The Totem-Maker (part one hundred thirteen)

The Totem-Maker

Chapter Ten

Crafter Becomes Maker

(part one hundred thirteen)

“Now, creature. None can tell the turn of the world.” He offered this adage with unbecoming pleasure. “Do you know that Lord Ei has held six courses, and that in the normal run of six courses, one rider would die? No one has died. You and I do not want to set off for the Citadel under a cloud of foreboding. Two courses will be run today. You understand, I hope.”

“Will you ride?”

He laughed down at me. “I am not a small, nimble person. That would be far too much fleering at the Fates, to put my weight on a runner’s back.”

All I knew of my own people, and of the Balbaecans, told me this was true and inescapable. The courses were deadly…some perverse deity had chosen not yet to gather his sacrifice.

I eyed Tnoch, who for my scarcely having met him, seemed more my sympathizer. I patted the Totem’s pouch. “They know that I am not equal to the others, that I have a talisman for my protection.”

“Oh, more than that. They are consumed with curiosity, after that sorcery of yours with the targets. The Prince, Noakale, my wife, all, are eager to see what next.”

“Then I will lead the prayer myself.”

The brothers patted me along, until we arrived at the rock face from which the race to the plain was watched. Toish was led to me; I was lifted again onto his back.

“Salo-Ami Aeantahah, mightiest father of gods, Sala-Aza, Aeantha-hidthar sala-leomar, mother of all, Salo-Lotoq, my protector, grant that your hands and grace be in this task you have urged upon me.” I withdrew the Totem, held its purple to the light, starting a wave of shrinking behind deflecting arms, murmurs of Salo-Ami, spare, from the riders circling me, and over the crowd of wedding guests. I sensed a duty here, a kindness I ought to perform. “Sala-Aza, be openhanded as a loving mother, bless the wedded, Tnoch and Jute, hold no fault of mine against their happiness. Salo-Ami Aeantahah, take what you will, give what you will. We are content.”

All prayers of ceremony ended with this phrase.

As when I had slipped off the cliff’s edge, and but for the scream of the eagle should have died, I felt in my feet a nervelessness; in my hands the same. The reins were two thongs, one to wrap around each wrist. Six riders were by their grooms drawn to an even line, Toish and I center. I sought for some serenity my Totem might pity me with, but was very conscious of myself apart from my horse, and from this enterprise altogether.

If Toish would hold back, I might trail at the rear. I might fall, to at least survive. Rise to play the clown for my audience…

The flag was raised.

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Crafter Becomes Maker

The Totem-Maker (part one)

(2018, Stephanie Foster)