by Tomi Adeyemi
In this man—this one wretched man—is an entire kingdom. An entire nation of hate and oppression, staring me in the face. It may have been the guards who broke down the doors in Ibadan that day, but they were simply his tools.
Here lies the heart.
“What of Admiral Kaea?” Saran lowers his voice. “Is this her killer?”
Inan’s eyes widen and drift to me, but when Saran follows his gaze, Inan realizes his mistake. No matter what he says now, he can’t stop the king of Orïsha from approaching me.
Even in the sweltering room, Saran’s very presence chills my blood. The burning in my skin intensifies as he nears with his majacite blade. This close to him, I can make out the pockmarks in his deep brown skin, the gray hairs of old age speckled throughout his beard.
I wait for the slurs, but there’s something worse about the way he looks at me. Distant. Removed. Like I’m some beast dragged from the mud.
“My son seems to think you know how the admiral died.”
Inan’s eyes bulge. It’s written all over his face.
Someone died, his words from the festival come back to me. Someone I loved.
But it wasn’t just someone …
It was Kaea.
“I asked you a question,” Saran’s voice breaks back in. “What happened to my admiral?”
Your maji son killed her.
Behind Saran, Inan jerks back, likely horrified at my thoughts. They’re secrets I should scream to the world, secrets I should spill onto this floor. But something about Inan’s terror makes it impossible for me to break.
I look away instead, unable to stomach the monster who ordered Mama’s death. If Inan’s truly on my side, then when I die, the little prince might be the divîners’ only ho—
Saran’s grip jerks my chin back to his face. My whole body flinches. The calm that sat in Saran’s eyes before explodes with a violent rage.
“You would do well to answer me, child.”
And I would. I would do well indeed.
It would be perfect to have Saran find out here, try to kill Inan himself. Then Inan would have no choice to attack back. Kill his father, take the throne, rid Orïsha of Saran’s hate.
“Plotting, are we?” Saran asks. “Cooking up those precious incantations?” He digs into me so hard his nails draw blood from my chin. “Make any moves and I will personally rid your body of its wretched hands.”
“F-Father.” Inan’s voice is faint, but he forces himself forward.
Saran glances back, wrath still burning in his eyes. Yet something about Inan reaches him. With a violent jerk, he releases my face. His lips curl as he wipes his fingers against his robe.
“I suppose I should be angry with myself,” he muses quietly. “Pay attention, Inan. When I was your age, I thought the children of the maggots could live. I thought their blood needn’t be spilled.”
Saran grabs on to my chains, forcing me to meet his eyes.
“After the Raid you should’ve been desperate to keep magic away. You were supposed to be afraid. Obedient. Now I see there is no educating your kind. You maggots all crave the disease tainting your blood.”
“You could’ve taken magic away without killing us. Without beating our bodies into the ground!”
He jumps as I pull against my chains, wild like a rabid lionaire. I itch to unleash magic fueled by the blackest part of my rage. A rage born because of everything he took away.
A new searing burns my flesh as I fight the majacite, doing everything I can to call forth my magic despite the power of the black chains. Smoke sizzles from my skin as I fight in vain.
Saran’s eyes narrow, but I can’t be silent. Not when my blood boils and my muscles shake to break free.
I will not let my fear silence the truth.
“You crushed us to build your monarchy on the backs of our blood and bone. Your mistake wasn’t keeping us alive. It was thinking we’d never fight back!”
Inan steps forward, jaw taut, eyes traveling back and forth between us. The fury in Saran’s gaze flares as he lets out a long, low chuckle.
“You know what intrigues me about your kind? You always start in the middle of the story. As if my father didn’t fight for your rights. As if you maggots didn’t burn my family alive.”
“You can’t enslave an entire people for the rebellion of a few.”
Saran bares his teeth. “You can do whatever you want when you’re the king.”
“Your ignorance will be your downfall.” I spit in Saran’s face. “Magic or not, we won’t give up. Magic or not, we will take back what’s ours!”
Saran’s lips curl back in a snarl. “Brave words for a maggot about to die.”
Maggot.
Like Mama.
Like every brother and sister slaughtered by his command.
“You’d be wise to kill me now,” I whisper. “Because you’re not getting any of the artifacts.”
Saran smiles slow and sinister like a jungle cat.
“Oh, child.” He laughs. “I wouldn’t be so sure of that.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
INAN
THE WALLS OF THE CELLAR close in. I’m trapped in this hell. It takes everything in me to stand, not to buckle under Father’s glare. But while I can barely breathe, Zélie rises. Defiant and fiery as ever.
No regard for her life.
No fear for her death.
Stop, I want to scream over her. Don’t talk!
With each word, Father’s desire to break her grows.
He pounds against the door. With two sharp knocks, the metal door flies open. The fortress physician walks in, flanked by three lieutenants; all fix their gazes on the floor.
“What’s going on?” My voice comes out hoarse. It’s hard to speak through the strain of suppressing my magic once more. Sweat pours down my skin as another blast of heated air funnels through the vent.
The physician glances at me. “Does Your Highness—”
“You’re under my orders,” Father interrupts. “Not his.”
The physician scurries forward, drawing a sharp knife from his pocket. I stifle a cry as he slices into Zélie’s neck.
“What’re you doing?” I yell. Zélie grits her teeth as the physician digs with his blade.
“Stop!” I shout in panic. Not now. Not here.
I start forward, but Father presses his hand into my shoulder so hard I nearly stumble. I watch in horror as the physician cuts a shallow X into Zélie’s neck. With an unsteady hand, he pushes a thick, hollowed-out needle into the exposed vein.
Zélie tries to jerk her head back, but a lieutenant holds it still. The physician removes a small vial of black liquid and prepares to pour the serum down the needle.
“Father, is this wise?” I turn to him. “She knows things. There are more artifacts. She can find them. She’s the only person who understands the scroll—”
“Enough!” Father’s grip on my shoulder tightens until it aches. I’m angering him now. If I keep going, he’ll only cause Zélie more pain.
The physician looks back at me, as if looking for a reason to stop. But when Father pounds his fist against the wall, the physician pours the serum through an opening in the hollow needle, feeding it straight into her vein.
Zélie’s body jerks and spasms. The serum releases under her skin. Her breaths go short and rapid. Her pupils grow large and dilated.
My own chest tightens as blood pounds inside my head.
And it’s only an echo of what they’re doing to her.…
“Don’t worry.” Father speaks, mistaking my grief for disappointment. “One way or another, she’ll tell us what she knows.”
Zélie’s muscles seize, rattling the chains. I press against the wall as my own thighs shake. I struggle to keep my voice even. Keeping calm is my only chance of saving her.
“What’d you give her?”
“Something to keep our little maggot awake.” Father smiles. “Can’t have her passing out before we get what we need.”<
br />
A lieutenant slides a dagger from his belt. Another rips Zélie’s dress, exposing the smooth skin of her back. The soldier holds the blade in the heat of the torch flames. The metal warms. Smoldering red.
Father steps forward. Zélie’s spasms intensify; so violent the two other lieutenants have to hold her down.
“I admire your defiance, child. It’s impressive you’ve made it this far. But I wouldn’t be doing my job as king if I didn’t remind you what you are.”
The knife sears into her skin with a fury so intense her agony leaks into me.
“ARGH!” A bloodcurdling scream rips from Zélie’s throat. Rips straight through my being.
“No!” I cry out, and run forward, plunging straight for the lieutenant.
I knock one of the guards holding Zélie back.
I kick the other in the gut.
My fist collides with the lieutenant carving into her back, but before I can do more Father shouts.
“Restrain him!”
Instantly, two guards latch onto my arms. The entire world blazes in white. The scent of burning flesh fills my nose.
“I knew you wouldn’t have the stomach for this.” Somehow Father’s disappointment cuts through the sound of Zélie’s shrieks. “Remove him,” he snaps. “Now!”
I feel Father’s command more than I hear it. Though I struggle forward, I’m pushed back. All the while, Zélie’s screams grow.
She only gets farther and farther away.
Her sobs and screams bounce against the metal walls. As her singed flesh cools, I make out the shape of an M.
And when Zélie’s breathing grows shallow, the lieutenant starts on the A.
“No!”
They throw me into the hallway. The door slams shut.
I pound so hard my knuckles split and bleed, but no one comes out.
Think! I ram my head against the door, blood pounding as her screams grow. I can’t get in.
I need to get her out.
I race along the corridor, but the distance does nothing to break the anguish. Concerned faces flash as I stumble past.
Lips move.
People speak.
I can’t make out their sounds over Zélie’s screams. Her shrieks ring through the door. They screech even louder in my head.
I crash into the nearest washroom and slam the door. Somehow, I latch the lock.
I can sense they’ve started on the G now; it’s as if the curve is etched into my own back.
“Ugh!”
I grasp the porcelain sink’s rim with shaking hands. Everything in me comes out. My throat stings from the burn of vomit.
The world spins around me, violent and thrashing. It’s all I can do not to pass out. I have to power through.
I need to get Zélie out—
* * *
I WHEEZE.
Cool air hits me like a brick to the face. It pulls the scent of wet grass into my lungs. Wilted reeds tickle my feet.
The dreamscape.
The realization brings me to my knees.
But I have no time to waste. I have to save her. I need to bring her to this place.
I close my eyes and picture her face. The haunting silver of her eyes. What new letter have they carved into her back? Her heart? Her soul?
Within seconds, Zélie appears. Gasping. Half-naked.
Her hands grip the earth.
Her eyes hang empty in her head.
She stares at her shaking fingers with no recognition of where she is.
Who she is.
“Zélie?”
Something’s missing. It takes me a second to realize what’s wrong. Her spirit doesn’t surge like the ocean tides.
The sea-salt scent of her soul is gone.
“Zél?”
The world seems to shrink around us, pulling in the blurred white borders. She’s still—so still I don’t know if she’s heard me or not.
I reach out. When my fingers graze her skin, she shrieks and scrambles back.
“Zél—”
Her eyes flash something feral. Her trembling intensifies.
When I move toward her, she crawls back. Shattered. Broken.
I stop and put my hands up. My chest aches at the sight. There’s no sign of the warrior I know. The fighter who spit in Father’s face. I don’t see Zél at all.
Only the shell Father left behind.
“You’re safe,” I whisper. “No one can hurt you here.”
But her eyes fill with tears. “I can’t feel it,” she cries. “I can’t feel anything.”
“Feel what?”
I move toward her, but she shakes her head and pushes herself back through the reeds with her feet.
“It’s gone.” She says the same words again. “Gone.”
She curls into the reeds, writhing with the pain she can’t escape.
Duty before self.
I dig my fingers into the dirt.
Father’s voice rings loud in my head. Duty above all else.
Kwame’s flames come back to life behind my eyes, blazing through everything in their path. My duty is to prevent that.
My duty has to be keeping Orïsha alive.
But the creed rings hollow, carving a hole inside me like the knife that carved through Zélie’s back.
Duty isn’t enough when it means destroying the girl I love.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
AMARI
THIS WILL WORK.
By the skies, this has to work.
I hold on to this flickering hope as Tzain and I slip down the alleys between the rusted structures of Gombe, blending into the shadows and darkness.
A city of iron and foundry, Gombe’s factories run late into the night. Erected by Welders before the Raid, metal structures rise and bend in impossible shapes.
Unlike the tiers dividing the classes of Lagos, Gombe is split into four quadrants, partitioning residential life from its iron exports. Through the dust-covered windows divîners work, forging Orïshan goods for the next day.
“Wait.” Tzain holds me back as a patrol of armored guards clunk by. “Okay,” he whispers when they pass, but his voice lacks its usual determination. This will work, I repeat in my head, wishing I could convince Tzain as well. When this is over, Zélie will be alright.
With time, the streets of cluttered, cramped mills transform into the towering iron domes of the downtown district. As bells ring, released workers swarm us, each covered in dust and ferrous metal burns. We follow the swell toward the music and drums pumping into the night. As the aroma of liquor replaces the stench of smoke, a cluster of bars appears, each nestled under a small, rusted dome.
“Will he be here?” I ask as we walk up to a particularly shoddy structure that hums quieter than the rest.
“It’s the best place to look. When I was in Gombe last year for the Orïshan Games, Kenyon and his team took me here every night.”
“Good.” I muster a smile for Tzain’s sake. “That’s all we need.”
“Don’t be so sure. Even if we find him, I doubt he’ll want to help.”
“He’s a divîner. He won’t have a choice.”
“Divîners rarely have choices.” Tzain raps his knuckles against the metal door. “When they do, they usually choose to look after themselves.”
Before I can respond, a slit in the door slides open. A gruff voice barks out, “Password?”
“Lo-ïsh.”
“That’s old.”
“Oh…” Tzain pauses, as if the right word might appear out of thin air. “That’s the only one I know.”
The man shrugs. “Password changes every quarter moon.”
I push Tzain aside and climb onto my tiptoes, straining to reach the slit. “We do not live in Gombe, sir. Please, help us.”
The man narrows his eyes and spits through the slit. I recoil in disgust. “No one gets in without a password,” he seethes. “Especially not some noble.”
“Sir, please—”
Tzain moves me aside. “
If Kenyon’s in there, can you let him know I’m here? Tzain Adebola, from Ilorin?”
The slit slams shut. I stare at the metal door in dismay. If we don’t get inside, Zélie’s as good as gone.
“Is there another way in?” I ask.
“No,” Tzain groans. “This was never going to work. We’re wasting time. While we stand here, Zél’s probably de—” His voice catches and he closes his eyes, steeling everything inside. I unfold his clenched fists and reach for his face, placing my hands on his cheeks.
“Tzain, trust me. I will not let you down. If Kenyon isn’t here, we can find someone else—”
“Gods.” The door swings open and a large divîner appears, dark arms covered in sleeves of ornate tattoos. “I guess I owe Khani a gold piece.”
His white hair clumps in long, tight locs, all piled atop a bun on his head. He wraps his arms around Tzain, somehow eclipsing his massive frame.
“Man, what’re you doing here? I’m not supposed to beat your team for two weeks.”
Tzain forces a laugh. “It’s your team I’m worried about. Heard you twisted your knee?”
Kenyon pulls up the leg of his pants, revealing a metal brace anchored around his thigh. “Doctor says it’ll heal before qualifiers, but I’m not worried. I could take you in my sleep.” His eyes move to me, slow and indulging. “Please tell me a pretty little thing like you didn’t come here just to see Tzain lose.”
Tzain shoves Kenyon and he laughs, sliding his arm around Tzain’s neck. It amazes me that Kenyon can’t sense the desperation Tzain holds back.
“He’s good, D.” Kenyon turns to the bar’s guard. “Promise. I can vouch for him.”
The owner of the gruff voice peeks around the door. Though he appears to be only in his twenties, his face is marked with scars. “Even the girl?” He nods at me. Tzain slides his hand over mine.
“She’s fine,” Tzain vouches for me. “Won’t say a word.”
“D” hesitates but steps back, allowing Kenyon to lead us inside. Though he makes sure to glare at me until I disappear from his sight.
The thud of drums reverberates through my skin as we enter the ill-lit bar. The dome is packed, and the patrons are young; no one looks much older than Kenyon or Tzain.
Everyone shrinks in and out of shadows, shrouded by weak, flickering candlelight. Its glow illuminates the chipping paint and patches of rust marring the walls.