For the second time in less than two years, Mara performed the ritual of mourning. Only now, instead of pain locked deep within, there was sadness. Sezu had taught that death was a part of politics, but now she understood that the forms were simply a rationale to justify murder. That awakening left her uneasy.
Mara sought comfort in a silent prayer, addressed to the shade of her husband. Buntokapi, she thought, for whatever rest it will bring your spirit, at the last you died with dignity. For a moment, no matter how briefly, you were worthy of the name Lord of the Acoma. For that I honour you. May your journey around the Wheel bring you better reward in your next life.
Now Mara rent her clothing, cut her arm, and placed ashes between her breasts. Ayaki stirred restlessly at her side, having tossed away the beads Nacoya had loaned to keep him occupied. Mara tore the baby’s wrap and smudged ashes on his tiny chest. He looked down and made a face. Tough as his father, Ayaki would not cry when Mara pinched him; instead he stuck his lower lip out and scowled belligerently. With the ceremonial dagger Mara pricked the boy’s forearm, earning a wail of protest to complete the ritual. She held Ayaki’s arm over the pool, letting his blood mix with her own in the water.
Tears came easily then. Alone and free from the scrutiny of hovering advisers and servants, Mara admitted her inner fear: that she was not equal to the next round of the Game of the Council. The humiliation and pain she had suffered at Buntokapi’s hands, the doubt and the anguish as she plotted his downfall, and each danger endured to survive the murder of her father and brother -all these might still be as nothing, blown away by the winds of circumstance and political fortune. The Minwanabi never slept in their hatred of the Acoma. Sometimes Mara felt helpless beyond hope.
Seeking the stability of the practical, she dressed Ayaki in the tiny ceremonial gown left for him. Then she donned her own white robe, silenced her wailing son, and carried him through the gusty afternoon to the grove’s entrance.
The noise warned her first that visitors had arrived. Armour clanked in the yard, and the excited voice of a servant carried over the sigh of wind through leaves. Mara tightened her fingers around Ayaki’s solid warmth, earning a wiggle of protest. Tense with apprehension, she stepped around the shielding hedges and almost collided with Keyoke’s weaponed bulk. The old Force Commander had positioned himself squarely across the entrance, and by the keepers left loose on his buckles, Mara realized he had pulled his ceremonial armour on with the greatest haste. The visitors, then, would be significant.
‘Anasati?’ she queried softly.
Keyoke returned a terse nod. ‘Papewaio and Nacoya await you, Lady. And Lujan oversees the arming of two companies at the barracks.’
Mara frowned. Keyoke would hardly have mentioned such precautions if Tecuma had come with peaceful intentions; her fears were confirmed as the Force Commander deliberately raised a hand and scratched his chin with his thumb.
Mara took a deep breath, ducking as Ayaki swung a playful fist. ‘Lashima reward your foresight, Keyoke,’ she murmured. And her pulse quickened as she stepped past the hedge, into view.
The yard was jammed with an assemblage of courtiers, warriors, and servants, all dusty from travel by road and wearing armour that was serviceable and plain, not the fancy enamelled style worn on state visits. A loud patch of colour in his house colours and plumes of mourning, the Lord of the Anasati sat patiently upon his litter, his adviser Chumaka at his right hand. Silence fell as Mara approached, Nacoya and Papewaio falling into step one pace behind. The Anasati soldiers assumed formal poses and formation as the Lady of the Acoma bowed, as slightly as possible without giving offence to one of Tecuma’s rank.
‘Welcome, father of my husband.’
‘Greetings, daughter,’ he said bitterly. ‘I see the son of my son in your arms. May I view him?’
Mara felt a momentary pang of guilt. The presentation of a grandson should have been an occasion for joy, instead, in a moment tense with unspoken antagonism, Ayaki was passed into his grandfather’s outstretched arms. Engulfed in scented cloth and the sharp edges of gemstone decorations, the infant squirmed but did not cry. Tecuma regarded this stolid little face and said, ‘He looks like Bunto.’
Mara nodded in agreement.
After a long moment of cuddling the child, Tecuma returned him in cold silence. Mara immediately relinquished him to the custody of Nacoya, who settled him as she had the boy’s mother, after a mourning ritual many years before.
‘Take my son to his nursery,’ said the Lady of the Acoma. As the old nurse departed, Mara regarded the hostile face of her father-in-law. ‘I offer the hospitality of the house.’
‘No, daughter.’ Tecuma qualified the word, all tenderness gone with Ayaki. ‘I wil not set foot in the house of my son’s murderess.’