"For every brow you anoint with the Storyteller's oil, you will gain immunity to one of the thirteen deaths. Choose well, Emperor—for to the world, you will be as a god, but to your council, you will yet be a mortal man."
Eleven danced around the throne,
Eleven moons in glory shone,
They shone around the sun.
But traitors rise and empires fall,
And Sun-Ray-Sun will rule them all,
When all is said-o, all is said
And done-heh, done-heh, done...
Oluwan and Swana bring his drum; nse, nse
Dhyrma and Nyamba bring his plow; gpopo, gpopo
Mewe and Sparti see our older brother dance—
Black and gold, isn’t he perfect!
Quetzala sharpens his spear; nse, nse
Blessid Valley weaves his wrapper; gpopo, gpopo
Nontes and Biraslov see our older brother dance!
Black and gold, isn’t he perfect?
Djbanti braids his hair; nse, nse
Moreyao brings his gourd; gpopo, gpopo
Eleven moons watch our older brother dance:
Black and gold, isn’t he perfect?
......
Perfume thickened the air, and children tossed petals from the battlements, a flurry of gold, red, and white. Griots beat shakers and drums, and to the rhythm, the townspeople of Ebujo sang a new version of Aritsar’s well-known folk rhyme:
Tarisai brings his drum; nse
Sanjeet and Umansa bring his plow; gpopo
Kameron and Theo watch our older brother dance—
Black and gold: Ekundayo!
Mayazatyl sharpens his spear; nse
Kirah weaves his wrapper; gpopo
Thérèse and Emeronya watch our older brother dance—
Black and gold: Ekundayo!
Zathulu braids his hair; nse
Ai Ling brings his gourd; gpopo
Eleven moons watch the sun dance:
Black and gold: Ekundayo!
So I recently saw Dominic Noble rec Raybearer --- and thought upon my first perusal... there is a fortress on a cliff with a village at its feet, there are counterpart cultures, there is a world as diverse as Westeros, there are hallows which are inborn powers much like Quirks in Boku no Hero (or, more recently, gifts in Encanto!), there is courtly intrigue... this is a setting comparable to Westeros or Hogwarts and definitely right up my alley!!
So maybe a Les Mis AU set in Yorua Keep and Village by StrixAlluka is coming soon? Of course the whole cast has NOT to be Nontish (counterpart French) because the laws of the court and the premise of this world compel it to be ethnically diverse. One character from each region - though some might be immigrants who moved from one region to another, or of interethnic backgrounds (so-called isoken)...
Long ago in a faerytale world, on a hollow planet with a sun and eleven moons, there were twelve islands scattered across a super-ocean, each with its own ethnic group/phenotypes, climate, culture, lore... (also, all of them were counterpart cultures) - Unfortunately all of these islands were prey to demons and other creatures of the hostile underworld, that also houses the afterlife, at this planet's Core.
Until the day a founding father used magic to fuse all islands together into a super-continent, becoming its saviour and ruler and spearheading the good fight against the powers of darkness, ultimately unifying all regions in the land through either warfare or diplomacy - except the Songland Peninsula, that became independent. This was Enoba the Perfect of the Kunleo dynasty, the first raybearer or oba (the royal imperial titles) of Aritsar, the diverse Arit Empire.
Decades and even centuries have passed by and ostensibly nothing has changed, from the snowy arctic peaks of Biraslov (from which the southerners import large blocks of ice) to the booby-trapped rainforests of Quetzala and the coasts of Sparti teeming with fishermen and poets - through the cold, gray realm of Nontes with its lacemakers and rose gardens and apple orchards - or gold-domed royal palaces and sprawling mansions in the district of Ileyoba located in Oluwan, the multicultural capital. Towns with markets, lakes in the woods, frozen tundra... people with milky white skin and Celtic- or Slavic-sounding names and eyes of icy blue or emerald green, or almond eyes and raven hair, or russet skin and the scent of cardamom and eyes the colour of long-stooped tea... There are also isokens, isoken people being those from interracial and interregional parentage; the crown rewards inter-realm families for each isoken child born of their union. Aritsar mirrors our world except that it's magical. Generally, human people are born with special gifts or quirks called hallows (think of them as the quirks in Boku no Hero or the gifts in Encanto), though some are born unhallowed. Healing while singing, super strength, elemental control, seeing the physical or emotional weakness of others, the ability to fly or to induce moods in others... the sky is not the limit for what capability the stars have shone down upon you.
When every oloye, ie crown prince, of Aritsar (born unto the patrilineal Kunleo dynasty) turns 11 - eleven other eleven-year-olds, all of them hallowed like him and of diverse social ranks, join him in the Children's Palace of Ileyoba. Let's say a Nontish demoiselle, a Mewish lad in a tartan kilt, a storyteller girl from Blessid Valley, a young Quetzalan, the list goes on. Not only one child from each region, regardless of gender (and, as they mature, of sexual orientation), but also one child per form of premature death; poisoning, contagion, organ failure, mauling by wild animals, by hexes, suffocation, bleeding, battery, gluttony, burning, drowning. These Eleven, once he has used his power upon them and anointed them with a special heavenly oil, if ruler and ruled are at least close friends with one another, will be his trusted courtiers when he comes of age and inherits the throne to become oba or raybearer.
The final resting place for deceased souls in the Aritsar afterlife is the aptly-named Core, a paradise at the very center of the Earth, even deeper than the underworld.
A cluster of men and women sprawled on divans and high-backed chairs, murmuring softly. Matching gold circlets gleamed on their brows. Their accents were as different as their complexions, but they gave the impression of a family, or something closer.
Only a Raybearer’s Council of Eleven may kill him. Such is the divine protection of heaven. It allows them to join eleven minds to their own. And none shall thwart it.
And thus the Children's Palace is a replicate, meant for the underage, of that of the reigning raybearer his father (who has adult Eleven, childhood friends of his own) - mock throne room and all.
The Children’s Palace is secure, isolated from the outside world.
We crossed the room to a gilded set of doors behind Olugbade’s Eleven. My hand in hers, we entered a place that made me dizzy from gazing.
“Welcome to the Children’s Palace,” said Mbali. “The happiest place in Ileyoba.”
Sunlight streamed into a high-domed chamber of blue and gold. Rays glinted off a mountain of toys and a menagerie of rideable wooden animals from every Arit realm. Children on zebras and tigers scooted past me, jeering and screaming in chase. Servants in brocade wrappers bustled about, holding fruit trays and water pitchers.
We left Kirah and passed through the brightly painted halls of the Children’s Palace. It was a miniature version of An-Ileyoba’s central wing, Mbali told me, and in one room, the floor was a giant marble checkerboard, where giggling children stood in place of the pieces. In another, dining tables brimmed with oranges, fried plantains, sticky fig cakes, and mountains of treats I couldn’t name. The wing even had a mock throne room—a chamber with mirrored ceilings and twelve child-size thrones. At last, I lingered in a large, airy room with a dais in the center. Murals of long-dead councils glittered overhead, depicted as flower-crowned children, smiling beatifically as they danced in a circle.
“This is the Hall of Dreams,” said Mbali. “You will conduct much of your training here during the day, and sleep here at night.” Rolled sleeping mats lay stacked in neat piles against the walls. Tied‑up mosquito nets hung in gauzy festoons from the ceiling, and embroidered constellations shimmered in silver and blue across the netting. When the nets were let down, they would look like the heavens, tumbling to the bodies of children below.
“At night, a screen separates the boys from the girls. The prince (Ekundayo or Dayo for short) sleeps there, in the middle.” She pointed to the raised platform. “Someday, his council will sleep close beside him.”
Lofty unglazed windows sank into arches along one wall, shielded by white damask curtains, which glowed with sunlight and shuddered in the breeze.
...
To Kirah from Blessid Valley, I gave dreams of her mama and baba, who kissed her cheeks and stroked her hair, and said they weren’t angry about her leaving them. For Kameron, Dayo’s rugged council brother from Mewe, I fabricated a pack of hunting dogs, nipping cheerfully at his ankles as he tracked a boar in the forest. Dreams of blooming roses were for Thérèse from Nontes. Adoring crowds were for Ai Ling from Moreyao, and handsome swains for Theo from Sparti. To Umansa, a blind weaver boy from Nyamba, I gave new patterns for his tapestries, swirling them around him in a brilliant prism. Finally, to hard-faced Emeronya from Biraslov, I gave flurries of sweet-tasting snow and a wizened woman who wrapped her in wool, humming a dissonant lullaby. (Then there's Dhyrmish Sanjeet and Tari from Swana.)
No place made me feel more distant from Dayo than the Children’s Palace throne room. I stood, invisible among the other candidates in the chamber of mirrored ceiling tiles and wax-dyed tapestry. A platform of twelve wooden thrones rose before the candidates. As Dayo, Kirah, and the other Anointed Ones took their elevated seats, I scanned the room for Sanjeet, but the towering pillar of his head and shoulders did not appear.
“By the power of Ray within me,” Dayo began, tapping a plain wooden scepter on the ground, “I declare this court in session. Approach the throne.” He smiled over the crowd, pulling uncertainly at the rings on his fingers. The Children’s Palace acted as a microcosm of An-Ileyoba’s true court, preparing Dayo to make decisions as emperor.
After a murmuring pause, a Djbanti candidate named Zyong’o stepped forward. “I have a complaint, Your Imperial Highness.” Dayo nodded, and Zyong’o bowed, then crossed his arms. “When Djbanti are paired with candidates from Dhyrma, we always lose the timed logic puzzles. They slow us down. I think”—he continued over enraged objections from the Dhyrmish candidates—“I think every member on a team should be from the same realm. Why mix figs with mangoes? Why should we Djbanti, hunters and scholars, be dragged down by empty-headed merchants?”
Dayo winced at the now-unruly crowd. Djbanti and Dhyrmish candidates stood at opposite sides of the throne room, yelling and cursing each other, while Swanian candidates jeered at them both. “Silence?” Dayo said. “Order?” He sounded like a nervous farm boy, tossing seed to quell chickens. Surprisingly, the crowd quieted, though venomous looks still volleyed across the room.
“I am grieved by your complaint, Zyong’o,” Dayo said, choosing each word with care. “I am sure it’s hard to feel that your strengths are compromised. But I doubt your problems are the other candidates’ fault. I’m sure Dhyrmish people are just as smart as anyone.”
I shook my head in admiration of Dayo’s patience. I would have snapped at Zyong’o to either work with his Dhyrmish teammates, or take his haughty rear end all the way back to Djbanti.
Imperial testmakers, the passive men and women who administered most of the candidate trials, stood in crimson robes along the wall. Brightening with an idea, Dayo gestured for a testmaker to approach.
“Lady Adesanya,” he addressed her, “you help keep track of test results, don’t you? Please share how Dhyrmish candidates perform compared to others.”
The testmaker nodded, producing a thick tome from beneath her arm and opening it to the middle. “According to my records,” she droned, “on average, candidates from Dhyrma consistently underperform behind their peers in logic, weapons, and science. They show equal capabilities, however, in god-studies (mythology/theology), griotcraft (history/storytelling/oral literature), and statecraft.”
People from Dhyrma were not stupid. Zyong’o was wrong. But Lady Adesanya had no reason to lie.
Pound, pound.
The Dhyrmish candidates failed at logic, but excelled in statecraft. That made no sense. Something was off: a rent in the pattern.
“The Council of Eleven reflects all realms and social classes. When the Eleven fall, so does the Arit empire. We aren’t just being tested on our skills. We’re supposed to learn how to work together.”
It was the sleeping mats. It had to be.
Candidates from Swana and Djbanti were likely to have names later in the Arit alphabet, while Dhyrmish names occurred earlier. The sleeping mats were arranged by name. Candidates with names that came earlier slept farthest from the doors in the Hall of Dreams, making them last to reach the banquet hall. Running on virtually no food, those candidates would be exhausted for every trial administered before lunch: logic, weapons, and science. God-studies, griotcraft, and statecraft occurred after lunch and supper—so in those trials, they performed well. The solution was so simple, it almost felt silly. Dayo always invited me to eat with his Anointed Ones, and so I had never been affected.
**************************
When the Council of Eleven is complete, the royal's own hallow, inherited from his father and grandfather and so all the way up to Enoba the Perfect... no harm can befall the royal except death from old age and betrayal from at least one of his Eleven; also all twelve people are linked together by empathy and telepathy.
This Council is a group of eleven people, each with a different Hallow, who are connected to the Prince and to each other via the Ray – a magical bond closer than blood. If they are too far from each other, they feel pain; they can telepathically communicate, they can share their feelings, and each Council member also provides a unique magical protection for the Prince. The Ray is said to be a gift from Warlord Fire himself, the god of war and the Sun. Once the Council is fully anointed, the Prince cannot be killed by anyone except a member of that council. The Council and their king always have each other, as True Companions. It is this psychic-heightened unity, more than gold or prestige, that attracts many people to the role.
Also: The final resting place for deceased souls in the Aritsar afterlife is the aptly-named Core, a paradise at the very center of the Earth, even deeper than the underworld.
There are so many great ideas in that premise alone that it would have been enough for a great story, but it doesn’t stop there. The world of Aritsar has even more to offer, both in terms of politics, lore, songs, and history, that there is always something new to discover.The differently-coloured rays in the crown of the raybearer each represent a region and a way to die that has been averted by making friends with a person of said region. The link formed thus through the royal family hallow also binds all of the Eleven and the Raybearer together for life, bonded for life; otherwise, if any one of them is alone, that person gets the council sickness: "When you’re anointed, the Ray binds your body to the council. So if you ever get separated—or abandon the council—you get sick. Sweating, fever. Eventually you go mad. That’s why no council has ever committed treason. And that’s why the Eleven are always together, touching and kissing like that. If they stay apart for long, they get the sickness.”
“Don’t talk like that,” I said, eyeing the mask warily. Nine stripes colored the obsidian mane of the lion-mask-crown, jewel tones glittering in the moonlight. For each person Dayo anointed, a new colour would appear, representing the immunity that Dayo had gained, in addition to the one with which he was born. Raybearer princes wore the mask around their necks, hiding it always beneath their clothes. They showed it to no one, lest an assassin discover the kinds of death to which they were not yet immune. Only when a Raybearer’s council was complete did he wear the mask openly, displaying his deathless power to all the world.
Three colours were missing from Dayo’s mask—one for a Djbanti candidate, one for Sanjeet, and one for me.
“Orange, purple, and red,” Dayo murmured. “Gluttony, contagion, burning.”
“Shh!” I hissed, slapping his knee. “You want all of Oluwan hearing how to kill you?”
Dayo didn’t answer; instead he stared longer at the mask before replacing it on a gold chain that hung around his neck and slipped it beneath his tunic to rest beside his vial of anointing oil.
Hear the duties of the future emperor’s sacred council: The Eleven must wield their titles of power fairly and without bias. The Eleven must serve the emperor first, then the empire, and then their realms of origin. Outside the council, they must form no attachments. Inside the council, no attachment may outweigh their loyalty to the future emperor. Carnal relations are prohibited, except with the future emperor.
Hear the duties of the future emperor- His Highness is not permitted to marry. Instead, His Highness must anoint and protect a trusted council, through which he shall serve the empire. His Highness must select his council sisters with special care, for they will birth all future Raybearers.
The council positions are High Priest/ess (in charge of liturgy/organised religion), High Lord/Lady General (frontline commander), High Lord/Lady Judge, High Lord/Lady of Castles, High Lord/Lady Ambassador (in charge of interrealm trade), High Lord/Lady Treasurer, High Lord/Lady Archdean (strategist), High Lord/Lady of Harvests, High Lord/Lady of Husbandry (as in animal husbandry), High Lord/Lady Magus (medium who contacts gods and spirits and regulates the practise of sorcery), and High Lord/Lady Laureate (in charge of the creative arts).
“My father’s council has long deliberated over the imperial positions my council will inherit. Today, it is my sincerest pleasure to read their decisions.” Silently, he sent each of us a pulse of affection through the Ray.
Ready? Kirah Ray-spoke, and eleven voices echoed in my head. You’re kidding, right? … Don’t care which one I get … Can’t wait … As long as we finally get to move out of that cramped Children’s Palace …
Dayo cleared his throat and unfurled the scroll. A grin split his face, and so I knew the first name on the list was no surprise. “As her heir apparent to the title of High Priestess,” Dayo said, “Anointed Honor Mbali of Swana has selected Kirah of Blessid Valley.”
The temple rang with cheers, and Kirah stood, hazel eyes shining. “I accept my title as High Priestess Apparent,” she croaked, and glowed as the imperial secretary came forward to place a gold circlet on her brow.
The next declaration was also no surprise. “As heir apparent to the title of High Lord General,” Dayo said, “Anointed Honor Wagundu of Djbanti has selected Sanjeet of Dhyrma.”
Sanjeet stood, accepting his title and circlet without expression.
Tari of Swana becomes High Lady Judge, and then:
The rest of the ceremony passed in a blur. A smug Mayazatyl of Quetzala was appointed future High Lady of Castles, head of defense and civil engineering. Ai Ling of Moreyao, Hallowed with formidable powers of persuasion, was appointed future High Lady Ambassador, in charge of interrealm trade. Umansa of Nyamba, who could read vague fortunes in the stars, would be High Lord Treasurer, and Zathulu of Djbanti, with his bookish head for facts, would be a competent High Lord Archdean. Thérèse of Nontes, our Hallowed green thumb, was destined to be High Lady of Harvests; and Kameron of Mewe, who had routinely snuck dubious animal rescues into the Children’s Palace, happily accepted his future as High Lord of Husbandry. Mysterious Emeronya of Biraslov would regulate sorcery as High Lady Magus, and as future High Lord Laureate, bleeding-heart poet Theo of Sparti would curate the art and music of all twelve realms.
When all of us were crowned, I allowed myself to relax. Our exhausting journey of diplomacy was almost over. Dayo would conduct the Peace Ritual with the continent ambassadors. Then our council would whisk away via lodestone to Yorua Keep, with nothing to do but study scrolls, play house, and throw sumptuous parties for decades to come.
Priests swept the four corners of the temple, ritually cleansing the chamber. Dayo, the eleven Arit ambassadors, and a royal emissary from Songland came to stand at the altar. A child choir of acolytes sprinkled myrrh around the marble platform and harmonized in rounds:
Sharp and cold the world received you
Warm with blood it sends you home
Back to earth, to holy black
Dark to dark:
Beginning and beginning.
On the altar rested a gourd flask and an ancient oval shield, which had once belonged to Enoba the Perfect. In one year, the thirteen continent rulers would travel to the capital and spill their blood into the shield’s basin, renewing humankind’s vow with the Underworld to uphold the Redemptor Treaty. In today’s ceremony, the Peace Ritual, Dayo, the ambassadors, and the emissary would spill water instead of blood, a good-faith promise that their realms would participate in the official renewal.
“To beginnings,” cheered the ambassadors as one by one they spilled water into the shield, sealing their commitment. First to approach were the ambassadors from the center realms—Djbanti, Nyamba, and Swana—then those from the north—Mewe, Nontes, and Biraslov. Ambassadors from the south, Blessid Valley, Quetzala, and Sparti, and from the east, Moreyao and Dhyrma, were next in line. Then came the emissary from Songland.
He was a bent old man in a sweeping, high-waisted robe who grimaced as he poured into the shield. “To beginnings,” he wheezed. “Songland shall participate in the Treaty Renewal. May it bring peace to our world. And may the parents of the lost children be comforted.”
The onlookers squirmed uncomfortably. The last words had not been scripted into the ritual, though no one dared chastise the emissary.
The Imperial Guard warriors broke ranks. Instead of manning the cannons that might have saved us all, the panicked men and women scrambled to protect their own kinspeople. Warriors from Nyamba ignored shrieking wounded Spartians to help Nyamban courtiers. Moreyaoese warriors stepped over a bleeding child from Djabanti, ignoring him to help a woman dressed in Moreyao silks. Oluwani commoners, who had found cramped shelter behind upended chairs and tables, hissed away people from Nontes and Dhyrma seeking refuge. As the cannon fire stopped, the beasts wheeled overhead, and then dove.
***************************
Mayazatyl had recently designed the weapons outfitting the temple walls. The sleek cannons were powered by fire, but armed with balls of ice—frozen holy water, stored in chambers deep beneath the temple grounds. The Imperial Guard warriors, burly recruits from all over the empire, formed a chain, passing up ammunition to the warriors manning the cannons. With a crack, the first round ignited, and orbs of splintering ice collided with the flying beasts and hurled six to the ground.
Mayazatyl cheered and warriors roared in response, loading the second round. Then the ammunition line broke as clouds of flies dove for the warriors on the ground. My council tried to escort Dayo to safety, but crowds of screaming courtiers stampeded for the exits, creating a lethal jam. A Djbanti woman cried out in her native language as she was trampled on the ground, causing a Djbanti cannon warrior to turn and look. The cannon misfired, and the ball of ice sailed into a crowd of Nontish emissaries. One fell and did not get up.
“Fool,” screeched a Nontish cannon warrior, seizing the Djbanti warrior by the lapels. “You killed the ambassador!”
“I didn’t mean to,” hyperventilated the other. “I’m sorry, I—”
“Typical of you Djbanti! Lazy head in the clouds, never at your post—”
“Leave my people out of it,” another Djbanti warrior snarled, punching the Nontish man in the jaw.
“No,” Mayazatyl rasped. “No, no. This is not the time …”
“Man your stations,” Sanjeet boomed up at the fisticuffing warriors as they teetered precariously on the wall. “We’re in the middle of a battle! People are dying, you idiots; I said man your—”
***********************************
Then the prince and his Eleven, once all of them are anointed, are sent away from court to Yorua Keep; they will only return to the capital in the rare event that the crowned father dies and needs a successor... and form a chaotic, disorganised teenage family in the meantime.
When there’s twelve of us, they send us from the Children's Palace to Yorua Keep, a castle by the ocean. It's a coastal, highly-guarded fortress that houses the Crown Prince's Council. We’ll live there all by ourselves, and train to rule Aritsar, and go on adventures.
In Aritsar, it was bad luck to refer to the death of an emperor. Instead, we said that a deceased emperor had “gone to the village, and would not be returning soon.” Most emperors did not go to the village sooner than eighty years of age, which meant that Dayo could be well into his forties before our council rose to the throne. Until then, we would live at Yorua Keep, the sleepy fortress in coastal Oluwan where all crown princes lived after completing their council. Once the goodwill tour ended, we would move straight there.
...."I’m not supposed to show favoritism to any of Father’s council members. I call them all ‘uncle’ or ‘auntie’—even my mother. It’s best for diplomacy. There are lots of rules here at the Children's Palace, but don’t worry. If you pass the test, we’ll make our own rules. Far away, at Yorua.”
Then our council would whisk away via lodestone to Yorua Keep, with nothing to do but study scrolls, play house, and throw sumptuous parties for decades to come.
......
The freedom of Yorua Keep paralyzed me at first. The old fortress, located on a perennially sunny cliff at the coastal tip of Oluwan, had no trials or testmakers. No drums to make us dance from prayers to meals to lessons. No painted facades, hiding eyes that watched our every failing. Strangely, I missed those eyes. In the weeks after the disaster at Ebujo, freedom had lost its romance for my council.
We crept through the airy, salt-scented halls of Yorua Keep in a whispering huddle, ghosts of our own castle. Shyly, we asked for schedules from our new servants: peasants from the village below our cliff, along with a chef and steward from the palace.
“When should we report to dinner?” Dayo asked the head steward.
The man blinked in confusion. “Your council … reports … to no one, Your Imperial Highness. Meals are at the times you schedule them to be.”
And so week by week, the ghosts of Ebujo began to fade, making way for the numbing addiction of running our own household. Our council reserved mornings for prayer and meditation, and then trained on the beach, conducting drills on sand shaded by palm trees. We bathed in the sea and returned to lunches of roasted fish and palm wine. Then we scattered to our favorite crannies of the keep—always in pairs, to stave off council sickness. We studied for hours, anxious to practice the imperial roles we would someday fill.
Ai Ling and Umansa usually took to the fortress turrets. She yelled diplomacy speeches at the clouds while he wove tapestries on his loom, charting prophetic constellations that only his sightless eyes could see. In the courtyard far below, Kameron kept a caterwauling menagerie, treating beasts for rare diseases as Mayazatyl drew diagrams for weapons and defense towers in the dirt beside him. Thérèse tended her sprawling orchard while Theo plucked chords on his zither, coaxing her plants to grow with griot stories and love poems. Emeronya and Zathulu sealed themselves in one of the keep’s dusty studies, murmuring over scrying glasses and essays by budding Imperial Academy scholars.
I spent most of my days on a shady balcony with Kirah, fretting over my court cases, while she scowled at her theology scrolls. To my disappointment, Sanjeet was often called away, and Dayo joined him, leaving the keep to lead the Imperial Guard on its peace campaigns. When Dayo was home, he had the formidable task of learning all our disciplines. He shadowed us for hours, taking voracious notes during the day and informing his father of his progress with long, formal letters at night. I began to wonder if he ever truly slept. Then again, none of us slept well after Ebujo.
Our favorite distraction came once a month, when peddlers were permitted in the heavily guarded keep courtyard. A glut of luxuries—embroidered wrappers, jewel-studded bangles, roasted kola nuts, and pots of flavored cream—were spread before us in a maze of stalls and blankets. The miniature market was for council members only, and musicians and tumblers entertained us as we shopped and made sizable dents in our generous imperial allowance.
The fortress had twenty pristine bedchambers, and we used every single one for storage. Sleeping separately, after all, meant eight hours apart, and the resulting nausea of council sickness was too steep a price. Instead we slept on the floor of the keep banquet hall, rolling out pallets as we had in the Children’s Palace and snoring together in a sweaty pile.
The banquet hall floor was a mosaic of the Kunleo sun and moons. Prince Dayo lay in the golden center, with the rest of us scattered among the eleven pale orbs. Sheer curtains hung from floor-length, unglazed windows, screening us from the warm night air. As moonlight glowed across the tiles, we could hear the Imperial Guard warriors changing watch and the crash of the Obasi Ocean, churning on rocks hundreds of feet below.
I was fast asleep on my pallet. Thaddace routinely sent me cases from the capital, and today’s collection had been particularly exhausting: everything from village disputes over cattle to housemaids reporting their masters for rape. I frowned into my pallet, burying deeper into the down pillows as a hand jostled my shoulder.
Braiding parties were sacred: No studying was allowed. Once a month, the strict security of Yorua Keep lifted for beauty artisans to visit from the palace. Their deft fingers would comb away our weeks’ worth of tangles, styling our hair in the Oluwan court fashion: hundreds of braids, interwoven with soft wool yarn and burned at the ends so the plaits wouldn’t unravel. The style took hours to complete and lasted for weeks.
Their expressions remained placid, and hardened yellow wax glistened on their earlobes. Any commoner who waited on the Prince’s Eleven was required to seal their ears so our affairs would remain private.
As Crown Prince, Dayo had the authority to dictate our schedules at the keep, though it was unlike him to wield it.
Two of the Emperor’s Eleven visited Yorua Keep every month, overseeing the studies of the heirs who would replace them.
My sleeping chamber in Yorua Keep scarcely deserved the name. It was used only to store my possessions: my spear, piles of handmade gifts from commoners, and a daunting collection of tunics and wrappers.
Water still beaded on my skin from the keep bathhouse, where my council had freshened up for Nu’ina Eve. In a marble chamber partitioned by gender, we had scrubbed with cocoa ash soap and swum in orchid-scented pools, careful to keep our yarn braids dry. Over a wall, I had heard my council brothers splashing and roughhousing. My ear had tuned to a voice deeper than the others: a laugh that rumbled like thunder across the echoing marble tiles.
I ran agitated fingers over gowns and wrappers. I told myself I wanted to impress villagers at the festival. A future High Lady Judge should be seen at her finest.
“The wine at the festival is filled with tokens,” I told Emeronya, knowing what it was like to feel left out. “The tokens are shells, bits of bone, things like that. Some are bad, some are good. If you find a good token, you can trade it. A cowrie shell is worth … a favor.”
“Theo wouldn’t kiss you,” Ai Ling informed her. “Last time I checked, he was still writing sappy love poems to farm boys in Yorua Village. Besides, council members can’t trade our cowrie shells. We’re not allowed to fall in love.”
I rubbed my skin with shea until it glowed. Rainbow beads stacked in towers on my arms and neck, in the Swana style. Most Arit fashion mixed elements from all over the empire, but Anointed Ones were encouraged to represent their home realms through their clothing.
The Nu’ina Eve festivities would be conducted by priests of all four Arit religious sects—including priests of the Ember. I shuddered, steeling myself in advance for copious displays of fire. Unable to extinguish the thought of flames from my mind, I held up a wrapper of red and cardamom yellow. I had designed the pattern myself; the Yorua village women had taught me how to make my own wax-dyed cloth. In the keep courtyard, my council sisters and I spent hours using beeswax to draw patterns on yards of fabric. Once we finished, we plunged the cloth into vats of dye, and then into boiling water. The wax would melt away, leaving our intricate designs behind.
My council had arrived at Yorua Village in a parade of palanquins, guards, and liveried servants. The villagers had welcomed us with drums and palm leaves, flinging the branches across our path as they sang that ancient folk rhyme:
Eleven danced around the throne,
Eleven moons in glory shone,
They shone around the sun.
In return, we had brought food enough to feed the village for a week. We held the festival in an oceanside valley, beneath the glittering black quilt of the Oluwan night sky. The air smelled of cayenne and thrummed with talking drums. Spilled goat’s milk and honeywine ran ruts in the red earth. Rice and pepper stew rose in savory mountains on each table, and children’s faces glowed with grease and cream. My council watched the revelry from cushions on a narrow dais, piled high with the villagers’ gifts of herbs and good-luck carvings. Thaddace and Mbali had their own dais, and after Mbali blessed the Nu’ina festival, acolytes from the temples of Clay, Well, Ember, and Wing began their holy dances.
All four religious sects in Aritsar worshipped the Storyteller, and believed in the basic catechism of creation. But People of the Clay revered Queen Earth above all else. Many lived in rural realms like Swana, Mewe, and Moreyao, and they refused to eat meat and opposed the clearing of jungles and development of settlements. In contrast, People of the Well criticized Earth for her fabled infidelity to Water. Many of these believers lived in coastal realms, like Sparti, Nontes, and Djbanti, seafaring people who discovered islands and continents beyond Aritsar. But the most devoted inhabited the rainforests of Quetzala, praying at lakes and underground rivers. People of the Ember—the most popular religious sect in both Oluwan and Dhyrma—credited Warlord Fire with Earth’s wealth, and showed their gratitude by mining jewels and precious metals, and forging tools and weaponry. Finally, fastidious realms like Biraslov and Blessid Valley appealed to People of the Wing, who worshipped only the Storyteller. They covered their heads, spurned other gods as distractions, and embraced a life of simplicity, piety, and sacrifice.
In the center of the festival, a vast pit gleamed with ominous red light. From within, firebrands and white coals made heat ripples in the crisp night air. Villages dug the pit to represent the Storyteller’s journey to the Underworld. If a reveler found an unlucky token in their honeywine, they were considered cursed until the next Nu’ina festival … unless a champion crossed the pit on their behalf. A single wooden slab lay across the pit’s mouth, making a laughably narrow bridge. It was only for show. Most festivalgoers would sooner brave a year of bad luck than have a friend cross that deadly oven.
******************************
"What’s Enitawa’s Quiver?”
Mayazatyl batted her lashes innocently. “Why, it’s only a tree. With smooth waxy branches that grow straight up, like arms twisting around each other. Warriors used to make their quivers from the wood, because it’s flexible and it sings.” She took another long sip from her chalice, relishing our anticipation. “When the wind blows, the branches hum like flutes. Loud enough to cover up any noises that a pair might make in Enitawa’s shadow.” My sisters giggled nervously. “The tree grows beneath a cliff north of Yorua, barely a mile away. Rocks block the spot from view. Council members have been meeting there for centuries.”
I tried to return to my council’s dais, where my siblings were busy accepting gifts and blessing the village children.
We passed through an arbor of hanging wisteria into the keep garden, lit on either side with more bright torches. The garden gate opened to a sandy incline, tumbling down to the Obasi Ocean.
Night had aged into the indigo hours before dawn. Our feet crunched on white gravel as we passed beneath the wisteria again. Sanjeet was too tall for the arbor; violet petals tumbled down his bare russet shoulders. Somewhere in the dark, an owl cooed. I let my fingers pass over the wisteria vines, and my ears rang with lisps and giggles: the whispered conversations of council siblings long ago. Generations of Anointed Ones had frolicked where I stood, unaware of the eavesdropping branches overhead.
Nestled between orange trees, a wooden shed stood in the shadows, and Thérèse’s herb garden sprawled around it. When healers were unavailable from Yorua Village, Sanjeet, Kirah, and I practiced medicine here, using our Hallows to treat our guards and servants. Sanjeet would scan a patient’s body for ailments, and if the problem was physical, Kirah would attempt poultices or a healing chant. But if the problem was mental, I extracted memories and reshaped them, setting old demons to rest.
The medicine shed was long and narrow, lined with shelves of bottles and bundled herbs.
“You’re good at this.” I turned my wrist, admiring his handiwork. “Do you ever wish you could be a healer full-time? Instead of training to be High Lord General?”
Sanjeet gripped the edge of the damp stone bench. “Dayo will inherit the Imperial Guard and the entire Army of Twelve Realms. He will need help commanding a force that large.” In the hollow of his chest, sweat glistened from when he had wrestled the shovel from Dayo. “I will be what he needs me to be.”
Several minutes outside Yorua, a mile from the village, to where the Obasi Ocean lapped at the mouth of the valley.
When I arrived, the tide was low, revealing a patchwork of pools that winked with shells and sand dollars. The waves crashed like soft cymbals. Blue sprites hummed in the balmy night, winking.
“Why do we give village elders so much power, anyway? What right do they have to say who you are—who anyone is? It’s a dumb tradition.”
High Judge Apparents were granted a coming-of-age ceremony called the First Ruling: a way to foster the empire’s confidence in the young new judge. In the palace Imperial Hall, the High Judge Apparent would hear a controversial case, weigh the evidence, and bestow an official ruling. By imperial law, a High Judge Apparent’s First Ruling was irreversible—even by the emperor. Thaddace had written to Yorua Keep, asking that I review court cases backing up the pipeline and pick one to consider for my ruling.
Aritsar will — all in the name of further uniting the twelve realms of Aritsar — succeed in his plan to destroy the cultural practices and products of the realms and foist values and manners considered to be representative of the empire on them. What is more, with the manipulation perpetrated centuries back by Enoba the Perfect, Songland will continue to pay the prize for peace by sacrificing hundreds of its children to the spirits of the Core Underworld as contained in the Redemptor Treaty. This is notwithstanding the fact that Songland does not benefit from the economy of Aritsar. Having refused to be a part of the empire, it has a trade embargo placed on it, but has also been the only realm producing Redemptor children sacrificed to the Underworld.
Songland was a poor peninsula nation on the edge of our continent. Their ancestors had refused to recognize Enoba as their ruler—and as a result, the tiny realm was excluded from Aritsar’s bustling trade. A jagged range of mountains cut Songland off from the mainland. Aritsar might have ignored Songland altogether, if not for the Redemptors. Enoba the Perfect had bought peace for our world at a steep price. Every year, three hundred children were sent into the Oruku Breach: the last known entrance to the Underworld. In exchange for this sacrifice, the abiku spirits refrained from ravaging human villages. These children, known as Redemptors, were born with maps on their skin, meant to guide them through the Underworld and back to the realm of the living. Few survived the journey. As a result, some families hid their Redemptor children at birth. But for every missed sacrifice, the spirits would send a horde of beasts and plagues and natural disasters, and even set realms against each other, to raze the continent.
Redemptors were supposedly born at random, to any race and class. But for some reason, every Redemptor in the last five hundred years had been born in Songland. No one knew why. But guilt-ridden Arits, relieved from the burden of sacrificing their own children, had plenty of theories to help them sleep at night. The Songlanders had offended the Storyteller, they guessed. The Redemptor children were punishment for some historical sin of Songland’s. Or perhaps, Songland was blessed by the Storyteller, and their children were saints, chosen to sacrifice themselves for the greater good. The greater good, of course, was Aritsar.
In addition to power tussle, gender discrimination, oppression of common people, and other themes which the novel touches on...
Raybearer is woven of multiple plotlines, storylines; there isn’t just one goal, one easy win, one clear and simple battle to be fought. It’s about family, and what that means; it’s about misogyny and tradition, the value of history and the dangers of censorship; it’s about cultural identity versus unification. It’s about the different ways to be strong, and to be good. It’s about idealism and how hard the status quo will work to quash it; it’s about whether it’s right or wrong to let the fires of idealism go out. It’s about believing in your own worth, and demanding the world recognise it; it’s about claiming your personal power and your place. It’s about race and identity, magic and friendship; it’s about so many different kinds of love. It’s about the value of human life, whether that human is a loved one or a stranger, one of your own kind or some other.
Anyway, my favourite hallow would of those from the Songland. They can fly and changed forms. How cool is that?
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