T'aakshi

Kuchisoto’s walls finally came into view as they crested the third frost-bitten hill of the day’s walking. T’aakshi had been before with his father, but it was always strange to see its stone buildings reaching skywards with their curved, tiled roofs. Standing tall in its centre, with each of its floors marked by their own roof, lay the Temple where the Inari-da met and prayed.

T’aakshi glanced behind him. Twelve others trudged along in his wake and he couldn’t help the frown that creased his face. They were twelve of the tribe’s best, and most were survivors of the Beast’s attack. They should have been back with the rest of the Su’roi, hunting and keeping their supply of food strong. Doing something worthwhile. But when you came before the Inari-da, you came with your tribe’s best. To do otherwise was an insult.

None had uttered so much as a murmur of disagreement. Not whilst they slogged through heavy snowfall and bitter winds, nor around the fires of their temporary camps. But they all knew that their efforts were being wasted. They had trekked for a week, left their families and their duty to provide for the tribe, just so that T’aakshi could reject the Inari-da’s offer to their faces, instead of by parchment and avoid some kind of retribution.

T’aakshi swallowed back the lump in his throat and pressed forward towards the town’s gates. A week ago, he’d been sick with fear at the idea of coming here. Now the fear had attached itself to a bigger problem than saying no to a council of stuffy old folk, no matter the power they wielded. Self still only worked when he needed it occasionally, as though he was being allowed to channel it at the whim of a pernicious God, and the beast had not left his dreams.

Two pairs of guards stood on either side of the town’s gates, each clad in black, fur-lined leathers and clutching long spears with crescent blades. T’aakshi approached with his escort, and the guards closest to the entrance lowered their weapons to block their paths.

“Name yourselves visitors,” ordered the woman on the far left, a severe expression stressing a deep scare running across her left cheek and lips.

“I am T’aakshi, of the Su’roi, and we have come in answer to the summons of the Inari-da.”

The woman nodded, and the spears parted. “You are expected, T’aakshi of the Su’roi. Come.”

The woman stepped away from her post and strode towards the entrance without so much as a glance back to make sure that they followed. T’aakshi could not resist his own look over the shoulder before stalking after the guard, his companions remaining a respectful distance behind.

Inside the walls, Kuchisoto’s streets were far busier than any he had ever seen. Men and women in a variety of furs hauled woven baskets and hide sacks of produce back and forth, some even dragging rickety wagons full of grown food and crafted goods for trade. Each tribe had its own needs, as well as things they specialised in making or producing, and Kuchisoto was where they came to do it safely, under the watchful eye of the Inari-da.

His father had once told him that, whilst hunters were never to be parted from the tools of their trade, to draw a weapon here was punishable by death. T’aakshi didn’t doubt it. Even tribes who were in conflict in their own territories traded safely with each other here, albeit with barbed words forced through gritted teeth.

Beyond that, the Tagayan capital really wasn’t all too different from the settlements his own tribe called home. The stone buildings replaced the Su’roi’s wooden huts, but he could still identify the same carved ivory figurines of the all the Gods he knew standing in window frames and doorways of homes, or besides the wooden stalls of merchants. Frosted dirt tracks still wove between buildings, and the smells of fish and meat still hung in the air.

Eventually, the guard led them to a small building that had the same overhanging tiled roof as every other. Its stone walls were bleached white like the snow, with its timber cladding painted a solid black. She drew up beside its doorway, a rectangular opening with nothing separating the inside from the cold of the outside.

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“We have assigned you this dwelling for your stay here,” she said, her voiced laced with just a hint of boredom. “One of the Ia’dou will come and escort you when the Inari-da are ready.”

T’aakshi nodded in thanks, and the woman stepped past him and marched back to her post at the gate, leaving them to make themselves at home.

Inside, the house was really just a single room. In the centre, smooth, sun-faded wooden boards led to a square fire pit, with an iron tripod for boiling water and cooking stood over it. His eyebrows raised as he noticed the piles of firewood ready for the fire pit. Wood was a scarce resource in the wastes, even this far south. It was rare to see this much in one place—especially to be used for something like fire. Somebody had also laid out thirteen bed rolls in a neat circle around the fire pit and given the place a thorough tidy before they arrived.

The walls were the same plain white as they were on the outside, with half a dozen scrolls hung from iron nails. Each scroll depicted a pair of the original Inari-da, receiving their power from the Gods—crowned men and women being basked in light from the clouds, or being presented a glimmering jewel by the talons of a mighty eagle. On the eastern wall, T’aakshi recognised the mighty bear, Ain-ou—the God of the Hunt—sharing his power with the two Inari-da that had come from the Su’roi by sinking his vicious fangs into their throats.

Men and women filed in behind him, peeling off thick fur coats and slumping onto their bed rolls for some well-earned rest. They chatted amongst themselves cheerfully enough, but he could see the exhaustion in their eyes, the weariness in their muscles and its effect on their movement. They had pushed hard to arrive here on time to avoid offending the Inari-da.

Rather than do the same, T’aakshi moved over to the firepit and began building a fire using the dried wood and cottongrass tinder that had already been set out for them. Once he had built the frame, he reached for the flint in the pouch at his side, but hesitated, scowling. The only reason he carried a flint normally was for absolute emergencies. He shouldn’t need one—he had Self. But he hadn’t been able to bring himself to risk failing where the others could see.

The shame made his insides curl, but he took out the flint anyway, and began striking.

“You know, Shi, you need to rest too. You’ve taken more watch than anybody else and built the fires for the entire journey—if I’m not mistaken, you’ve carried more than your fair share of the water, too. Let one of the lads build this one, eh?”

T’aakshi struck the flint and glinting firestone together and glanced at the hulking form of T’aallin crouched down beside him. He wore a pitying smile, weathered skin flushing red from the cold. T’aallin had been a hunter of considerable experience when T’aakshi’s father had become chief. Now the hunters of the Su’roi positively revered him for his expertise, T’aakshi himself included.

“They’ve come all this way for no reason but to appease the Inari-da, Lin. This is the least I can do for them.”

The older man sighed, brushing stray greying hair away from his eyes just as the fire roared into existence in front of them.

“You are still set on refusing to take your father’s place, then?”

“I’m not ready. And, even if I was, I’m not the best person for the job. Any of the men here could do it as well as I—most would do even better.”

“Not a man here would deny you have a lot to learn, lad. But, as S’aarasu is so fond of saying, the time to repair the roof is when the sun is shining. You are young, and the tribe is strong. We have the time for you to learn. To grow into the man we can all see you becoming, Shi. Of the thirteen of us here now, I would choose you—not for the man you are, but the man you will be.”

T’aakshi had no response to that. How could he ever justify accepting leadership of the Su’roi on the merits of a man that didn’t exist yet? The pressure that came with that level of expectation had been mountainous even before his father had passed, back when it had seemed like it would be several dozen years before he would have to decide.

The eyes of the tribe had always been on him. Every moment of every day, people had questioned his abilities and readiness, right from the moment he could walk. Once he had passed into adulthood and begun leading his out parties out into the wastes, expectation had pressed upon him like stone boulders strapped to his back.

Failed hunts were normal, and most parties that headed out failed to find a substantial catch—the wastes, after all, were vast and mostly empty—but every time he had returned empty-handed had been more confirmation for everyone that he was lacking. That he was not good enough. Not able to live up to the legacy his father had left for him.

Now his father had passed, and his tribe needed somebody who could live up to that legacy. Somebody that wasn’t him.

Fortunately, T’aakshi didn’t have to try to explain this. A figure clad all in white stepped into their room. It was a man, older than T’aakshi, wearing a flowing white robe that reached to his ankles, leaving his filthy and bare feet exposed, red raw from the cold. One of the Ia’dou, the servants of the Inari-da.

“T’aakshi of the Su’roi,” the man intoned, his voice straining to hide the shivers. “the Inari-da are ready for you. Come.”