I did not realise when the Scribe decided to write Shaman’s Drum and came to the guild to interview me so often, that I would become famous. We in the guild of Black Shaman work in secret and it has come as a mild shock to be stopped in the street and asked if I am truly Riga’s old tutor. I reply that this is no longer my burden as I am Head of the Guild and its representative on the Council of the Wise.
It seems, though, that people have a great thirst for knowledge of Riga’s younger life and the Scribe has asked me if she may come back and note down my reminiscences. Only my respect of her as a fellow-shaman has moved me to agree because the memory of those years is painful to me. Remembering the kicking, spitting ball of fury that was a seven-year-old Riga, the back of her jerkin clutched in my fist as I propelled her along the corridor, I shudder. She was as dangerous as a rattlesnake and about as trainable in those days.
My new secretary, Erich, has urged me to co-operate with the Scribe as my input to the beginning of their story should be told. As these pleas were made from my own pillow and in memory of my beloved Chris, I will do it. His sacrifice alone deserves it. Yes, even a Black Shaman Chief can suffer from sentimentality. Hah!
As my protegé and Blood-daughter would say, with that crooked smile of hers,
“You are going soft, Blood-father.”