Nomvula

50. A Bridge Burned

They were halfway to the watering hole when the elephants decided they had had their fill and carried on their way. Ndlovu's stride was long, mostly disguised the fact that he was walking a little faster than the rest of the group. Asanda, for her part, couldn't hide how she had to quicken her own stride to keep up.

When they were perhaps just out of earshot, kept a more even pace and clasped his hands behind his back. "What do you know of the Sunspear."

"It's just a war spirit, although an especially powerful one. Is the lore uncommon here?"

"You might meet ten thousand people in your life, and find only two born with the ability to hold a second spirit. But I'm not talking about someone carrying the courage or wisdom of an ancestor, I mean the Sunspear. Do you know what it can do?"

Asanda swallowed. "I have seen what it can do."

Ndlovu looked down at her, fear and pity fluttering behind his eyes with less noise than butterfly wings. "Your mother cut herself?"

"The Diviner drew the Sunspear out, a week ago."

"Curious. News of the Royal Diviner's death would have reached us by now."

"Ma had—" barely "—enough restraint."

"All the more curious. The Sunspear must be severely weakened if she can exercise that much control over it. To cut the Sunspear's skin is to open the doorway to your own death."

"We have precautions, Great Chief."

"Good." Ndlovu was silent long enough to make Asanda glance at him out of the corner of his eye, not that she could see much beyond the briar that was his beard. "Do you have headaches, often?"

Asanda turned her stress tile between two fingers. "Yes, but I am twin-minded."

"Ah yes, Nomvula's longthinker child. Your brothers are not, do they headaches often? Or anyone else on Third Hill, for that matter?"

She bit her tongue at the taunt. Here was the man who had shattered her father's skull with his bare hands. The duel had been to first blood, and Ndlovu had made no cuts before he wrapped those hard hands around...

Asanda's stomach lurched, and a chalky taste coated the back of her throat. Somehow, her feet kept her moving forward, but for a moment the sun was too bright and saliva pooled under her tongue. The stress tile made two small popping noises as the rune cracked, but it managed to siphoned enough for her to breathe evenly, though her heart was still beating for two. The fingers on her left hand were too cold to even close into a fist; they lay numb against the icy tune.

All this happened over no more than three paces, and all that time Ndlovu's eyes had been fixed on the tree ahead of them. He held his silence for ten more paces.

"Oh, that's what you think," he said at last. "I'm not mocking you about your father, Elder Child. It's important you answer the question."

"We should be discussing Jabulani and Buhle's potential union," Asanda said, licking the sourness from her teeth.

"Later tonight. Now, what of headaches?"

Later tonight we will be steal—

"Later tonight we--" Asanda caught herself, and now her heart was beating for three. Close.

She staggered a little and a gently palm cupped her elbow to steady her. Khaya.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

No. She was trying to stifle the bright anger of a daughter stomaching patricide and the old grief of a violent widow.

"Yes." She leaned against her brother a moment longer then gently pushed him to the side. She was Elder Child here, and if she lost it, they were all doomed. "To your question, Chief, no, headaches are infrequent. Though there is the occasional week-long migraine in newborns and guests who visit the hills for the first time."

Ndlovu's eyes were still on the tree. They were less than twenty paces from the watering hole now. "That's strange, don't you think?"

"It's likely an airborne matter, perhaps a strange pollen in whatever grew when the goatgrass killed the native weeds. My former mentor was a master of Simple Alchemy. That was his theory, before he died?"

"What of?"

Asanda's numb fingers twitched. "He made a tea from the wrong leaves in my garden."

"Hmm," was all Ndlovu said until they were standing in the shade of the marula tree.

Fallen fruit had been turned to pulp under elephant feet, making the ground slippery and pungent with sweetness. All the low-hanging marula had been plucked, leaving only the top of the tree with any of the golden fruit. If the next herd wasn't packed with wise aunts who knew to shake the tree rather than push it over, this one would not survive the next feast. Though by the bark and root pattern, this tree had stood for years, possibly decades.

"Do me a favour, boy." Ndlovu drove his heel into the hard soil between two of the thicker roots. "Put that spear of yours to good use and have a dig, about a forearm deep."

Khaya was ready to protest, but Asanda was ready to be gone so they could have enough daylight to map an escape route out of Ndlovu's house.

"Just do it, please, Khaya."

So she asked, so he did, muttered curses and all.

"I mentioned earlier that some people are born with the courage of a brave ancestor," Ndlovu said, clasping his hands behind his back again. "Do you know why that might be important, Elder Child?"

"Spirits bleed." So the saying went: a person of courage in a circle of eleven cowards made a brave dozen.

"Yes, some better blood than others, some bigger pools than most. How bitter and how far reaching do you think a war spirit could bleed if it stood in one place for twenty years?"

Asanda shook her head as Khaya dug clods of dirt out with his spear. "That part of spiritlore is myth. Third Hill is the most peaceful place in the south."

"All civilisation is kindling, Elder Child. The difference between peace and war is the presence of a spark. And if I must give your mother credit, she has done well to put out so many fires, not least of all this torch Dumani brought with him. But you are a clever woman, you must know that not all fires are made for warmth."

Most of Khaya's forearm had disappeared into the hole now as he scraped out the bottom with a sharp rock.

"I don't know what you mean, Great Chief."

"Torches illuminate."

Khaya's rock made a scraping sound it struck something. Asanda watched in silence as put the rock aside and lodged it free with the tip of his spear. He rose holding a large, curved shard that looked like a chip of ivory with a tiny black beetled nestled on the inside.

"What's this?" Khaya asked.

Ndlovu's dark eyes were mirthless. "Take it, Elder Child. Hold it in your hands."

Not trusting her numbed fingers, Asanda accepted the shard from Khaya with her right hand. Bone, she realised, as soon as she ran her thumb across the worn surface. She turned it over to inspect the black thing on the inner curve. It was hard too, but surprisingly warm despite being buried in cool earth. 

When she ran her thumb over it, Asanda felt two pulses, one from the black thing and another at the base of her skull. Just enough of her mother's spirit was left inside her that, when confronted with the right physical trigger, it offered up the last piece of information without resistance. She dropped the bone shard in her right hand. In her left, the stress rune cracked again, then again. Broken, it warmed to the same temperature as the wooden tile. By the time they curved around her trembling lips, Asanda's tears were cold.

Ndlovu had stooped to retrieve the shard. "I didn't just break your father's skull, that day, I killed my best friend. To save him. You all speak of a war god, yet you never ask where a war god's army comes from. When Dumani kills your older brother, or should anyone else in the Hundred Hills come by death, cut open their head and see what you find there."