walked the colonnade of the Villa Montadta’s porch, Cime’s hand on my shoulder, teaching me the way. The way of our future.

A shudder came under the feet. This, we called the Giver’s Laughter.

Once, and twice again.

We stopped. Cime and Sente, having their amulets, said prayers of appeasement. Banque strode off, with no word for the god and none for us. The northerner stared to where Lotoq stood distant.

And laughed, too, pointing for me a curl of smoke.

Lotoq had purpose in me; it was Monsecchers he warned today. The gaiety of untried souls…the young of the houses of Decima and Vei…pleased him. He liked that they welcomed in their midst his deep designs, sped them, paved avenues for them.

38

To Be and to Choose

The Totem-Maker (part thirty-six)

(2018, Stephanie Foster)