by Tomi Adeyemi
I look up to the sky, wishing I could see Orí peering through the clouds. Even in the darkest times the gods are always there. Zélie’s voice runs through my mind. They always have a plan.
Is this your plan? I ache to shout, desperate for a sign. Our promises, our Orïsha—however distant, there’s a world in which our dream still lies in our grasp. Am I making a huge mistake? Is there still a chance for me to turn back?
“You waver,” Father says.
A statement, not a question. He can probably smell the weakness leaking through the sweat on my skin.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter, and brace for his fist. But instead he pats my back and turns out to sea.
“I wavered, once. Back before I became king. When I was just a simple prince and got to follow my own naïveté.”
I remain still, worried that any movement will interrupt this rare peek at Father’s past. A glimpse of the man he might have been.
“There was a referendum going through the monarchy, a proposal that would integrate leaders of the ten maji clans into the nobility of our royal courts. It was my father’s dream to unify the kosidán and the maji, build an Orïsha like history had never seen.”
Unable to stop myself, I look up at Father, eyes wide at the thought. An act like that would be monumental. It would shift our kingdom’s foundation forever.
“Was it met with favor?”
“Skies, no.” Father chuckles. “Everyone but your grandfather was against it. But as king, he didn’t need their permission. He could make the final decree.”
“Why did you waver?”
Father’s lips press into a tight line. “My first wife,” he finally answers. “Alika. She was too softhearted for her own good. She wanted me to be someone who could create change.”
Alika …
I picture the face that might’ve accompanied that name. From the way Father talks about her, she must have been a kind woman, one with an even kinder face.
“For her, I supported my father. I chose love over duty. I knew the maji were dangerous, yet I convinced myself that with the right show of faith, we could work together. I thought the maji wanted to unify, but all they’ve ever craved is a desire to conquer us.”
Though he speaks no more, I hear the end of the story within his silence. The king who perished trying to help the maji. The wife Father would never hold again.
The realization brings back the horrible images of the Gombe fortress: metal melted to guards’ skeletons; bodies yellowed and ravished by horrible disease. It was a wasteland. An abomination. And all by magic’s hand.
After Zélie escaped, there was a carpet of corpses piled on top of one another. We couldn’t see the floor.
“You waver now because that is what it means to be king,” Father says. “You have your duty and your heart. To choose one means the other must suffer.”
Father removes his black majacite blade from its sheath and points to an inscription on the tip that I have never seen:
Duty Before Self.
Kingdom Before King.
“When Alika died, I had this blade forged, inscribed so that I would always remember my mistake. Because I chose my heart, I will never be with my one true love again.”
Father extends his sword to me and my stomach clenches, unable to believe the gesture. All my life, I’ve never seen my father without this blade strapped to his side.
“To sacrifice your heart for your kingdom is noble, son. It is everything. It’s what it means to be king.”
I stare at the blade; the inscription gleams in the moonlight. Its words simplify my mission, creating space for my pain. A soldier. A great king. That’s all I’ve ever wanted to be.
Duty over self.
Orïsha over Zélie.
I wrap my hand around the hilt of the majacite sword, ignoring the way it blisters my skin.
“Father, I know how we can get the scroll back.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
ZÉLIE
WHEN I SETTLE into the captain’s quarters below deck, I expect sleep to come easily. My eyes scream for it, my body cries even louder. Nestled between the cotton sheets and velvet panthenaire furs, I don’t know if I’ve ever slept in a softer bed. I close my eyes and wait to be pulled into blackness, but the moment unconsciousness takes hold, I’m thrown back into chains—
“I wouldn’t be doing my job as king if I didn’t remind you what you are.”
“I wouldn’t be doing my job as king unless—”
“Agh!”
My sheets are soaked in sweat, so drenched the captain’s bed might as well be in the sea. Though I’m awake, it feels like the metal walls keep closing in around me.
In an instant, I’m on my feet, running out the door. When I make it to the outside deck, the cool air hits me with a welcome gust of wind. The moon hangs so low in the sky its roundness kisses the sea. Its pale light illuminates me as I inhale the ocean air.
Breathe, I coach myself. Gods, I long for the days when the only thing I had to worry about when I closed my eyes was the dreamscape. Though the nightmare is more than past, I can still feel the knife cutting through my back.
“Enjoying the view?”
I whip around to find Roën leaning against the helm, teeth gleaming even in the dark. “The moon didn’t want to rise tonight, but I convinced her you were worth the trip.”
“Does everything have to be a joke with you?” My words are harsher than I intend, but Roën’s grin only widens.
“Not everything.” He shrugs. “But life’s a lot more fun that way.”
He shifts his stance, and the moonlight hits the splatters of blood on his fatigues and bandaged knuckles.
“All in a good day’s work.” Roën wriggles his bloodstained fingers. “Had to get those soldiers talking about your magical island somehow.”
Nausea rises to my throat at the sight of the blood on his hand. I gulp to keep it down. Ignore him. I turn back to the sea, grasping on to the calm it brings.
I don’t want to picture the mess he made of those men. I’ve seen enough blood. I’ll stay here, within the crashing waves, where it’s soft and safe. Here, I can think of swimming. Of Baba. Of freedom—
“The scars.” Roën’s voice cuts into my thoughts. “Are they new?”
I glare at him like he’s an Orïshan honeybee begging to be smashed. “They’re none of your damn business.”
“If you’re looking for some advice, they could be.” Roën pulls back his sleeve, and all the venom I want to spit evaporates. Crooked tallies mar his wrist, traveling up his arm, disappearing underneath his shirt.
“Twenty-three,” he answers my unasked question. “And yes, I remember each mark. They killed one of my crew members in front of me each time they carved a new one.”
He runs his finger down one crooked line in particular, face hardening with the memory. Watching him, my own scars prickle. “The king’s guards?”
“Nope. These kind and gracious men were from my home. A land across the sea.”
I stare at the horizon, imagining a different ship route, a place away from the ritual, from magic, from Saran. A land where the Raid never happened at all.
“What’s it called?”
“Sutōrī.” Roën’s gaze grows distant. “You’d like it there.”
“If it’s full of tally marks and scoundrels like you, I can assure you that’s one kingdom I’ll never see.”
Roën smiles again. A nice smile. Warmer than I expect. But knowing what I know so far, this smile could appear when he tells a joke or slits another man’s throat.
“Level with me.” He steps closer, looking me straight in the eye. “In my humble experience, the nightmares and scars take time to heal. Right now your wounds are a bit too fresh for my comfort.”
“What’re you trying to say?”
Roën puts a hand on my shoulder; it’s so close to the scars I flinch out of instinct.
“If you can’t do this, I need to know. Don’t—” H
e stops me before I interject. “This isn’t about you. I couldn’t speak for weeks after I got my scars. I certainly couldn’t fight.”
It’s like he’s in my head, like he knows my magic’s run dry. I can’t do this, I scream inside. If an army’s waiting, we’re sailing to our deaths.
But the words stay in my mouth, burrowing back down. I have to trust the gods. I need to believe that if they took me this far, they won’t turn their backs on me now.
“Well?” Roën presses.
“The people who gave me my scars are the ones on those ships.”
“I’m not putting my men in danger so you can get revenge.”
“I could skin Saran alive and I still wouldn’t have my revenge.” I shrug off his hand. “It’s not about him. It’s not even about me. If I don’t stop him tomorrow, he’ll destroy my people like he destroyed me.”
For the first time since the torture, I feel a hint of the old fire that used to roar louder than my fear. But its flame is weak now; as soon as it flickers, it’s blown out by the wind.
“Fine. But if we go in there tomorrow, you better stay strong. My men are the best, but we’re going against a fleet. I can’t afford for you to freeze up.”
“Why do you even care?”
Roën’s hand flies to his heart, feigning a wound. “I’m a professional, love. I don’t like to disappoint my clients, especially when I’ve been chosen by the gods.”
“They’re not your gods.” I shake my head. “They didn’t choose you.”
“Are you sure?” Roën’s smile turns dangerous as he leans against the railing. “There are over fifty mercenary clans in Jimeta, love. Fifty caverns you and your staff could’ve stumbled into. Just because the gods didn’t blast through the ceiling of my cave doesn’t mean they didn’t choose me.”
I search Roën’s eyes for mischief, but I find none. “That’s all you need to face an army? A belief in divine intervention?”
“It’s not a belief, love, it’s insurance. I can’t read the gods, and in my line of work it’s best not to mess with things I can’t read.” He turns to the sky and shouts, “But I prefer to be paid in gold!”
I burst out laughing, and it feels foreign—I never thought I would laugh again.
“I wouldn’t wait on that gold.”
“I don’t know about that.” Roën reaches out and cups my chin. “They did send a mysterious little maji into my cavern. I’m sure more treasure will follow.”
He walks away, pausing only to call back, “You should talk to someone. The jokes don’t help much, but talking does.” His foxer smile returns, mischief lighting in his steel-colored gaze. “If you’re interested, my room’s next to yours. I’ve been told I’m an excellent listener.”
He winks, and I roll my eyes as he walks away. It’s as if he can’t stomach being serious for more than five seconds.
I force myself to turn back to the sea, but the longer I stare into the moon, the more I realize he’s right. I don’t want to be alone. Not when tonight could be my last night. Blind faith in the gods may have taken me this far, but if I’m going to get on that island tomorrow, I need more.
I fight my hesitation and walk through the ship’s narrow hallway, passing Tzain’s door, then my own. I need to be with someone.
I need to tell someone the truth.
When I come to the right room I knock softly, heart pounding when the door swings open.
“Hey,” I whisper.
“Hi.” Amari smiles.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
AMARI
ZÉLIE FLINCHES as I comb through the final section of her hair. The way she squirms and writhes under my touch, you would think I’m stabbing her scalp with my sword.
“Sorry,” I apologize for the tenth time.
“Someone has to do it.”
“If you just combed it every few days—”
“Amari, if you ever see me combing my hair, please call a Healer.”
My laughter bounces against the metal walls as I separate her hair into three parts. Although it’s difficult to comb, a twitch of envy runs through me when I start the last braid. Once smooth as silk, Zélie’s white hair is now coarse and thick, framing her beautiful face like a lionaire’s mane. She doesn’t seem to notice the way Roën and his men stare at her when she looks the other way.
“Before magic went away, my hair looked like this.” Zélie speaks more to herself than to me. “Mama had to hold me down with animations to get a comb through my hair.”
I laugh again, picturing stone animations chasing after her for this simple task. “I think my mother would’ve loved those. There weren’t enough nannies to keep me from streaking through the palace.”
“Why were you always naked?” Zélie smiles.
“I don’t know,” I giggle. “When I was young, my skin felt so much better without clothes.”
Zélie clenches her teeth as the braid reaches the nape of her neck. The easiness between us falls away, something that keeps happening again and again. It’s like I can see the wall building up around her, bricks built from unspoken words and cemented with painful memories. I release the braid and rest my chin on her scalp.
“Whatever it is, you can talk to me.”
Zélie’s head drops; she wraps her hands around her thighs and pulls her knees to her chest. I squeeze her shoulder before finishing the last braid.
“I used to think you were weak,” she whispers.
I pause; I wasn’t expecting that. Of all the things Zélie probably used to think of me, “weak” could be the nicest.
“Because of my father?”
She nods, but I sense her reluctance. “Every time you thought about him, you shrank. I didn’t understand how someone could wield a sword the way you do and still hold so much fear.”
I run my fingers along her braids, trailing the lines in her scalp. “And now?”
Zélie closes her eyes, muscles tensing. But when I wrap my hands around her, it’s like I can feel the cracks in her dam.
The pressure builds, pushing against all her emotions, all her pain. When she can bear it no longer, the sob I know she’s been holding back breaks free.
“I can’t get him out of my head.” She squeezes me as hot tears fall onto my shoulder. “It’s like every time I close my eyes, he’s wrapping a chain around my neck.”
I hold Zélie close as she sobs into my arms, releasing everything she’s been trying to hide. My own throat chokes up with her cries; it’s my family who’s caused her all this pain. Holding Zélie makes me wonder about Binta and all the days she probably needed this. She was there for me in all my struggles, yet I never got to be there for her in the same way.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “For what my father did. For what he’s done. I’m sorry Inan couldn’t stop it. I’m sorry it took us both so long to try to right Father’s wrongs.”
Zélie leans into me, letting my words sink in. I’m sorry, Binta, I think to her spirit. I’m sorry I didn’t do more.
“The first night we escaped, I couldn’t fall asleep in that forest no matter how hard I tried.” I speak softly. “I was barely conscious, but each time I closed my eyes I saw Father’s black blade ready to cut me down.” I pull back and wipe away her tears, staring straight into her silver eyes. “I thought if he ever found me I would shatter, but do you know what happened when I saw him in the fortress?”
Zélie shakes her head and the moment returns, making my pulse quicken. The memory of Father’s rage flares, yet what I remember is the weight of my sword in my hand.
“Zélie, I grabbed my blade. I almost ran after him!”
She smiles at me and for a moment, I see Binta in the way it softens her features. “I expect nothing less of the Lionaire,” Zélie teases.
“I can recall a day where the Lionaire was told to get herself together and stop being such a scared little princess.”
“You’re lying.” Zélie laughs through her tears. “I was probably a lot meaner.”
<
br /> “If it makes you feel better, you did push me into the sand before you said it.”
“So is it my turn?” Zélie asks. “Is this where you push me?”
I shake my head. “I needed to hear that. I needed you. After Binta died, you were the first person to treat me like more than some silly princess. I know you may not see it, but you believed I could be the Lionaire before anyone ever uttered that name.” I wipe away the remainder of her tears and place my hand on her cheek. I couldn’t be there for Binta, yet being with Zélie, I feel the hole in my heart closing. Binta would’ve told me to be brave. With Zélie, I already am.
“No matter what he did, no matter what you see, believe me when I tell you it is not forever,” I say. “If you broke me free, you will find a way to save yourself.”
Zélie smiles, but it only lasts an instant. She closes her eyes and clenches her fist, the way she always does when practicing an incantation.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“I can’t…” She looks down at her hands. “I can’t do magic anymore.”
My heart seems to stop, sluggish, heavy in my chest. I clasp Zélie’s arms tight. “What are you talking about?”
“It’s gone.” Zélie grips her braids, pain etched into her face. “I’m not a Reaper anymore. I’m not anything.”
The weight Zélie bears on her shoulders threatens to break her back. All I want to do is comfort her, yet this new reality makes my arms feel like lead.
“When did it happen?”
Zélie closes her eyes and shrugs. “When they cut me, it was like they cut the magic out of my back. I haven’t been able to feel anything since.”
“What of the ritual?”
“I don’t know.” She takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I can’t do it. No one can.”
Her words rip the floor out from under me. I can almost feel myself falling through the hole. Lekan said only a maji tethered to Sky Mother’s spirit could perform the ritual. Without another sêntaro to awaken others, no one else can take Zélie’s place.
“Perhaps you just need the sunstone—”
“I tried that.”
“And?”