Nomvula woke up in Khaya's arms. The night was colder, darker, and quieter than it had been a moment ago. Her eyelids drooped, head heavy on her son's chest. He carried her up a familiar set of stairs, so careful she could barely count the steps.
A kiss on the cheek and the creak of a closing door.
Nomvula sighed as her bed absorbed her, but crisp linens and soft pillows couldn't soothe her pounding temples. Her stomach lurched to the side like it was full of beer. When she eventually fell into a deep sleep, a nightmare caught her with open arms.
The day's worst thoughts came first: the colour of Lifa's leg, the weight of the Old One's eyes, the cold, white anger lashing at her senses as she tangled with Dumani. But those were temporary discomforts; they receded like twilight giving way to crawling shadows.
And then there was just Nomvula, dressed in all black, alone on a hill. The comfort of her favourite apron was gone, replaced by a thick breastplate of woven leather. Her headscarf sat heavy with silver chains, polished metal on dark cloth.
Her face was painted with three white dots down the middle of her brow, three more under her left eye, two more splitting her chin. The first two announced her tribe and rank on the field, the third was a warning to any ally sharing it with her.
Only one figure ever shared this dream, though. She looked down the slope and there it was.
Standing at the foot of hill, towering over the faceless fallen and their smouldering shields, Nomvula's shadow stared up at her — a perfect mirror of the Sunspear.
Its fist wrapped around an ebony spear with a barbed steel head. Twenty white dots ran down the shaft like a chain of suns. One day, Nomvula's death would make twenty one.
The Nomvula at the bottom of the hill covered its face in clay so black it swallowed any features, but she knew its true name — as intimately as a grave knew the company it kept. She'd buried that name with as much grief as the earth could hold.
Sunlanders learned to respect the power of names, but they were also taught to meet fear with full-hearted irreverence.
So Nomvula let the name loose.
It poured out like a mouth full of blood, and left an acid burn in her throat. Even her shadow flinched at the sound of its soul ringing out. When it raised its spear above its shoulder, Nomvula spoke it again...
...and again...
...and again...
...until a bolt of steel flashed up the hill.
Nomvula's hand shot up as her eyes opened.
Her fist slapped against a soft throat before grabbing a pair of legs pinning down her own. Spitting out a taste as foul as the name in the dream, she threw all her weight to the side and landed on her assailant.
"Ma!" Asanda wheezed.
Nomvula blinked away a fog, heart still thundering in her ears. Her stomach was on fire. "Oh! Baba are you hurt?"
She rolled off and tried to help her daughter up with heavy limbs. Asanda did more to get them both on their feet, then pressed an open white pouch in Nomvula's hand.
"Ma," Asanda said breathlessly, "it's leeching powder. Eat it."
Nomvula stared at the open pouch. She brought it up to the light, fighting her own hand all the way.
"Leeching powder? What for?"
Asanda cupped Nomvula's elbow to keep it from trembling. "For the buna," she said. "It was poisoned."