Epilogue
THE NOTES SWELLED INTO A MIGHTY CHORD, THEN BLENDED TO UNISON AND DWINDLED TO SILENCE. THE SONG FOR THE WARRIOR’S HEALING was done. The seer broke the circle and summoned his gift. His face bright with gratitude, he spoke for Mykkael’s future, and foretold a long life, both vital and vibrant.
Yet when the shamans arose, and the guarding spearmen offered their mantles to bear up the hero’s sleeping form, Anzbek planted his staff and forbade them.
‘We are not finished. This man may marry into Sanouk, and bring up his children in steppeland heritage. Yet he is a son of the Scoraign desert. Although his ancestry has been forgotten, let him not make his way in the world without the acknowledgement his beginnings have sadly denied.’
Still murmuring in wonder, the shamans re-formed their circle. Next, Anzbek delved into his mantle and produced a phial of obsidian dye, then a brush fashioned from the fine hair clipped from the black gelding’s forelock. ‘Let today’s inscriptions be done in paint. When Mykkael recovers awareness and strength, the honours rightly bestowed on this hour can be awarded with formal ceremony. As he wishes, he shall bear proper Scoraign tattoos.’
The healer accepted the dye and hair-brush. His warm acquiescence came touched by dismay, for he had no line of beginning. ‘What story shall be told of Mykkael’s blood origins? What design should be set at his navel?’
Anzbek spoke without hesitation, having given the matter his circumspect thought. ‘The sign for his mother’s clan need not be left blank. None can deny he is Scoraign-bred. He shall be given the mark of all tribes, set into the sacred circle. This relationship has been justly earned. For the patterns that ward against the Tenth Name, all our people owe him for protection.’
The surrounding elders thumped the earth with their hands, and sang the note for appreciation.
‘The marks of origin shall be done as described,’ the healer agreed. Though surprised by the daring departure from form, he nodded his earnest approval. ‘Tell me, what name shall I paint him?’
‘His own,’ Anzbek replied. ‘For he has marked his worth on the world’s weave alone. The nations who carry his debt for their sovereignty do him honour as Mykkael already’
Then the eldest Jantii dreamer lifted his staff and called the circle to listening silence. With reverence, he recited the accolades, by which Scoraign people would know the inner spirit of the one reborn to a name on this day.
‘Mykkael is a warrior! Let his heart bear the sign of the sword, turned upright, the alignment given to mercy. His left wrist, which must show those gifts granted at birth, will bear the eye of the seer. On his right wrist, for the path he has chosen through life, place the arrows of high honour and sacrifice, configured between the stars for endurance and courage, and the sun’s triumph of lasting victory. He has been sorely tested, this man. His history of service is written in scars that require no further embellishment. May his union with Orannia grant him fine children and much laughter, as they grow to maturity and bring him the wealth of happiness and strong grandchildren.’
Anzbek raised his birch staff to the sky, and song arose at his bidding. The gathered shamans offered the warrior their pealing tribute, as the healer set his brush to the dye, and began to record Mykkael’s heritage. The elder took pride in his work on that day, while Jantii tribe’s fox clan circle bore joyful witness.
Birth to death, Scoraign people only borrowed their skins. Henceforward, Mykkael would be graced with the symbols to honour that ancient tradition. To trace such marks on the living man was to acknowledge his presence. Each chosen tattoo would reflect for all eyes the intangible flame of his being, that endured, as his deeds would endure, beyond the frail bounds of mortality.474
