SOME MEWISH HISTORY...
“I’m,” he mumbled, “I’m called Fergus. I was born in Faye’s Crossing. Far north, in Mewe.”
“Who do you work for? Who are your people?”
The boy shook his head slowly. “My parents . . . went away. No. They died in battle. At Gaelinagh.”
“Gaelinagh?” I echoed the foreign word, and battle records raced through my memories. “But that’s impossible. The Battle of Gaelinagh was a Mewish civil war, and they haven’t had one of those in centuries. Not since—”
Disbelief stole the words in my throat.
Peace had been established in Mewe five hundred years ago—during the reign of Emperor Enoba. Back when Redemptors were born all over the continent, and not just in Songland.
The Mewish child was sinking before my eyes. The ground was—was swallowing him. My fingers grasped at his clammy pale skin, but my Hallow found nothing—only cold emptiness.
Healers traditionally used kuso-kuso, the blossoms draping
the suite walls, as a dreaming aid. But Thérèse altered the
plant to heighten our senses. The scent extended the power of
our Ray bond, allowing my siblings to move through the suite
in a haze of constant intimacy, even when rooms apart.
But the Imperial Suite of An-Ileyoba boasted twelve
pristine—and separate—bedchambers. They were arranged in
a circle, with a hallway on the outer perimeter and an airy
salon in the center. Past Anointed Ones, it seemed, had
strengthened their Ray bond with age, rendering group
slumber unnecessary. But thanks to Olugbade’s untimely death
. . . our Ray bond was less than five years old. We were the
youngest Anointed Ones to rule in Arit history.
Thérèse had solved the problem with kuso-kuso vines,
heightening our connection and keeping council sickness at
bay. Still, out of habit, we often crowded three or more to a
bed . . . and some of my siblings were enjoying the benefits of
our newfound privacy more than others.
“It’s not what it looks like,”
“The Kunleo
family claimed nearly every massive natural resource on the
continent after establishing the empire. Quarries, river mills,
lumber farms. Why do you think the Imperial Treasury never runs dry? The Kunleos generate so much wealth from raw
resources, they barely even touch their revenue from taxes.”
“Oh.” My head spun. “But don’t all those places have
workers? Villages that depend on them? How are Dayo and I
supposed to keep track of them all?”
“You don’t,” Mayazatyl said cheerily. “Nobles manage the
mills and quarries for you. Taking a cut for their trouble, of
course. The crown only interferes when nobles need
reinforcements.”
“Reinforcements?”
“Muscle.” She grinned. “Like war buffalo.”
When I stumbled up a narrow staircase to the suite’s elevated
garden, night air enveloped me in a citrus-scented balm. Herb
beds, dwarf palms, and potted fruit trees lined the flat
sandstone roof, nestled prettily between the golden palace
domes. My council sister Thérèse of Nontes stood swaying
among the fragrant vines of kuso-kuso. Moonlight bleached
her frizzy yellow hair as her Hallow forced waxy kuso-kuso
leaves to sprout, flower, wilt, and sprout again, over and over
until they achieved her prim standard of perfection.
..... Call-and-response sung at royal events:
Of what use—Tell us!
Of what use is an empty throne?
We have found someone worthy—Have you found someone?
Aheh, Kunleo is worthy to fill it—Yes, Kunleo is worthy to
fill it.
....
AND HERE IS CHAPTER 6, WHERE WE MEET ALL THE REALM RULERS OR VASSAL RULERS OF ARITSAR!!! THIS WILL COME IN HANDY FOR MY AUS...
My banquet table fell into chaos. Some of the rulers stood, upsetting their chalices and clutching their temples as if to claw the vision out. I winced. It had been a risk, invading their minds like that. It was unlikely they would forgive me for it soon—but forcing the memory of Ebujo had been the quickest way to get my point across.
“This could be the fate of the entire continent,” I said over their indignant cries. “I had to make you see. Please sit down. I—”
They clamored over me, some dignitaries threatening to leave the banquet then and there. No. My palms sweated. They couldn’t leave; this was my only chance to save Aritsar. To prevent thousands of child sacrifices. Millions. Desperation sped my heartbeat, and heat rose in my chest. When I spoke again, my voice sounded lower, and the echo-stone brought my altered voice to a bellow.
“Please,”I thundered. “Sit. Down.”
Beneath my necklace of cowrie shells, the obabirin mask seared like a coal. For a moment, I could have sworn the mask glowed.
Then as if in a trance, every Arit ruler lowered to their seat cushions, features startled and mouths slack. When the heat receded from me and my pulse returned to normal, they still sat, stunned as though they had just awoken from a strange, powerful dream.
I was as surprised as they were. Only the dignitaries from Songland continued to stand, seemingly unfazed by whatever had subdued the other monarchs.
“Please,” I said again, dropping the bass from my voice. The Songlander royals scowled . . . but after exchanging a wary glance, voluntarily sat back down with the others.
“Thank you,” I said shakily, feeling as dazed as my guests looked. “I was . . . just trying to convey the danger. If monsters pour from the Oruku Breach, not only will they kill us, they’ll also turn our realms against each other, just like at Ebujo. The empire could splinter overnight, leaving us just as weak as we were five hundred years ago. I think—If we don’t form a council to appease the abiku—all of Aritsar could be at risk.”
Though calm now, the Arit rulers had clearly not recovered from my mental invasion. Some squinted into their chalices, as though they might have been drugged. A few shot pleading glances at Kirah, making the sign of the Pelican (the Arit equivalent of the sign of the cross).
“You have nothing to fear from the empress,” Kirah assured them, using her lofty High Priestess voice. She gestured a blessing over the table. “The empress’s warning was a gift.”
“Of course it was,” Dayo announced. “We have only two years to avoid the fate of Ebujo. And so,” he said, standing and taking my hand in solidarity. “The Empress Redemptor and I would like to extend an invitation: Stay in Oluwan (the capital region). All of you.”
“Not indefinitely,” I added quickly. “But we can’t risk too much lodestone travel. You need only stay until—”
Until you love me and bind your minds to me for life.
“Until you’ve tried to join my council,” I finished lamely. “And the fate of the empire is secured. We would house you all in the utmost comfort, compliments of the crown. High Lord General Sanjeet has seen personally to each villa’s safety.” I steeled my shoulders. “We open the floor for questions.”
Cacophony from wall to wall. The rulers and their retinues roared over one another, shaking their heads and gesturing in protests that upset platters and toppled chalices.
Calmly, Ai Ling joined me on the echo-stone and said, “It would be better, perhaps, if questions were posed one at a time.”
The Hallowed suggestion fell on the room like a thick mudcloth blanket. A few stubborn-minded people still muttered at their seats, but most hushed at Ai Ling’s request, looking vaguely ashamed of themselves.
First to speak was King Helius of Sparti, a graying man with sea-whipped skin. Curling chest hair bristled around a gold-edged chiton. “With all due respect, Your Imperial Majesties,” he sputtered, “whether or not we are willing to try to love the empress is immaterial. Suppose you succeed. What then? We live in Oluwan forever, stuck to her side, neglecting our own countries? Sacred Oceans—my absence in this past month alone has stalled the launch of several ships! Sparti’s trade will grind to a halt, and our fisheries won’t be far behind.”
The other rulers grunted in agreement, and the rumble threatened to return.
“We have a plan for that,” Ai Ling piped up, digging in her pocket and placing a sachet of dried leaves on the table. The smell hit me instantly, sharp and heady.
“The kuso-kuso herb?” asked Queen Danai of Swana. Silvery white locs shone in intricate patterns on her head, and she appraised Ai Ling with keen eyes. “But that is a dreaming aid. How will that help us?”
Ai Ling smiled mysteriously. “It’s true—in some regions of Aritsar, entire villages inhale kuso-kuso smoke together, allowing for communal dreaming. But our council has been experimenting with ways to send messages across long distances, improving communication between realms.” She paused for effect. “Turns out, you don’t have to inhale kuso-kuso in the same room to dream together. If two or more strongly bonded individuals dream at the same time . . . their minds unite. Wherever they are. The dreams are as potent as speaking in person, alleviating council sickness through the Ray.”
Dayo beamed at Ai Ling, and she colored. “It’s brilliant,” he said. “Once each monarch is anointed, they won’t even have to stay in Oluwan. So Tarisai’s new council can commune anytime, anywhere.”
Impressed voices rippled down the table. Then Crown Princess Min Ja of Songland’s alto cut through the others, smooth and piercing. “What I don’t understand,” she said, “is what any of this has to do with Songland.”
I tried not to quail beneath her stare. Min Ja seemed to glow in her traditional Songlander attire—a full skirt and matching jacket of crisp pastel silks, blues and whites icy against her golden skin. She had the satiny black hair and fine bone structure of her younger brother, Woo In, and shared the same glint in her jaded dark eyes. The last time I had seen that expression—bristling grief masked by anger—Woo In had been holding a knife to my mother’s cheek, unaware of the poison seeping into her bloodstream.
Tread lightly, Kirah Ray-spoke to me.
I tensed at the warning. You’ve been getting to know the queen and the princess, right? What should I know?
Kirah bit her lip. Queen Hye Sun hasn’t been the same since her son Woo In disappeared. She’s a little better, now that she knows he’s alive—but they say she’s still a husk of her former glory. And Min Ja is— Kirah sucked in a breath. . . . a puzzle. She’s barely ten years older than us. Yet she’s the sole heir to the Songlander throne. Even over Woo In.
That’s weird, commented Dayo, cocking his head. Don’t Songlander dynasties usually pass from father to son? They don’t even include daughters in their genealogies. Hye Sun only ruled as a widow regent. Why would the throne go to Min Ja instead of Woo In?
Woo In’s a Redemptor, I pointed out. Perhaps that made Hye Sun nervous.
Ai Ling said: Woo In wasn’t Hye Sun’s first male child.
An ominous chill pricked at my neck. He wasn’t?
There were seven total, Ai Ling continued to Ray-speak, after an unsettled pause. Seven healthy sons, all older than Min Ja and Woo In. But something happened. None of my spies in Songland can be sure, but . . . it’s widely spoken that when she was younger, Min Ja murdered her own brothers.
The crown princess of Songland appeared to be relishing the silence. She drew a gold-tipped nail around the rim of her chalice, causing a low, resonant whistle. At last she smiled tightly and said, “Your empire admitted to massacring thousands of Songlander children. Your council has hurried to facilitate reparations,” she acknowledged, nodding at Ai Ling and Kirah. “A process that I intend to be painful, especially to Aritsar’s bottomless treasury. But as far as I’m concerned, our business ends there. The abiku asked you to form a council of Arit rulers. Songland is not part of the Arit empire, nor shall it ever be. So why,” she asked with that cold, coy contempt, “are we here?”
“You are here,” I replied, “because your people have gone centuries without a voice on the continent. I won’t pressure you to join the empire. I won’t try to rule you. But it’s time Songland had a seat at the table.”
Min Ja examined me for several moments, her expression inscrutable. “How noble,” she monotoned. “Unfortunately, I don’t believe in heroines. Not even pretty ones, who go on suicidal joyrides across Aritsar on giant magical leopards. How do I know this isn’t just another Kunleo ruse? A trick to gain control of my people again.”
“I’ll have no power over Her Majesty.” I nodded shyly at the old Queen Hye Sun, who blinked back at me with rheumy, absent eyes. “And she can make sure of that. If the queen joins my council, after all, we’ll be bonded in mind and body. She’ll have access to my thoughts. My dreams. I couldn’t keep secrets from her—not easily, anyway.”
Min Ja appraised me severely, until the beautiful young woman beside her whispered in her ear. She looked Min Ja’s age, with the fat figure coveted by Oluwani court ladies. Brown eyes twinkled over floral lace, which masked the bottom half of her full, flushed face. As the woman spoke, Min Ja looked chastened, eyeing her companion with annoyed vulnerability. When the woman gestured, I blinked in surprise. Pink sleeves fell back to reveal amputated arms, severed and scarred over just below the elbow.
That’s Da Seo, Ai Ling Ray-spoke. The princess’s consort. Lady Da Seo lost her arms intercepting an attempt on Min Ja’s life several years ago. Afterward, Min Ja named Da Seo her equal. The Songlander court has tried to pressure Min Ja into producing an heir with a man. But she refuses. Where the princess goes, Da Seo goes.
Presently, Min Ja addressed me again. “Your mother,” she said slowly, “once controlled my baby brother. That witch made him forsake his own sister. His own family.” Her upper lip wrinkled, as though my mother’s memory tasted bitter. “But my consort’s heart is softer than mine. Da Seo reminds me that for some reason, Woo In trusted you enough to return to Songland. My brother has never been a good judge of character. Still—” She gave a begrudging sniff. “Because of you, my baby brother came home. And for that reason alone . . . Songland will consider your offer. But it won’t be my mother inside your head, Little Empress.” Min Ja flashed a mirthless smile. “It will be me.”
As the hall looked on in confusion, Min Ja gently patted her mother’s arm. The elderly queen blinked back at her sleepily.
Min Ja said, “We were going to wait to announce it. But we should tell them, Ommah.”
Hye Sun expelled a phlegmy sigh from deep in her lungs, nodded once, and reached for the thick gold pin piercing her elaborate silver top knot. She handed it to Min Ja, and with a gasp from the entire hall, the princess threaded it through her own shining dark bun.
“As Regent, I thought I could be what Songland needs,” Hye Sun croaked, seeming to summon strength for the short speech. “But these past few weeks has made one thing painfully clear—Songland does not need a doting grandmother. It needs a warrior queen. And so,” she rasped, “before this hall of witnesses, I abdicate my crown and bestow it on my daughter, Min Ja, my late husband’s chosen heir of Songland.”
Surprised murmurs filled the hall. I gaped like a fish.
I don’t like this. Ai Ling’s wary voice sprang into my mind. Tar, you weren’t planning to anoint Min Ja. It’s not too late. There’s still time to back out.
Min Ja’s gaze fixed haughtily on mine. For a moment I quailed—but then I saw another face. A young Redemptor girl, Ye Eun, scowling with agonized determination before plunging into the Oruku Breach.
The abiku may not care if I anoint Songland, I told Ai Ling. But I do.
I raised the chalice at my side to Min Ja. “To the new queen of Songland,” I said quietly. “Whom I hope to call my sister.”
Min Ja lifted her cup, expressionless as the baffled court applauded. Then she asked in her blunt, clipped voice, “If I join your council, will you require me to wed you?”
If I had been allowed to drink my palm wine, I would have choked on it.
“Wed—me?” I gasped. “I . . . of course not!”
“There is no of course about it,” another realm ruler spoke up. It was Maharani Sadhika of Dhyrma, an amber-skinned queen covered in bangles. She flared a jewel-studded nostril, tossing a glossy braid. “Anointed Ones swear fealty to their Raybearer, no? In mind and in body. But some of us already have spouses. Concubines.” She gestured to the retinue of pretty young men who sat around her. “Do you expect us to forsake them for you?”
“No. I mean . . .” I sputtered. “Celibacy is custom, yes. But I won’t require it. It’s certainly not necessary to accept the Ray.”
A strident tenor remarked, “How disappointing.”
My face burned in surprise. Scandalized whispers tittered throughout the hall. Heart pounding with irritation, I met the speaker’s eye.
Zuri, King of Djbanti, stared straight back.
He looked my age, with waist-length locks tied back in a sweeping ponytail. His form, though athletic, sprawled drunkenly across his seat cushion. A gold ring winked in his ear over a smooth jawline. His lips curved generously, a permanent kiss.
“I, for one,” he slurred, “was looking forward to meeting our empress’s private needs. After all, the law requires Raybearers to produce heirs with their Anointed Ones. We must obey the law, Lady Empress.”
Ignore him, Ai Ling Ray-spoke, rolling her eyes. Zuri’s beauty is the only interesting thing about him. He was crowned barely a year ago, and he spends all his time hunting and gambling on mancala. Nyamba’s true rulers are merchants. Zuri’s nothing more than a puppet. At least . . . that’s what my spies report. I didn’t get much out of him directly. Ai Ling paused. My persuasion Hallow didn’t . . . work on Zuri, exactly. He avoided direct answers to my questions, and so I don’t know what he thinks of you. He came to the banquet anyway, obviously. But I’m still trying to figure out why I couldn’t influence him.
You have to have a brain to be persuaded, I retorted, and Ai Ling’s laughter vibrated through the bond.
Then I told Zuri of Djbanti, “Traditions are made to be broken.”
His dark features shifted in surprise, then he erupted in laughter. The low, musical sound infected the hall, easing the tension and causing others to join in. I smiled instinctively, though something about Zuri’s laugh made my brows knit. He didn’t sound insincere, exactly. Just . . . precise. As though his voice were a song practiced to perfection—an instrument carefully tuned.
“I meant no offense, Your Imperial Majesty,” said Zuri, flashing a pearly smile that left me—just a little—breathless. “I look forward to falling in love with all of you.” He scooped up his chalice, sloshing the wine. I was dimly aware that while other guests had drained cup after cup, Zuri’s had stayed full. Still, he loafed on his cushion, slurring as he tasted. “To peace,” he declared, with a flourish.
“To peace,” the hall echoed, and the mood lightened from Zuri’s antics.
Ji Huan, the boy king of Moreyao, blurted out, “But we don’t have powers.” He looked no older than thirteen, and drowned in a red silk robe embroidered with blossoms. “Anointed Ones are Hallowed, aren’t they?”
“I won’t require Hallows of my Anointed Ones,” I told him with a wink. “This council . . . I want it to be different. It won’t exist to protect me, but to save the empire. To build bonds of trust that can withstand attacks from the abiku.” I still wore the sunstone from the Nu’ina Eve festival at the base of my throat, and it warmed as the words poured out of me. “This is bigger than me—than any of us. If we create a new council, we won’t only save thousands of children. We’ll have created a future for Aritsar beyond the Redemptor Treaty. No one remembers how weak our isolated kingdoms were before the empire, but if the history scrolls are true, then we’re safer—and stronger—together. Please . . . help me keep it that way.”
The faces around the table grew still, stunned and thoughtful. My heart surged with hope—and then a cold, breathy voice asked:
“What if we can’t love you?”
Blue eyes framed in crow’s-feet peered at me from beneath a fringe of straw-colored curls. Queen Beatrix of Nontes fluttered two lace fans, an affectation of distress. “I mean no offense,” she mewled. “But in order to accept the Ray, we have to love you, yes? The trouble is—I find it much easier to have respect for men. I do not get along with girls. Women together, we are . . . ” Queen Beatrix gestured airily around the table, though her fan stopped on me. “Irrational. Emotional. I can’t imagine ruling an empire with a woman. Let alone having one in my thoughts.”
I took several deep breaths, blinking at her. “I . . . don’t understand, Your Majesty. You are a queen. And I’ve had girls in my head for years. Frankly, I couldn’t imagine ruling without them.”
Beatrix looked doubtful. Ai Ling and Kirah made faces when the queen wasn’t looking, wiggling their eyebrows at me from across the table. I forgot to tell you, Ai Ling Ray-spoke gayly. Beatrix is one of those ladies. You know—the ones who think it’s sexy to have an inferiority complex. I stifled a snort, and my sisters’ laughter rang in my mind.
I wished suddenly that Mayazatyl, Emeronya, and Thérèse could be here too. No—I wished that we were back at Yorua Keep, giggling on a sun-soaked beach, with no worries but our scrolls and riddle games, as we fed one another figs and cornrowed each other’s hair. I had the best sisters I could ever ask for.
So how could I ever anoint someone like Beatrix?
I sighed, praying to the Storyteller for patience, and forced a smile. “Love is complicated,” I told the Nontish queen. “All I ask, Your Majesty, is that you’re willing to try.”
“But what if it’s impossible?” Beatrix pressed. “Impossible to love you?”
My jaw ticked. But before I could say something I’d regret, Dayo made an announcement.
“I have a theory,” he said grandly, while Ray-speaking privately: I have a surprise.
My arm hair stood immediately on edge. Dayo had notoriously poor instincts for surprises. For my seventeenth birthday just last week, he had presented me with a pearl-pink albino baby elephant—an attempt to make up for all the years he had tried to make me forget about Swana.
“It’s to remind you of the grasslands,” he had said eagerly. “Elephants have amazing memories, and you have your Hallow. You two are going to be best friends.”
The calf had proceeded to escape its pen near the Imperial Suite, get high grazing on kuso-kuso, and break into the bathhouses, where it splashed muddily into a pool of screaming noblewomen. Last I’d heard, my new best friend had been penned in the northern palace orchards, giving the poor imperial orange-pickers gray hairs.
But before I could interrogate Dayo further, he was addressing the entire Imperial Hall. “I’ve given a lot of thought to why Anointed Ones are so faithful,” he said. “So intimate with each other. It doesn’t make sense, when you think about it, right? Anointed Ones are strangers as children. They swear fealty to the Raybearer, not to each other. Yet in five hundred years of councils, Anointed Ones have never betrayed each other. Why?”
After a pause, King Nadrej of Biraslov ventured in his guttural accent, “Fear of council sickness, of course.” The mustachioed king wrapped his fur-lined garments closer about him, which he had insisted on wearing even in the Oluwan heat.
King Uxmal of Quetzala agreed, stroking jade crystal gages that hung low in each of his ears. Embedded crystals of turquoise and pyrite flashed in his teeth. “Any rivals would endure each other’s company, if the alternative was going mad.”
“I don’t think that’s the answer,” Kirah said. “Forced companionship makes people hate each other as often as not.”
“Then it’s because Anointed Ones share a common goal: to protect the Raybearer,” suggested Chief Uriyah, ruler of the Blessid Valley clans. “Just as we Blessids are many tribes, but we unite to preserve our way of life.”
“But the Blessid nomads have more in common than just one goal,” Dayo replied. “You have customs. Religion, histories. Anointed Ones hail from different realms, often with conflicting cultures and values. So why do they love each other?”
Silence spread across the table, and Dayo bounced on his heels with excitement.
“It’s the Ray bond,” he announced. “Ray-speaking. Having someone else’s thoughts and desires feel like your own. If one person understands another completely—from their deepest pain to their most passing thought—I think they can’t help but love each other. I think . . .” Dayo gave me a small smile and shrugged, crinkling his burn scar. “When you take someone’s story as your own, it’s no different than loving yourself. Tarisai can’t Ray-speak with you yet. But she can share her memories. All of them.”
Every bone in my body turned to ice.
“It shouldn’t take more than a few weeks per person, I think,” Dayo went on brightly. “Her memories work like dreams, hours compressed down into seconds, and”—
Are you out, I screeched at him through the Ray, of your yam-loving mind?
—“though it might feel strange, once you get to know Tar . . .” He grinned. “You can’t help but love her.”
Dayo, you’re going to get me killed. How can I show these people my memories? They hate me enough already!
He blinked, confused at my distress. But it’s the only way. They can’t bond with you if you don’t open up a little.
Open up? I was hyperventilating. Open up? Dayo, this won’t be like sharing a few secrets after a night of honeywine. This is my life. My whole life. I tried to murder you, for Am’s sake.
They’ll know why you did it, though, Dayo protested. They’ll feel your love for your mother. Your love for me. Tar . . . your memories tell your story better than you ever could.
My throat closed with fear. I won’t survive this, I thought numbly, and Ai Ling took my hand.
Dayo, she Ray-spoke, you should have asked Tar first. Announcing it like this wasn’t fair. If she does this, there’s no going back.
Dayo deflated with guilt, fumbling with the mask on his chest. You’re right. I’m sorry, Tar. I was just trying to help. He paused. But they don’t have to like you to love you, you know. They only have to understand.
As I processed this, Ai Ling said aloud, “A good time to go around the table, I think.”
She signaled to the attendants, who passed kola nuts to every ruler, and then held up the empty vessel. “If you accept the invitation of the emperor and empress to stay at Ileyoba (the central palace and seat of power, remember?) and secure the future of Aritsar,” Ai Ling said, “then place your token in this bowl. Or, if you would rather risk a future of eternal child sacrifice, permanently interrupted trade, and another War of Twelve Armies against the Underworld . . . keep the token to yourself.”
The air in the room chilled. But as I watched with both relief and terror, one by one, kola nuts dropped into the bowl.
“Accept—accept—accept.”
Reluctant words of assent from Min Ja, Uriyah, Helius, Sadhika, Ji Huan, Nadrej, Edwynn of Mewe, Danai, Kwasi of Nyamba, and Uxmal. Zuri threw in his kola nut with a flourish and a wink. Even Beatrix tossed hers in, with a haughty shrug.
My banquet had been a success. But still my hands sweated, numb with fear. I may have promised to enter the Underworld . . . but nothing scared me more than the promise to which Dayo had bound me: exposing my ugliest memories to twelve complete strangers.
In between sets of the ijo agbaye, the realm rulers and their retinues performed regional dances in my honor, with some instruments and costumes that I had never seen before. Nadrej and his Biraslovian attendants spun in colorful dervishes; Ji Huan’s courtiers pantomimed with Moreyaoese masks and ribbon streamers—even stuffy Beatrix performed, stepping with her ladies in a Nontish procession of poses called a pavane. With every display of silk, gold, and precious jewel adornments, I thought of what Mayazatyl had told me before the banquet. How many of those treasures came from mines and mills that Dayo and I owned?
Ji Huan of Moreyao and Uriyah of Blessid Valley took longer to adjust to my new memories than Min Ja and Da Seo, but to my relief and surprise, neither of them left in disgust.
“So you really just stabbed Emperor Ekundayo?” Ji Huan asked for the fifth time as I helped him fly a pelican-shaped kite in the palace gardens. “Just stabbed him right there in the open? Was it hard? Bet it was messy. With loads of blood.”
“You saw what happened,” I told him, squirming uncomfortably. “I showed you the memory.”
“Yes, but . . .” The young king nearly lost his grip on the kite strings, eager brown eyes fixed on my face. After I had shared my unaltered memories, Ji Huan’s shyness around me had evolved into morbid admiration. “It all happened so fast. Could you show me again? Maybe that fight on the palace roof too—when you made Anointed Honor Thaddace kill Emperor Olugbade, and the High Priestess fell but Woo In saved her. Then that part when you flew through the sky, and arrows flew everywhere and—”
“No. Ji Huan, those memories weren’t fun for me! You felt how much pain I was in. Why would you want to relive that?”
The boy looked sheepish. “I forgot about that part. I’m sorry, Lady Empress.”
“It’s all right.” I sighed, melting at his dejected expression and ruffling his hair. “And we’re friends now. Call me Tarisai.”
“Sorry, Tarisai.” He paused. “It’s just—I’ve never gotten to do anything. At least, not go on adventures, like you. My uncles won’t let me go anywhere.” He shuffled his silk-slippered feet and cast a furtive look at two men with flowing robes and long, gray beards: the Lord Regents of Moreyao. They sat a short distance away, sipping tea on a blanket, and occasionally casting dour looks at me and Ji Huan.
“They won’t even let me fly a kite without supervision,” Ji Huan grumbled. “And I can’t have friends they don’t approve of. They’re probably trying to read our lips right now.”
I frowned in sympathy. “I used to live in a place like that.”
“Even at the Children’s Palace, eyes were always watching you,” he said. “I know what that’s like.”
I took in his round innocent features, my former anxiety mirrored there. “Ji Huan, if you join my council, I’ll never control whom you talk to, you know. There won’t be any tests. No judging. All we have to do is be there for each other. Plus, thanks to Ray-speaking . . .” I tapped his head and winked at him. “We can talk anytime you like. And no one can read our lips.”
He brightened. “Can I really tell you anything?”
My mind flashed back to another little boy, peeking out at me from behind a Children’s Palace curtain.
You’re going to be another one, aren’t you? A person I like. A person they take away.
“Anything,” I said, placing my hand over his on the kite string. Then, I let the Ray blaze around my ears and sent a message into the crackling beam: Did I tell you about the time I threatened a Bush-spirit with a stick?
“Yes,” said Ji Huan, “but I want to hear it again, especially the part when you saved Anointed Honor Sanjeet from—” He broke off, realizing what had just happened. “I . . . I . . .”
“You heard me.” I sighed. “And I’d much rather show you Bush-spirits than memories of me stabbing people.”
Ji Huan dropped the string and pulled me into a hug, then stepped back just as quickly, flushing. The sun kite escaped, dancing in circles on the wind, then drifting to a dot in the cloudless Oluwan sky.
Someday I’ll be free like that, came Ji Huan’s voice in my head. But until then—tell me another story, my Tarisai.
Uriyah’s love for me was more complicated, and not in a way I liked. The old chief reminded me of Olugbade, in that he seemed especially fond of those more ignorant than himself—or at least, those he perceived to be. When I showed him my ugliest flaws, his features took on a paternal glow.
“ ‘The wisest ruler must also be humble,’ ” he intoned, reaching to raise my downcast chin. “ ‘Take heart, therefore, in your mistakes.’ ”
We sat together in Uriyah’s study, at his villa in the Ileyoba district. Mountains of books and dusty scrolls surrounded us on the musty carpet, smelling vaguely of ink and camel hair.
“Thank you,” I told him, swallowing my irritation at being patronized. “I’ll certainly give that some th—”
“Cassius Mehedi the Surefooted,” he interrupted, stroking his silver-streaked beard. “Ninth treatise, fifth verse. Mehedi’s writings on humility are truly illuminating, and were my greatest comfort as a budding young ruler. I should have recommended them to you ages ago,” he murmured, whirling around his study and selecting a pile of tomes. He dropped them in my lap, rheumy eyes winking with excitement. “Take these for tonight. I’ve included Ahwadi the Dune Dweller’s verses on filial piety—due to the complex relationship you had with your mother—and the poetry of Yakov the Wanderer, though I admit his work is elementary. You’ve read him, of course . . .” At my blank stare, he chuckled indulgently. “Ah. Well, don’t be ashamed, child. In fact, I envy you. To be young again, at the very beginning of one’s moral journey . . .” He trailed off, blinking at me wistfully. “There’s nothing quite like it.”
“Er—thank you,” I repeated, shifting beneath the teetering pile of books. “But there’s a lot I have to get done before my journey to the Underworld. I’m not sure I’ll have much time for, um, leisure reading.”
“Of course, of course,” he said, patting my hand. “I understand completely.” But before my shoulders could sag with relief, the chief added, “I’ll summarize the texts for you. In particular, I think you’ll truly connect with Elenya the Acolyte’s musings on the nature of friendship and betrayal. I recall one passage in which she . . .”
My neck pricked with worry. Had I succeeded in giving my memories to Uriyah, only to be saddled with another arduous task? Would he need me to become an expert in philosophy before I could anoint him?
But over the next few days, as I fought to keep my eyelids open through lectures on royal virtue, I soon realized that the rate of my progress meant little to Chief Uriyah. It was my potential that enamored him—that chaotic canvas of my life’s mistakes, waiting to be molded into a work of art. This would have annoyed me more, if it weren’t for Uriyah’s boyish joy in teaching. He seemed to crave a project: a willing vessel for his years of pedantic study.
As my headaches progressed, and the chorus of ojiji grew louder in my head, a strange relief enveloped me as I sat in Uriyah’s dusty study. I nodded in the right places when he waxed philosophical, and watched his wrinkle-set eyes shine when I quoted a text correctly. Here was one person, at least, who I had not disappointed as an empress. Whose needs I could satisfy with nothing more than a listening ear—and a cup of honeybush tea, shared over the ramblings of dead philosophers.
I would never be as close to Uriyah as I was to Min Ja, or even to Ji Huan. But at the end of one lesson, when I Ray-spoke as an experiment, Pride is a stumbling block to the young ruler . . . and Uriyah absentmindedly Ray-spoke back, Rinel the Goatminder, treatise five, verse twenty—I was pleased to hear his voice in my head.
In three more months, I had anointed seven more rulers: Uxmal of Quetzala, Sadhika of Dhyrma, Danai of Swana, Edwynn of Mewe, Helius of Sparti, Nadrej of Biraslov. After seeing my fraught memories, even Beatrix of Nontes developed a perverse maternal affection for me, allowing for an anointing.
Two stripes remained pale on my lioness mask: one for Kwasi of Nyamba and one for Zuri of Djbanti. Apparently I only gained immunities when I anointed members of my empire—when Min Ja accepted my Ray, the stripes had remained as they had before. Redemptor marks covered my skin from toe to collarbone, leaving clear my neck, face, and the palms of my hands alone.
My room was a maze of chests, cushions, and gilded side tables, covered with cosmetics whose functions I had yet to memorize. The sparkling theater of Ileyoba life was a sharp contrast to the barefoot simplicity of Yorua Keep, and the military order of the Children’s Palace. I dug through several ornate chests, sneezing at perfumed sachets of myrrh and amber before finding a linen night shift, embroidered at the collar with a chain of sunbursts.
A CORONATION PARADE THROUGH ILEYOBA AND THE CAPITAL
The night before a coronation, the Imperial Guard imposed an early curfew, and the million residents took to their homes in quiet revelry—feasting, storytelling, burning lamps all night . . . and peeking if they dared from their windows, hoping for a glance of their future emperor as he walked the streets in the dark. Tonight, they would look for two figures instead of one.
We continued down the wall, kneeling and paying tribute every half mile. Moonlight glowed across the broad gravel avenues, and lamps twinkled festively in every window. Faint music wafted into the streets from closed shops and high-rises. Children’s voices lifted in praise of Dayo, placing his name in the ancient hymn of Aritsar: Eleven moons watch the sun dance: Black and gold, Ekundayo!
But every so often, a new song spilled into the streets. I’d heard the melody before, mocked by nobles in the palace . . . but these commoners sang it in full voice, sending a thrill of joy and terror down my arms.
There is no night in Oluwan, nse, nse
The sky is bright in Swana—awaken, bata-bata.
They lie awake in Moreyao; nse, nse
They sing in Nontes and Biraslov; snow melting, gun-godo.
Djbanti and Nyamba rise, tada-ka, tada-ka
Look, their children never sleep! Eyes open, bata-bata!
Why, you ask? Why?
The Pelican has spoken.
A sun for the morning, a sun for the evening,
And moons for years to come.
Dhyrma, Blessid Valley, nse, nse
Sparti’s tears have all dried up; tada-ka, tada-ka
Quetzala grins and shields its eyes; nse, nse!
Mewe will shed its heavy skins; gun-godo, gun-godo
Why, you ask? Why?
The Pelican has spoken!
Tarisai for the morning!
Ekundayo for the evening!
And peace for moons to come.
“Do you think they mean it?” I whispered. “That they’ve accepted me already?”
Dayo grinned up at the high-rise buildings. They twinkled like beacons over the empty, mist-filled streets, and the vibrations of drums and voices shook the earth beneath us. “Sure sounds like it,” he said.
When I didn’t look reassured, he checked to make sure the guards were out of earshot, then turned me to face him.
......................................
So I followed him, stealing through the district. He cut through streets like someone who had done it many times, and before long, we reached the wide, fountain-dotted streets of the Ileyoba District.
Imperial Guard warriors flanked the villa assigned to Djbanti delegates, and high, smooth plaster rendered the walls unscalable. But before the warriors could spot us, Zuri took my hand, muttered feverishly, and tensed in pain—just like he had done at Olojari, when he vanished into thin air. My limbs hummed, in sync with his vibrating form . . . and then the wide street disappeared.
We stood in an elegant, citrus-scented bedchamber. The brick pattern matched the building we had just seen on the street—we were inside the Djbanti delegate villa. I dropped Zuri’s hand, stomach lurching with nausea and confusion. “I—how did you—”
“What?” Zuri strolled casually to an end table and offered me a towel. “Never traveled by lodestone before?”
I took the towel gingerly, swabbing at my gore-covered face. “Of course I have,” I wheezed. “That is not what that was.”
“Stomachache feels about the same,” Zuri countered, and then peeled off one of his leather bands. With a jolt, I realized it was the same arm on which he always wore his wide gold cuff. There in his skin, encased in festering, veiny flesh, were two hunks of stone.
Zuri was using ibaje—the same deadly Pale Arts as the deformed assassin from that night in the square.
The largest rock embedded in his skin was metallic gray, dotted with tiny ashen symbols. The second made my breath catch in horror—a multifaceted emerald stone, glinting with malevolent light.
“That gem,” I bleated, brushing my chin in the sign of the Pelican. “It was in Melu’s cuff. My mother used that to enslave an alagbato. Are you—Are you a djinn? An ehru?”
“In a way. To my own ambition.” He smiled wryly. “That stone is known as idekun—a mineral that grows only in the Underworld, though it’s available up here for a . . . generous price. It is said to amplify the wearer’s natural power, but it also binds the wearer to a person—or a cause. Until that person is satisfied, or that cause is fulfilled—idekun torments you.” He grimaced as the green stone flashed, seeming to lash him. But he shook off the pain and pointed to the larger stone. “I’m sure you recognize this one. It’s a piece of lodestone. The lodestones scattered throughout the empire originally came from the Underworld—did you know that? Alone, this piece lets me travel to other stones. But the idekun magnifies its power, allowing me to transport anywhere.”
“And that’s why you haven’t been caught,” I murmured. “How you’ve been waking alagbatos all over the empire as the Crocodile, while still making appearances at court.”
“You’re quick. Though it’s still hard to lead revolutions when I can’t be everywhere at once.”
“Aren’t you afraid of being poisoned?” I sputtered. “That’s Pale Arts. Ibaje never comes without a price.”
“Of course I’ve paid a price.” He chuckled, replacing the arm band, and his eyes looked bright and manic. “But at least, unlike the rest of my family, I got to pick my poison.”
My vision spun. The empty-headed king of Djbanti—the gambling drunkard who couldn’t tell one end of a scepter from the other—was the Crocodile. The name whispered in the streets and written at the top of my security reports. Leader of the most organized vigilante group in Aritsar, responsible for disrupting industries across the empire.
“How?” I squeaked. “How can you be the Crocodile?”
He poured himself a drink from a tall, fluted carafe. “You mean, ‘How can a man you can’t stand turn out to have a brain after all?’ ” He smiled, a white flash against midnight skin. “Sorry. That’s unfair.” He swirled the drink in his hand—herb water, not wine as I expected. I wondered again if I had ever seen Zuri drink at all. At court functions, he slurred and stumbled around, but his cup was always full. “I’m good at playing an idiot,” he said. “I have to be.”
“Who knows?” I demanded. “Your servants, obviously. But the other rulers? Your government? All of Djbanti? Did everyone know about this but me?”
“With a few exceptions, my servants believe I sneak out to brothels. As for the other monarchs and my warlords”—he took a long swill from his chalice—“they think I’m an even bigger halfwit than you do. Even the revolutionaries who follow the Crocodile are uncertain of his identity, though I’m sure some of them have guessed.”
I crossed my arms. “Then the only people in the world who know you’re the Crocodile—who know the real you—are a couple servants . . . and me?”
.....
The Holy Olojari Forge and iron quarry rested in the heart
of a scruff-covered mountain, hollowed out over centuries for
the purpose. As the temple prospered, a chain of villages had
sprouted up at the mountain’s feet, servicing the forge with
generations of miners, blacksmiths, and inns for the year-round influx of Ember-sect tourists.
At first, we passed through a patchwork of sumptuous
noble villa estates, roofs dotted with iron statues of bluebloods
—the same nobles, I imagined, who had managed the quarry
on my ancestors’ behalf for generations. Every now and then,
an orange fleck buzzed near my ear, and something sharp and
piercingly hot accosted me in the face. Once, I slapped my
neck and brought my hand away to reveal the squashed
carcass of a tiny winged creature.
“Ina sprites,” Dayo observed. “Fire spirits. With so many,
the forge must be thriving.”
But the closer we got to the temple, the more I sensed
something terribly, terribly wrong. The villages, while
numerous, were little more than tenements and mudhouses
crowded together, with the occasional tourist’s inn surrounded
by beggars. As far as I knew, the forge had employed Olojari
commoners for hundreds of years. So why did so many live in
squalor?
The narrow streets and markets lay spookily bare. Twin statues of Warlord Fire, depicted as a barrel-chested giant with billowing
hair and wicked amethyst eyes, framed the arch. A phrase in
large script, mottled with ash and soot, had been carved into
the entryway:
IN THE EYE OF KUNLEO, OLOJARI WILL
PROSPER.
The statues
depicted Warlord Fire, flames bursting from the god’s
handsome face in a malevolent halo. One hand was clenched
above his head in a fist, as though ready to smite, and the other
held an outstretched spear, its tip capped in pearly ivory and
pulsing with pale light. It didn’t look like the Oruku Breach,
but then again, I didn’t have much experience with
supernatural portals.
Some in the crowd bore picks and iron mallets, others simply
lifted bruised and calloused hands, as if in prayer. But all of
them swayed, voices lifted in rasping song and jaundiced eyes
alight with hunger. From the sidelines, well-dressed
bluebloods looked on with nervous scorn. As for the Ember
priests of the forge, who stood out in costumes of red and
gold, their sympathies appeared to be split. Some acolytes
stood with the poor and rioting, joining in their music, and
blessing them in red clouds of incense. Other acolytes stood
with the wealthy, sneering at the rabble, and making signs of
the Pelican to ward off evil.
Alarmed at the unrest, our Imperial Guard escort fell in
place around us.
.....
All the center realms—Oluwan, Swana, Djbanti, and
Nyamba—were known for beautiful clothing, but Nyamba
took the crown. I’d heard of Nyamban lords going bankrupt
trying to follow their country’s ever-revolving fashions, and of
weavers with divine gifts, like Umansa and his prophetic
tapestries.
....
He flourished a hand, then smiled tightly. “Djbanti
has long been controlled by merchant-warlords. Their riches
outweigh my treasury, and if it were up to them, they would
erase my family altogether. But the common people of Djbanti
revere us, and so we remain. The warlords could snuff out a
peasant uprising, of course, but civil wars are expensive, and
would interrupt what they love most: their precious supply
lines.”
“So they made the Wanguru puppets, instead.” I tried to
hide the pity in my voice.
Zuri nodded once. “We look the other way as the warlords
seize every mill, mine, and quarry that the Kunleos don’t own
already. And if any king dares show a hint of backbone, he’s
eliminated. When I was still a boy, I learned to keep my
temper quiet, and my words pretty.” He ran a calloused hand
through his locs, which fell in sheets over his dark shoulder.
“The warlord system was initially well-intended. Their
merchants were supposed to compete with each other, keeping
prices low for the people. Then they realized they were
stronger together. They united and made pacts to drive up the
price of basic goods, like rice and palm oil. My people were
driven to desperation.”
I put my bowl down, jaw tightening. “It’s not just Djbanti,”
I said bleakly. “I’ve read every report I can. Nobles in Mewe
and Biraslov practically enslave their poor, all to make a profit
on wool and ice blocks.”
....
Because I woke in a crystalline garden hedged in
cardamom and rosebushes. In the midst of trees covered in
sparkling amber bark, Sanjeet’s broad form sat hunched on a
bench, faced away from me, while he plucked forlornly at a
flower that appeared to be made of rubies. “The enchanted
Royal Garden of Vhraipur, in the heart of Dhyrma. Amah used
to bring me here as a boy. Gems, silk, precious stones as far as
the eye can see. You’d think thieves would help themselves.
But if anyone tries to steal a bud out of its natural habitat”—he
snapped the ruby rose from its stem, and the blossom
crumbled instantly to dust—“it ceases to be.”
..... The DEATHS IN THE UNDERWORLD
“She calls us kind,” rasped a beast with hair like bristles.
Its scaly tongue smoldered, a dying coal, and flicked the
creature’s eyes as it spoke. “Death is often kind, to those
exhausted by the boon of living. Are you exhausted,
Wuraola?”
“N-No,” I stammered, lifting a stubborn chin. “I want to
live.”
“Oh?” Another creature crept closer, eel-like, with veiny,
translucent skin and unblinking, fishlike eyes. In a low,
gurgling voice, the beast who could only be Drowning asked
the question I had been waiting for. “And out of all the souls
of the Overworld—the mortals who have died, and are dying,
as we speak—why should you be allowed to live?”
I inhaled, then blurted the answer I’d rehearsed with Kirah:
“Because I’m saving lives,” I said. “I’m a good empress. And
a good person.”
Again, laughter shook the bridge, causing bile to roil in my
stomach.
“Such hubris,” hissed Poison, a boil-covered beast with
foul green breath. “Only a year ago, your hands ran with the
blood of an innocent prince.”
“And from birth,” grunted Organ-Death, a tusked boar
with twitching arteries, bulging like vines beneath its skin,
“your days were gilded in wealth and privilege. Everything
you own—your crown, your palace, even the friends you call
your Anointed Ones—was bought with the lives of children.”
The words lashed like whips. Organ-Death spoke the truth.
Without Redemptors, Enoba Kunleo the Perfect could never
have brought peace to Aritsar. And without peace, he could
not have reigned as emperor.
All this time, one beast watched me without saying a word:
a sharp-clawed lion with blank, milky eyes, and a floating
translucent mane. A sickening metallic smell filled my nose as
I watched it, and I knew instinctively that this was one of the
Unnamed Deaths—a terror beyond words.
“I’m trying to make things right,” I croaked at last. “But
how can I change Aritsar if I’m dead? I deserve to live
because I care. I can fix it!”
“All you could achieve,” wheezed the hairy, snub-nosed
beast of Suffocation, “was fulfilled when you entered the
Underworld. The new Treaty is complete. You are the last of
history’s Redemptors. In death, you have accomplished far
more than your life ever did.”
“To the thousands of souls already lost,” added a frost-
white wolf, crouching to its massive haunches, “to the
Redemptors sacrificed before you . . . you are no savior. The
only thing you have left to offer them is justice: an eye for an
eye.” From the hunger in its cloudy yellow eyes, I knew
without a doubt that this was Old Age—one of the beasts,
along with the Unnamed Deaths, who could still kill me.
“Your life,” it said, “for the ones your ancestors took.”
I had heard these words before, of course: in the pounding
melody of my headaches, the song at the edge of my
nightmares.
Pay the price.
Again, they laughed. “You may fear touching us now,
Wuraola,” came the phlegmy chuckle of Contagion. “But all
Redemptors forget fear once they meet their emi-ehran.”
....... WAR IN ARITSAR
Sanjeet, Dayo, and Captain Bunmi lead the fray atop
armored war buffalo, beating back the undead creatures with a
cohort of Imperial Guard warriors.
In truth, it is not an Army of Twelve Realms, but thirteen,
for Songland has arrived. From atop a turret, Min Ja directs a
unit of fire-speaking sowanhada warriors, her long jet hair
streaming like a pennant. The warriors punch the air in unison,
sending up a spray of flame, which Min Ja directs in a lethal
wind toward the invaders.
The battleground is a patchwork of realms. Quetzalan war
machines ignite cannons, sending frozen balls of holy water
into the Breach, while Moreyaoese archers shower the enemy
with arrows. Biraslovians in horned helmets ride packs of
snow-white battle wolves, providing cover for Swanian and
Nyamban warriors, who hurl spears with deadly accuracy.
Warriors of the new Djbanti commonwealth fight shoulder to
shoulder with Spartian soldiers, and Mewish berserkers, fierce
in bright blue war paint and capes of tartan, share mounts with
Dhyrmish charioteers. Blessid and Nontish healers retrieve the
fallen, tending to wounds with grim efficiency.
Yet for all its colorful glory, dispatching hordes back into
the Breach like a well-oiled machine, the Army of Twelve
Realms was flagging. How could it do otherwise? Their
enemy could not die. For every cursed Redemptor set aflame
or corralled into cages or hurled back into the Underworld . . .
there were ten more behind it. And they’d only continued.
......
So often, I remembered the distant world he had described
—that state of Aritsar before Enoba established his empire.
We did not always have kings in the central kingdoms.
Once, leaders were merely the hand of their people.
