by Tomi Adeyemi
“Before you were born, the maji were drunk with power, always plotting to overthrow our line,” Father explains. “Even with their insurgency, my father fought to be fair, but that fairness got him killed.”
Along with your older brother, I think silently. Your first wife, your firstborn son. There isn’t a noble in Orïsha who doesn’t know of the slaughter Father endured at the maji’s hands. A carnage that would one day be avenged by the Raid.
Out of instinct, I finger the tarnished pawn in my pocket, a stolen “gift” from Father. The sênet piece is the only survivor of Father’s childhood set, a game of strategy he used to play with me when I was young.
Though the cool metal usually anchors me, today it’s warm to the touch. It almost stings as it passes through my fingers, burning with Father’s impending truth.
“When I rose to the throne, I knew magic was the root of all our pain. It’s crushed empires before ours, and as long as it lives, it shall crush empires again.”
I nod, remembering Father’s rants from long before the Raid. The Britāunîs. The Pörltöganés. The Spãní Empire—all civilizations destroyed because those who had magic craved power, and those in charge didn’t do enough to stop them.
“When I discovered the raw alloy Bratonians used to subdue magic, I thought that would be enough. With majacite, they created prisons, and weapons, and chains. Following their tactics, I did the same. But even that wasn’t enough to tame those treacherous maggots. If our kingdom was ever going to survive, I knew I had to take magic away.”
What? I jerk forward, unable to trust my own ears. Magic is beyond us. How could Father attack an enemy like that?
“Magic is a gift from the gods,” he continues, “a spiritual connection between them and mankind. If the gods broke that connection with royals generations ago, I knew their connection to the maji could be severed, too.”
My head spins with Father’s words. If he doesn’t need to see the physician, I will. The only time I dared to ask him about the Orïshan gods, his answer was swift: gods are nothing without fools to believe in them.
I took his words to heart, built my world upon his unwavering conviction. Yet here he stands, telling me they exist. That he waged war against them.
Skies. I stare at the blood staining the cracks in the floor. I’ve always known Father was a powerful man.
I just never realized how deep that power ran.
“After my coronation, I set out to find a way to sever the spiritual bond. It took me years, but eventually I discovered the source of the maji’s spiritual connection, and I ordered my men to destroy it. Until today, I believed I had succeeded in wiping magic from the face of this earth. But now that damned scroll is threatening to bring magic back.”
I let Father’s words wash over me, parsing through it all until even the most inconceivable facts move like sênet pawns in my head: break the connection; break the magic.
Destroy the people after our throne.
“But if magic was gone…” My stomach twists into knots, but I need to know the answer. “Why go through with the Raid? Why … kill all those people?”
Father runs his thumb down the serrated edge of his majacite blade and walks to the paneled windows. The same place I stood as a child when the maji of Lagos went up in flames. Eleven years later, the charcoal smell of burning flesh is still a constant memory. As vivid as the heat in the air.
“For magic to disappear for good, every maji had to die. As long as they’d tasted that power, they would never stop fighting to bring it back.”
Every maji …
That’s why he let the children live. Divîners don’t manifest their abilities until they’re thirteen. Powerless children who had never wielded magic didn’t pose a threat.
Father’s answer is calm. So matter-of-fact, I cannot doubt that he did the right thing. But the memory of ash settles on my tongue. Bitter. Sharp. I have to wonder if Father’s stomach churned that day.
I wonder if I’m strong enough to do the same.
“Magic is a blight,” Father breaks into my thoughts. “A fatal, festering disease. If it takes hold of our kingdom the way it’s taken others, no one will survive its attack.”
“How do we stop it?”
“The scroll is the key,” Father continues. “That much I know. Something about it has the power to bring magic back. If we don’t destroy it, it shall destroy us.”
“And Amari?” My voice lowers. “Will we have to … will I…” The thought is so wretched I can’t speak.
Duty before self. That’s what Father will say. It’s what he shouted at me that fateful day.
But the thought of raising my blade against Amari after all these years makes my throat dry. I can’t be the king Father wants me to be.
I can’t kill my little sister.
“Your sister has committed treason.” He speaks slowly. “But it is no fault of her own. I allowed her to get close to that maggot. I should’ve known her simple disposition would lead her astray.”
“So Amari can live?”
Father nods. “If she’s captured before anyone discovers what she’s done. That’s why you can’t take your men—you and Admiral Kaea must go and recover the scroll alone.”
Relief slams into my chest like a blow from Father’s fist. I can’t kill my little sister, but I can bring her back in.
A sharp knock raps against the door; Admiral Kaea pops her head through. Father waves his hand, welcoming her in.
Behind her, I catch a glimpse of Mother scowling. A new heaviness settles on my shoulders. Skies.
Mother doesn’t even know where Amari is.
“We found a noble. He claims he saw the maggot who aided the fugitive,” Kaea says. “She sold him a rare fish from Ilorin.”
“Did you cross-reference the ledger?” I ask.
Kaea nods. “It shows only one divîner from Ilorin today. Zélie Adebola, age seventeen.”
Zélie …
My mind fits the missing piece to her striking image. The name rolls off Kaea’s tongue like silver. Too soft for a divîner who attacked my city.
“Let me go to Ilorin,” I blurt out. My mind runs through the plan as I speak. I’ve seen a map of Ilorin before. The four quadrants of the floating village. A few hundred villagers, most lowly fishermen. We could take it with—“Ten men. That’s all Admiral Kaea and I need. I’ll find the scroll and bring Amari back. Just give me a chance.”
Father twists his ring as he thinks. I can hear the rejection sitting on his tongue. “If those men discover anything—”
“I’ll kill them,” I interrupt. The lie slips from my mouth with ease. If I can redeem my former failures, no one else needs to die.
But Father cannot know that. He barely trusts me as it is. He requires swift, unflinching commitment.
As captain, I must give it to him.
“Very well,” Father agrees. “Head out. Be quick.”
Thank the skies. I adjust my helmet and bow as deeply as I can. I’m almost out the door when Father calls out.
“Inan.”
Something twists in his tone. Something dark.
Dangerous.
“When you have what you need, burn that village to the ground.”
CHAPTER NINE
ZÉLIE
ILORIN IS ENTIRELY too peaceful.
At least, it feels that way after today. Coconut boats pull against their anchors, sheets fall over the dome of ahéré entrances. The village sets with the sun, making way for a calm night’s sleep.
Amari’s eyes widen with wonder as we sail through the water and head toward Mama Agba’s on Nailah’s back. She takes in every inch of the floating village like a starving laborer placed before a majestic feast.
“I’ve never seen anything like this,” she whispers. “It’s mesmerizing.”
I breathe in the fresh scent of the sea, closing my eyes as mist sprays my face. The taste of salt on my tongue makes me imagine what would happen if Amari wasn’t here
; a fresh loaf of sweet bread, a nice cut of spiced meat. For once, we’d go to sleep with full bellies. A celebratory meal in my name.
My frustration reignites at Amari’s ignorant bliss. Princess that she is, she’s probably never missed a meal in her entire pampered life.
“Give me your headdress,” I snap when Nailah docks in the merchant quarter.
The wonder drops from Amari’s face and she stiffens. “But Binta—” She pauses, collecting herself. “I wouldn’t have this if it weren’t for my handmaiden.… It is the only thing of hers I have left.”
“I don’t care if the gods gave you that wretched thing. We can’t have people finding out who you are.”
“Don’t worry,” Tzain adds gently. “She’ll throw it in her pack, not the sea.”
I glare at his attempt to comfort her, but his words do the trick. Amari fiddles with the clasp and drops the glittering jewels into my pack. The shimmer they add to the shine of silver coins is absurd. This morning I didn’t have a bronze piece to my name. Now I’m weighed down by the riches of royals.
I crouch on Nailah’s back and pull myself onto the wooden walkway. I poke my head through Mama Agba’s curtained door to find Baba sleeping soundly in the corner, curled up like a wildcat in front of a heated flame. His skin has its color back, his face isn’t so skeletal and gaunt. Must be Mama Agba’s care. She could nurse a corpse back to life.
When I enter, Mama Agba peeks her head out from behind a mannequin stitched into a brilliant purple kaftan. The fitted seams suggest that it’s noble-bound, a sale that might cover her next tax.
“How’d it go?” she whispers, cutting the thread with her teeth. She adjusts the green and yellow gele wrapped around her head before tying up the kaftan’s loose ends.
I open my mouth to respond, but Tzain steps in, tentatively followed by Amari. She looks around the ahéré with an innocence only luxury can breed, running her fingers over the woven reeds.
Tzain gives Mama Agba a grateful nod as he takes my pack, pausing to hand Amari the scroll. He lifts Baba’s sleeping body with ease. Baba doesn’t even stir.
“I’m going to get our things,” he says. “Decide what we’re doing about this scroll. If we go…” His voice trails off, and my stomach tightens with guilt. There’s no if anymore. I’ve taken that choice away.
“Just be fast.”
Tzain leaves, biting his emotions back. I watch as his hulking frame disappears, wishing I wasn’t the source of his pain.
“Leave?” Mama Agba asks. “Why would you leave? And who is this?” Her eyes narrow as she looks Amari up and down. Even in a dingy cloak, Amari’s perfect posture and lifted chin denote her regal nature.
“Oh, um…” Amari turns to me, her grip tightening on the scroll. “I—I am…”
“Her name’s Amari,” I sigh. “She’s the princess of Orïsha.”
Mama Agba releases a deep laugh. “It’s an honor, Your Highness,” she teases with an exaggerated bow.
But when neither Amari nor I smile, Mama’s eyes go wide. She rises from her seat and opens Amari’s cloak, revealing the dark blue gown beneath. Even in the dim light, the deep neckline shimmers with glittering jewels.
“Oh my gods…” She turns to me, hands clutching her chest. “Zélie, what in the gods’ names have you done?”
I force Mama Agba to sit as I explain the events of the day. While she wavers between pride and anger over the details of our escape, it’s the possibilities of the scroll that make her go still.
“Is it real?” I ask. “Is there any truth to this?”
Mama’s silent for a long moment, staring at the scroll in Amari’s hands. For once her dark eyes are unreadable, obscuring the answers I seek.
“Give it here.”
The moment the parchment touches Mama Agba’s palms, she wheezes for air. Her body trembles and quakes so violently she falls off her chair.
“Mama Agba!” I run to her side and grab her hands, holding her down until the tremors stop. With time, they fade and she’s left on the ground, as still as one of her mannequins. “Mama, are you okay?”
Tears come to her eyes, spilling into the wrinkles of her dark skin. “It’s been so long,” she whispers. “I never thought I would feel the warmth of magic again.”
My lips part in surprise and I back up, unable to believe my ears. It can’t be. I didn’t think any maji survived the Raid.…
“You’re a maji?” Amari asks. “But your hair—”
Mama Agba removes her gele and runs her hand over her shaved head. “Eleven years ago I had a vision of myself visiting a Cancer. I asked her to get rid of my white hair, and she used the magic of disease to take it all away.”
“You’re a Seer?” I gasp.
“I used to be.” Mama Agba nods. “I lost my hair the day of the Raid, hours before they would’ve taken me away.”
Amazing. When I was a child, the few Seers who lived in Ibadan were revered. The magic they wielded over time helped every other maji clan in Ibadan survive. I smile, though in my heart I should’ve known. Mama Agba’s always had a sage sense about her, the wisdom of a person who’s seen beyond her years.
“Before the Raid,” Mama Agba continues, “I felt the magic sucked out of the air. I tried to conjure a vision of what would come, but when I needed it most, I couldn’t see.” She winces, as if reliving the pain of that day all over again. I can only imagine what horrible images play inside her mind.
Mama shuffles over to her netted windows and pulls the sheets closed. She stares at her weathered hands, wrinkled from years as a seamstress. “Orúnmila,” she whispers, invoking the God of Time. “Bá mi s0r0. Bá mi s0r0.”
“What is she doing?” Amari steps back as if Mama Agba’s words could cut her. But hearing true Yoruba for the first time in over a decade makes it too overwhelming for me to answer.
Since the Raid, all I’ve heard are the harsh stops and guttural sounds of Orïshan, the tongue we are forced to speak. It’s been so long since I heard an incantation, too long since the language of my people didn’t only exist in my memories.
“Orúnmila,” I translate as Mama Agba chants. “Speak to me. Speak to me. She’s calling on her god,” I explain to Amari. “She’s trying to do magic.”
Though the answer comes with ease, even I can’t believe what I’m seeing. Mama Agba chants with a blind faith, patient and trusting, just as those who follow the God of Time are meant to be.
As she calls on Orúnmila for guidance, a pang of longing stirs in my heart. No matter how much I’ve wanted to, I’ve never had enough faith to call on Oya like that.
“Is it safe?” Amari presses against the ahéré wall when veins bulge against Mama Agba’s throat.
“It’s part of the process.” I nod. “The cost of using our ashê.”
To cast magic we must use the language of the gods to harness and mold the ashê in our blood. For a practiced Seer, this incantation would be easy, but with so many years out of practice, this incantation is probably drawing on all the ashê Mama Agba has. Ashê builds like another muscle in our bodies; the more we use, the easier it is to harness and the stronger our magic becomes.
“Orúnmila, bá mi s0r0. Orúnmila, bá mi s0r0—”
Her breath turns more ragged with every word. The wrinkles across her face stretch tight with strain. Harnessing ashê takes a physical toll. If she tries to harness too much, she could kill herself.
“Orúnmila—” Mama Agba’s voice grows stronger. A silver light begins to swell in her hands. “Orúnmila, bá mi s0r0! Orúnmila, bá mi s0r0—”
The cosmos explodes between Mama’s hands with so much force that Amari and I are knocked to the ground. Amari screams, but my shout vanishes under the lump in my throat. The blues and purples of the night sky twinkle between Mama Agba’s palms. My heart seizes at the beautiful sight. It’s back.…
After all this time, magic is finally here.
It’s like a floodgate opening in my heart, an endless wave of e
motion rushing through my entire being. The gods are back. Alive. With us after all this time.
The twinkling stars between Mama Agba’s palms swirl and dance with one another. An image slowly crystallizes, sharpening like a sculpture before our eyes. With time, I can make out three silhouettes on a mountainous hill. They climb with relentless fury, making their way through thick underbrush.
“Skies,” Amari curses. She takes a tentative step forward. “Is that … me?”
I snort at her vanity, but the sight of my cropped dashiki makes me stop. She’s right—it’s us and Tzain, climbing through the jungle greenery. My hands reach for a rock while Tzain guides Nailah by the reins to a ledge. We ascend higher and higher up the mountain, climbing till we reach the—
The vision vanishes, snapping to empty air in the blink of an eye.
We’re left staring at Mama Agba’s empty hands, hands that have just changed my entire world.
Mama’s fingers shake from the strain of her vision. More tears spill from her eyes.
“I feel,” she chokes through her silent sobs. “I feel like I can breathe again.”
I nod, though I don’t know how to describe the tightness in my own heart. After the Raid I truly thought I’d never see magic again.
When Mama Agba’s hands are steady, she grasps the scroll, desperation leaking through her touch. She scans the parchment; from the movement of her eyes, I can tell she’s actually reading the symbols.
“It’s a ritual,” she says. “That much I can see. Something with an ancient origin, a way to connect with the gods.”
“Can you do it?” Amari asks, amber eyes shining with a mixture of awe and fear. She stares at Mama Agba as if she were made of diamonds, yet flinches whenever she draws near.
“It’s not I who was meant to do this, child.” Mama places the scroll in my hands. “You saw the same vision as I.”
“Y-you cannot be serious,” Amari stammers. For once I agree with her.
“What’s there to argue?” Mama asks. “You three were on the journey. You were traveling to bring magic back!”
“Is it not already here?” Amari asks. “What you just did—”