Alara Unbroken - Doug Beyer [17]
Chimamatl, one of the shaman-elders of the pride and Tenoch’s doddering mother, stood and addressed the gathered group. “The hadu, the fireside tale, is how our pride maintains its long memory. The exploits of our beloved young leader Jazal—and other brave warriors, such as my son Tenoch—should be remembered for all time. And they will be remembered, as long as we relive their stories at the fireside, and remember to tell them to our children, and they to their own children. As we tell their tales, they must tell the tale of those heroes who came before them. Tonight we must remember a hero who made us what we are, who unshackled us from falsity and let our true selves shine forth. Tonight we remember Marisi the Wild, for the anniversary of his sacrifice approaches.”
Ajani pulled on the leather bindings of his axe. He hoped they would hold long enough for a proper repair. He watched a coal melt into ash deep in the heart of the fire, mesmerized by its slow decomposition. He wasn’t listening to the hadu; he was thinking about Zaliki’s words, staying out of the way of the powers that be. Should he just move on? If his place wasn’t with the pride, where was it? He was also trying not to feel the sting of watching Tenoch enjoy the praise for the feast that Ajani had rightfully provided.
“And now,” intoned the elder Chimamatl, “may I introduce the kha, Jazal.”
The pride shouted in two short, unified bursts, welcoming Ajani’s brother to the front of the dais. Jazal looked glorious standing before the fire; the gold of his fur seemed to gleam brighter than the flame itself. His mane was swept back, his chin was high, and his chest looked as hard as a warrior’s shield. He held his axe, the burnished-bright version of Ajani’s own axe, as a king might hold a scepter. Yet his eyes were gracious, picking out each and every member of the pride and thanking them with his glance. All the pride looked back in admiration, Ajani included.
“Marisi was a warrior,” said Jazal. “Like our heroes who provided this feast tonight. But Marisi’s was a troubled mind—a mind that could not abide the constriction of law, the law that governed all nacatl of Naya, the cursed carvings we know as the Coil. Marisi believed that we nacatl had forgotten something important about ourselves. He believed that the Coil was like a pestle, and the leadership its mortar, crushing our true natures between them. He believed that the true soul of the nacatl had fled our race, and was determined to put it back again.”
Jazal jabbed the coals violently with the end of his axe handle. The fire hissed and popped, sending a cloud of sparks into the night air. Ajani had never seen Jazal make this kind of dramatic flourish, but it was stirring. Ajani watched the cinders rise up and mingle with the stars.
“Marisi’s heart burned with wildness,” Jazal said, beginning the recitation of the hadu. “When the leaders at Antali tried to stop him, he declared war on the leaders. When the strictures of the Coil tried to contain him, he declared war on the Coil. When the kha tried to condemn him, he declared war on the kha, and on every nacatl who denounced his wild way of life. Others saw his example and saw the truth of it. They saw how they could be more than they were, how the Coil had eaten away at their insides. They saw the truth in him, and they followed him. Marisi and his Claws, as his warriors were known, tore through the laws and through flesh alike. They created a revolution, and allowed the nacatl nation to break into two. On the one side, the Cloud Nacatl still cling to the broken stone