A pair of bodyguards stood outside my door—they were everywhere in the mansion these days—and that reassured me. The bodyguards would die to protect me.She stiffly sat on a chair, staring down at her hands clutched on her lap. She looked up, hope blossoming in her face framed by brown, shoulder-length hair. We looked a lot alike, though her nose was a little bigger. She dressed the same as always—conservatively. That was surprising. Had she missed Master's conditioning somehow? Was she one of the Denialist that had fled to the countryside to live in communes free of technology and Master's commands? If the war wasn't going on, Master would not have tolerated those compounds existence for so long."Violet," she said. "I ... It's good to see you." It's good to see me?" I shrieked, surprised at the sudden anger that rose inside me. This was the woman that locked me in the room with all the heat lamps to try and sweat the homosexuality out of me. "That's all you have to say?"She flinched,. The spirits were fickle and cruel. Surely it was only after great sacrifice and labour she could hope to acquire the skills possessed by a shaman. The shaman was a mysterious figure. She’d not been born in the village. She hadn’t even been born to the Mammoth Hunters’ tribe. She came from a distant Southern land. These were lands where not only the language was different, which was to be expected, but where a person’s skin and hair was of a different colour. Because the shaman’s skin was brown, like clay or river mud, she was known as the Dark Shaman. There was no one else in Ivory’s experience who had such dark skin. It was a pigment utterly alien to a tribe of pale-skinned, fair-haired people. The shaman’s hair was as black as the night. Her lips were thick, her nose was small and her dark eyes were spaced wide apart. She seemed so strange that Ivory sometimes wondered whether she was a spirit or an animal rather than a person. But Ivory knew she was a person because she spoke the.
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