First, she melts the bison fat. The good, clean, pure stuff from around the kidneys.

The cooking vessel is vast, nearly as wide in diametre as her wingspan. A large terracotta bowl with a smooth, white interior. A matching lid hangs nearby—though she’ll need to have some of her kabāhä help lift that.

As the fat melts over the fire, she yells for brōmu [Allium canadense] and dānäbrōmu [Allium cernuum]. As they sizzle in the pot, she stirs the mixture with her long, wooden spoon.

Divine aromas fill the air as the minced alliums sizzle and steam.

Now the bitter roots—kāzjänjazja [ginger], dāmäjamä [ginseng], länajäma [sassafras]—in thinly sliced in rounds are added. Dadä [chilis] next.

Diced tadäradrä [chaga], a sweet fungus, now.

She waits for everything to crisp, for the fat to be fully infused with the flavour.

Tsukorunjo [sumac], kenilēdji [pine nuts], and thobrunjotsuronju [callicarpa americana] go into the pot. Stir and just give the spices a kiss of heat.

“Rotu,” she yells, and her aides deposit a vast urn of rotu [zizania] into the cooking vessel.

Stirring vigorously now, she shakes the mixture, seeking to coat the grains in oil.

She tilts and swings the cooking pot as it dangles from the ceiling, mixing everything thoroughly.

Now the wine, she adds a full bottle of rotusāmä [zizania wine]—a crisp, dry batch. She stirs as it steams. The scents indicate it’s all coming together.

Now the stock. Dozens of litres of bone-broth. Her aids pour it in as she stirs and shakes.

Lovely, the first step is done.

The calf is already trussed and on the spit. Raising it into position is simple enough.

With the calf hanging over the giant pot (both steaming the calf and catching its drippings), the side fires, built on brick ledges in the supporting columns, are lit—flanking the calf. Her kabāhä bring them up to raging fires, offering a crisp, direct heat to the calf: rendering fat and browning the cuts.

Now that the calf is trussed, she adds the bonuhorhu [lotus seeds]. They’ll soften and mix in nicely with the rotu, providing the texture so central to rēsibresi [spring soup].

Redjilejinjārhä is not an old woman, she just now is reaching her twenty-fifth year, but she has been in the palace’s kitchens for nearing nine solstices now. She is, of course, a kabāhä herself, but she’s been single-feathered for nearing six years. She’s not even married yet, focussed instead with her work. It is her work which earned her her feather. It is her work (and the convenient death of her predecessor and mentor) which has earned her the position of honour and chief-cook of the finest palace in Narhetsikobon. It is her work which has earned her a two-room apartment on the Birch-Courtyard—complete with a deck at that. It is her work which led the Great Mother Kobu Senisedjārhä-Kabohutsārhä to declare that never has she seen a person so young tread a path so cleanly. Virtue and labour: follow the path and one’s aims are achieved.

She turns the spit slowly, making sure the calf browns evenly. Her aides regularly add to the fires.

As the calf nears completion, she adds the leaves to the soup: thorhurodo [water mimosa], länarädō [yarrow], and kodjulorudo [dandelion]. Huge handfuls, each adds a different flavour. These are the early spring leaves and thus they don’t need to cook for long.

It’s the sixteenth-anniversary of Kobu Tōjukonu-Nejileni’s birth. His grandmother is Kobu Senisedjārhä-Kabohutsākä, his mother Kobu Hamäzjabära-Porubōsu (another acclaimed mother of the city), and his father Kobu Nejileni-Pēzjiceni—the acclaimed warchief who conquered both sides of Nineresijeli. His father fell in war three years ago, staying behind with a small guard to assure a successful ford back to safety during a Boturomenji advance.

Since then the boy’s been different. When she arrived at the palace nine years ago, Tōjukonu-Nejileni was no more than a child. A cute, precocious child, yes. But one concerned with trivial matters, who dreamed and sang and played. His father’s death had hardened him. In his twelfth year, Tōjukonu-Nejileni walked to the Outer Chief, I can’t remember which one, and demanded, ‘I must train with spear and bow. I shall be as formidable as my father.’ And so he did.

Still, even as he aged into a serious, severe young man, Redjilejinjārhä still thinks of the child he once was. The child for whom she bears so much affection. Even if I never find the time to have a family of my own, he’ll be like the child I never had.

Her first moons in the palace, she was tasked as a maid caring for that portion of the family. Till Kobu Senisedjārhä-Kabohutsākä, many blessings upon her, was over for lunch and tried her brireti (steamed zizania in lotus leaf) and insisted she come work in the kitchens of the whole palace. And that was that.

The soup is almost finished. She tastes, warm, floral, balanced, a lovely texture. She adds salt and ground konulonjotsubonu [alder pepper]. Perfect.

She yells, ordering her aides around. First, they remove the calf. Her butcher-aide cuts the meat for the soups.

Next, an endless stream of kabāhä grab the delicate ceramic bowls, take a ladleful of rotu and other grains, fill the bowl with broth and greens, add two slices of smoked duck breast, two slices of tsasämama (liver-sausage), three slices of pickled brire (lotus root), a spoon of sanäsanä (pickled pawpaw and cranberries), a spoon of dadälasanä (pickled chilis, sumac, and raspberries), a cut of calf, and finally a sprinkle of pēzjilenjitse [myrica gale] and pēzjeceni [sweet clover].

She watches as the kabāhä serve first the mothers present, then the guest being celebrated, then those of famous families, and finally the guests. Kobu Senisedjārhä-Kabohutsākä, long may she live, stands and raises her glass of pawpaw wine—some of the first of the year. Her words are simple: “skill and foresight: he who labours knows how to succeed.”

They love the soup.

It had been a less than ideal harvest. But last year’s stores are plentiful, and the bison herds are fat. Failed harvests happen every so often, normally it’s just a handful of villages or maybe the farms surrounding the city which fail. This time the failures were near universal. Apparently it affected them in Boturomenji too. But something like a third of the crop rotted in the fields. Too much.

It has caused great consternation amongst the matriarchs as well. After yesterday’s meeting, while she was finalizing kitchen prep for the next day, she was called upon in the kitchens by one of Kobu Hamäzjabära-Porubōsu’s daughters to prepare kenilēdji tea and rebrinana (fried maple and arrowhead starch). And while she was only present for a few moments, and Kobu Senisedjārhä-Kabohutsākä inquired after her and her affairs while she was present, it was clear they were unhappy.

Kobu Nejirezjoku-Sōtubonu, the Inner-Chief, already a contested choice, had sided with the majority faction of the matriarchs of KobuThonu and decided to go ahead with the previous plans for next year’s harvest.

It seems the palace of Kobu Senisedjārhä-Kabohutsākä shall be taking precautions of its own, it seems. All winter construction is diverted to lotusand njeri [arrowhead] paddies, new orchards are to be cleared, they’ll double the thorhurodo per rotu paddy, and even some of those strange, southern crops are to be planted in dryland farms.

Still, the anxiety and displeasure of the mothers is palpable.

The winter had been lean, but supplies were rationed and the fisherfolk proved invaluable. Eels and perch make good food: fresh, pickled, or smoked. With such little rotu to go around, the lunches she would make were increasingly just brire or njeri with smoked perch and sausage. It’s a good enough lunch, but she misses the chances she used to have to innovate, to experiment with flavours. Now it seems she just scoops pickles out of jars.

Even before the summer solstice it was clear that this harvest would be even worse than the last.

Whole paddies were destroyed by blight before they even had a chance to fruit. An air of fear, almost a miasma, has crept over the city.

Today, however, they gather at the festival grounds. The whole of the city will be present for the chiefs to report on the year as it stands, and to sing praises to Dosulonumo with the sädātsamä.

Replanting of the failed paddies is the call. The city has the seed for it, though there are grumbles directed at the Inner Chief, Nejirezjoku. The women of her palace seem particularly angry. Though Kobu Senisedjārhä-Kabohutsākä keeps her face still as stone.

Now it is time for the bull fight.

Redjilejinjārhä sits in the ring, a comfortable location on the risers. The sandy circle before them is clear, the field beyond as well—a shrine shining in the late afternoon sun backed by the failing fields of rotu.

It’s a good match, the bull is strong, large, well suited for the ring.

It begins easy enough, boys of the palace and those searching for a marriage into KobuThonu take turns trying to jump the bull. Some succeed, some fail—none are gored, however. Scratches and broken bones are all the injuries worth mentioning.

Redjilejinjārhä is relieved, even if some in the stands were hoping for blood.

That bloodlust is sated before too long, however.

The second step in the bullfight involves four youths. Each with a simple spear, they dance around. Taunting the bull, he charges at them each in turn. The goal is to wait as long as possible, then dive out of the way, pricking the bull in the process.

It’s decent sport, but this year’s youths seem more timid than that of the last. An adequate performance, but not what it could be.

The third step now, Kobu Tōjukonu-Nejileni rides bareback upon a horse. He wheels around the ring, dressed only in simple riding trousers and with his chest painted in glyphs. His cape—long for his age, if still that of a youth—flutters behind him. The bull stands confused in the centre of the ring. Tōjukonu grabs a javelin from a kabāhä surrounding the ring. He wheels in place, dancing his mare in the spot. The bull snorts and charges towards him.

Expertly, he wheels his mount to the side with the bull approaching, throwing the javelin true into the bison’s hump.

A bellow of pain from the bison, and cheers from the crowd.

As he grabs another javelin, the bison turns and runs again.

This repeats again and again, sometimes the bull gets close enough, the mare frightened enough, that he’s unable to get a javelin off.

The audience is enthralled. She can not remember the last time the fight was so expertly managed.

As the twelfth javelin sinks deep into the bison, Tōjukonu brings his horse to a kabāhä and takes up a long, hard spear of oak.

Slowly approaching the bull, he waves his feather cape. The bull snorts and paws at the ground.

He charges.

Tōjukonu keeps waving the cape, his spear hanging loose from his hand.

In the few seconds as the bull approaches, horns down and ready to gorge, the lad sinks to the ground, positioning the spear with its base in the earth, and its point directed true.

He barely avoids the hooves as he rolls away.

The bull sinks down upon the spear, his own momentum forcing it through his chest and out his back.

Impaled upon the spear so expertly placed.

Cheers abound: a masterful performance.

Before the feast, however, the feathers must be doled out.

Three of the Wise Mothers, Kobu Senisedjārhä-Kabohutsākä among them, and the Inner and Outer Chiefs.

The youths are granted various feathers, but everyone awaits the bestowal upon Tōjukonu—he who vanquished the bull.

First, he receives two feathers of red-winged blackbird—the fine, multicoloured flight feathers indicating success at bullfighting.

He bows his head, “Thank you, Skilled Mother.”

Next, he receives two feathers of eagle, and two of parrot from the Outer Chief—to strengthen his spear-arm in war and measure his temper in peace. “Thank you, Strong Father.”

Now it is six feathers of goldfinch: feathers suitable for the collar of the cape—they indicate patience and restraint. “Thank you, Wise Mother.”

He stands before Inner Chief Nejirezjoku. Three feathers of white ibis are presented before him. But as the chief places the feathers in Tōjukonu’s hands, he lets them fall to the ground, a murmur ripples through the stands.

“I can not accept feathers from one who knows not the path he walks.”

Nejirezjoku’s face looks as though he’s recovering from a punch. To publicly disrespect a chief is unheard of. Were he to say such to a matriarch, exile or death would be assured. But a chief must fight his own battles. He musters himself and with barely a quiver intones, “I am sure you misspoke. Prostrate yourself before you and beg forgiveness.”

“It is you who must beg forgiveness—forgiveness from both the Great Mothers of KobuThonu, from the Spirits large and small who watch over Narhetsikobon, from all those who walk the path behind us, those who set it. It is you who must beg forgiveness from Tsukōdju herself.”

Redjilejinjārhä can not help herself but gasp. To invoke Tsukōdju so is to invoke a person’s death. Nejirezjoku’s face is turning purple, but he sputters out, “Raise a spear to defend your words.”

Tōjukonu calmly replies, “to dust, blood, or breath?”

“To breath.” So it’ll end with one of them dead.

“It is pointless to keep Tsukōdju waiting: the ring is ready.”

Nejirezjoku steels himself, “Very well.”

And so those assembled bear witness to a second event of bloodsport.

Tōjukonu and Nejirezjoku circle each other slowly, spears in hand.

The older man is taller, with a longer reach, but Tōjukonu is quick.

When Nejirezjoku thrusts, the younger man quickly moves, stabbing forward, forcing the Inner Chief back.

The first blood is drawn simultaneously. Nejirezjoku goes high, nicking Tōjukonu’s shoulder while Tōjukonu’s spear pierces the ankle of Nejirezjoku.

A scream of pain as Nejirezjoku falls to the ground, his left foot non functional.

Last blood follows swiftly: the younger man’s spear darts from low to high, clean through the throat of Nezjirezjoku. A scream turns to a gurgle, and the body slumps in the sand, the feathers sullied with blood and dust.

Tōjukonu raises his head, still panting.

“Narhetsikobon shall not be led by fools who do not know the path.”

He turns, and walks to receive his final feathers.