Children of Blood and Bone (Legacy of Orisha)

by Tomi Adeyemi

  “I tried that.”

  “And?”

  “Nothing. It doesn’t even feel warm.”

  I chew on my bottom lip, brows furrowed as I try to figure out something else. If the sunstone isn’t helping her, I doubt the scroll will.

  “Didn’t this happen in Ibeji?” I ask. “After the arena battle? You said your magic felt blocked.”

  “Blocked, not gone. It felt stuck, but it was still there. Now I feel nothing.”

  Hopelessness builds inside me, making my legs go numb. We should turn back. We should wake one of Roën’s men and redirect the ship.

  But through it all Binta’s face shines through, overpowering my fear, Father’s wrath. I’m taken back to that fateful day a moon ago, standing in Kaea’s quarters, holding the scroll. The odds were against us then. Reality told us we would fail. But again and again, we fought. We persevered. We rose.

  “You can do it,” I whisper, feeling it even more when I say it aloud. “The gods chose you. They don’t make mistakes.”

  “Amari—”

  “I’ve watched you do the impossible since the first day we met. You’ve taken on the world for the people you love. I know you can do the same to save the maji.”

  Zélie tries to look away, but I grab her face and force her to meet my eyes. If only she could see the person I see now, the champion prevailing inside.

  “You’re that sure?” she asks.

  “I have never been more sure of anything in my life. Besides, just look at you—if you cannot do magic, no one can.”

  I hold up a mirror, showing Zélie the six thick plaits that fall to the small of her back. Her hair’s grown so curly over the past moon I forgot its former length.

  “I look strong.…” She fingers her braids.

  I smile and put the mirror down. “You should look like the warrior you are when you bring magic back.”

  Zélie squeezes my hand, something sad still leaking through her grip.

  “Thank you, Amari. For everything.”

  I rest my forehead against hers, and we sit in a comfortable silence, translating our love through touch. The Princess and the Warrior, I decide in my head. When they tell the story of tomorrow, that is what they shall call it.

  “Will you stay?” I pull back to look at Zélie’s face. “I don’t want to be alone.”

  “Of course.” She smiles. “Something tells me I might actually fall asleep in this bed.”

  I roll over to make space and she climbs in, nestling under the panthenaire covers. I lean over to put out the torchlight, but Zélie grabs my wrist.

  “You really think this will work?”

  My smile falters for a moment, but I hide it.

  “I think no matter what, we have to try.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

  ZÉLIE

  THE SKY LIGHTENS to pinks and tangerines as sunrise nears. Soft clouds move across the colors with ease, almost peaceful despite what today could bring. I’m eternally grateful for the navy’s armor when I grab the helmet that obscures my face. I put it on and tuck in my braids as Roën approaches with his mischievous grin.

  “I’m sorry we didn’t get a chance to chat last night.” A fake pout fills his face. “If this was about your hair, you should know I’m an excellent braider, too.”

  I narrow my eyes, hating that the uniform suits him. He wears the armor with confidence; if I didn’t know better, I would think it was actually his.

  “Nice to see a day of impending death hasn’t dampened your spirits.”

  Roën’s smile widens. “You look good,” he whispers as he fastens his helmet. “Ready.”

  With a sharp whistle he rallies our crew and everyone huddles up. Amari and Tzain push their way to the front, followed by Kenyon and the four members of his team. Tzain gives me an encouraging nod. I force myself to nod back.

  “I interrogated Saran’s soldiers last night.” Roën’s voice rises above the sea wind. “They’ll be stationed around the perimeter of the island and within the temple itself. There’s no way to avoid them when we dock, but if we don’t draw attention to ourselves, we shouldn’t arouse suspicion. They’re expecting Zélie to storm in with a maji army, so as long as we’re in their armor, we’ll maintain the element of surprise.”

  “But what about when we get inside the temple?” Amari asks. “Father will order his soldiers to shoot at the first sign of a disturbance. Unless we divert their forces, they’ll attack the moment they see us with the sacred artifacts.”

  “When we’re near the temple, we’ll stage a distant assault to divert their forces. That should free Zélie up for the ritual.”

  Roën turns to me and gestures, giving me the floor. I step back, but Amari pushes me forward; I stumble into the center of the crowd. I swallow hard and clasp my hands behind my back, desperate to sound strong.

  “Just stick to the plan. As long as we don’t call attention to ourselves, we should make it to the temple alright.”

  And that’s when you’ll see I can’t do it. That the gods have abandoned me once again. That’s when Saran’s men will attack.

  That’s when we’ll all die.

  I swallow again, shaking away the doubts that make me want to run away. This has to work. Sky Mother has to have a plan. But the prodding eyes and anxious mutters tell me my words aren’t enough. They want a rousing speech. But I need one myself.

  “Gods…,” Tzain curses.

  We whip around to the small fleet anchored around the island coordinates. As the sun peeks over the horizon, the island materializes before our eyes. At first it’s transparent like a mirage out at sea. But as the sun rises, the island solidifies into a large mass of fog and lifeless trees.

  A warmth spreads through my chest, strong like when Mama Agba cast magic again for the first time. In that moment I felt so much hope. After all these years, I stopped feeling so alone.

  Magic is here. Alive. Closer than it’s ever been. Even if I can’t feel it now, I have to believe I will feel it again.

  I entertain the thought, pretending magic swirls through my veins, stronger than ever before. It would blister today, burning as hot as my rage.

  “I know you’re scared.” Everyone turns back to me. “I’m scared, too. But I know your reason for fighting is stronger than your fear, because it’s led you here. Each of us has been wronged by the guards, by this monarchy that’s sworn to protect us. Today we strike back for us all. Today we make them pay!”

  The shouts of agreement ring through the air; even the mercenaries join in. Their cries bolster my spirits, unlocking the words trapped within. “They may have a thousand men in their army, but not one of them has the support of the gods. We have magic on our side, so stay strong, stay confident.”

  “And if everything goes to hell?” Roën asks when the cheers die down.

  “Strike,” I answer. “Fight with everything you’ve got.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT

  ZÉLIE

  MY THROAT DRIES as I watch an endless sea of soldiers patrol the perimeter of the island. It’s like every soldier in Orïsha has come to stand guard.

  Behind them a forest of blackened trees rises, shrouded in mist and twisting smoke. The energy surrounding the forest bends the air above it, a sign of the spiritual power hiding within its trees.

  When the last of our disguised troop makes it off the rowboat, Roën leads us toward the temple. “Look alive,” he says. “We need to move.”

  The moment we set foot on the eastern shoreline, I instantly feel the spiritual energy at work. Even without the hum of magic in my bones, it radiates from the ground, flows from the burnt trees. As Roën’s eyes widen, I know he realizes it, too.

  We walk among the gods.

  A strange thrum fills me at the thought, not quite the rush of magic, but the surge of something greater. Walking through the island, I can almost feel Oya’s breath in the way the air chills around us. If they’re here, with me, then maybe I was right to trust them. Maybe
we actually have a shot.

  But to do that, we have to get past the guards.

  My heart slams against my chest as we pass through the endless rows of patrolling soldiers. With each step I’m convinced they can see through our helmets, but wearing the seal of Orïsha shields us from their gaze. Roën leads with a convincing strut, wearing the commander’s armor with ease. With his sandstone skin and confident gait, even real commanding officers step out of his way.

  Almost there, I think, stiffening when a soldier eyes us a moment too long. Each step toward the forest stretches into a breathless eternity. Tzain carries the bone dagger, while Amari’s grip tightens on the leather bag she uses to hide the sunstone and scroll; I keep my hand readied on my staff. But even when we pass the last of the perimeter troops, the soldiers barely spare us a glance. They keep their focus on the sea, waiting for a maji army that will never come.

  “My gods,” I breathe to myself when we make it past the soldiers’ earshot. My fragile calm explodes into nerves. I force air into my lungs.

  “We made it.” Amari grips my arm, skin paling beneath her helmet. Our first battle is over.

  Now another one begins.

  A cold fog rolls in as we travel into the forest, mist licking the trees. By the time we’ve journeyed a few kilometers, the fog is so thick it blocks out the sun and makes it hard to see.

  “Strange,” Amari whispers into my ear, arms outstretched to avoid hitting a tree. “Do you think it is always like this?”

  “I don’t know.” Something tells me the fog is a gift from the gods.

  They’re on our side.…

  They want us to win.

  I cling to the words of my speech, praying that they’re true. The gods wouldn’t abandon us now; they wouldn’t fail me here. But as we near the temple, no warmth pulses through my veins. There’ll be no hiding in the fog soon.

  I’ll be exposed for the world to see.

  “How’d you know?” I whisper as the temple looms through the fog, thinking back to that fateful day in the market. “In Lagos, why’d you come to me?”

  Amari turns, amber gaze bright through the white fog. “Because of Binta,” she answers softly. “She had silver eyes. Just like yours.”

  With her words, something clicks—a sign of the greater hand. We’ve been led to this moment, pushed in the tiniest, most obscure ways. No matter how this day ends, we’re doing what the gods intend. But what could be their purpose when no magic flows from my veins?

  I open my mouth to respond but stop when the spiritual energy thickens. It weighs us down like gravity, pushing against every step.

  “Do you feel that?” Tzain whispers.

  “It’s impossible not to.”

  “What’s going on?” Roën calls back.

  “It can only be—”

  The temple …

  No words can describe the sheer magnificence of the pyramid before us. It towers into the sky, each section carved from translucent gold. Like Chândomblé, intricate sênbaría decree the will of the gods. The symbols shine in the absence of light, but now that we’re here, the real battle begins.

  “Rehema,” Roën orders. “Take your team to the edge of the southern shoreline. Raise hell on the beach and disappear into the fog. Follow Asha’s lead to get away.”

  Rehema nods, pulling up her helmet until we can only see her light brown eyes. She bumps Roën’s fist before leading two men and two women into the fog.

  “What do we do?” I ask.

  “We wait,” Roën answers. “They should divert the army’s attention, freeing up the temple.”

  Minutes stretch into hours, an eternity that drags like death. Each second that passes is another second my mind tumbles in guilt. What if they’re captured? What if they die? I can’t have any more people perish for this.

  I can’t have more blood stain my hands.

  A black plume rises in the distance. Rehema’s distraction. It pushes through the fog, reaching high into the sky. Within seconds, a sharp horn pierces through the air.

  Guards stream out of the temple, taking off toward the southern shoreline. So many men race out that I quickly realize I can’t fathom the temple’s true size.

  When the first flood of soldiers passes, Roën leads us in, pushing against the heavy air. We ascend the golden steps as fast as we can, not pausing until we reach the ground floor and enter the temple.

  Vibrant jewels decorate every inch of the walls, exquisite in their design. Around us, Yemọja’s breathtaking image dots the golden walls in topaz and blue sapphire; waves of shimmering diamonds flow from each fingertip in light. Above us, the bright emeralds of Ògún glow, paying homage to his power over the earth. Through the crystal ceilings, I glimpse each plane—all ten floors dedicated to the gods.

  “You guys…” Amari nears a stairwell in the center of the floor traveling underground, and the sunstone glows in her hand.

  This is it.… I clench my clammy fists.

  This is where we’re supposed to go.

  “You ready?” Amari asks.

  No. It’s written all over my face. But with her nudge, I take the first step, leading us down the cold stairwell.

  Traveling through the narrow space, I’m pulled back to our time in Chândomblé. Like that temple, torchlight illuminates the tapered path, glowing against the stone walls. It brings me back to when we still had a chance.

  Back to when I still had magic.

  I touch my hand to the walls, sending a silent prayer to the gods. Please … if you can help me, I need it now. I bide my time as we descend farther and farther; sweat drips down my back though the air cools to a chill. Please, Sky Mother, I pray again. If you can fix this, fix it now.

  I wait for a glimpse of her silver eyes, for her electric touch through my bones. But as I begin to pray again, the magnificence of the ritual ground silences all words.

  Eleven golden statues line the hallowed dome, each towering into the sky. They rise above us with devastating height, looming like the mountains of the Olasimbo Range. In the precious metal, the gods and goddesses are carved with exquisite detail; from the wrinkles in Sky Mother’s skin to the individual coils of her hair, no line or curve is spared.

  Each deity’s gaze focuses on the ten-pointed star of stone gleaming below. Every point is marked by a sharp stone pillar, sênbaría carvings etched into all four of its sides.

  In the center, a single gold column is raised. Atop it, a circle is carved out. Round and smooth—the exact shape of the sunstone.

  “My gods,” Kenyon breathes as we step into the stale air.

  “My gods” is right.

  It’s like walking into the heavens.

  With each stride, I feel mighty under the gods’ watch, protected under their ethereal gaze.

  “You can do this.” Amari hands me the parchment and the sunstone. She takes the bone dagger from Tzain and slips it into the waist of my uniform.

  I nod and take the two sacred objects. You can do this, I repeat. Just try.

  I step forward, prepared to bring this journey to an end. But then a figure moves in the distance.

  “Ambush!” I cry out.

  I flick open my staff as hidden men emerge. They move like shadows, crawling out from behind every statue, every pillar. In the frenzy we all bare our blades, eyes darting to find the next attack. But when the blurs settle, I see Saran, a smirk of satisfaction on his face. Then I see Inan, face pained, majacite blade in his hand.

  The sight rips straight through me; a betrayal colder than ice. He promised.

  He swore he wouldn’t get in my way.

  But before I can truly break, I see the worst of it. A sight so alarming, it doesn’t even seem real.

  My heart stops as they bring him forward.

  “Baba?”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE

  ZÉLIE

  HE’S SUPPOSED TO BE SAFE.

  This one thought keeps me from accepting the truth. I scan the guards for Mama Agba’s wri
nkled form, waiting for her attack. If Baba’s with the guards, where is she? What did they do to her? After everything, she can’t be dead. Baba can’t be standing here.

  Yet he trembles under Inan’s grip … ripped clothes, gagged, bloodied face. They’ve beaten him for my mistakes. And now they’ll take him.

  Just like they took Mama.

  Inan’s amber eyes trap me in the truth of his betrayal, but it isn’t the gaze I know. He’s a stranger. A soldier. The shell of the little prince.

  “I assume the situation speaks for itself, but since your people are daft, I’ll break it down. Relinquish the artifacts, and you can take your father back.”

  Just the sound of Saran’s voice closes the metal chains against my wrists—

  I wouldn’t be doing my job as king if I didn’t remind you what you are.

  He stands clothed in rich purple robes, defiance in his snarl. But even he looks small against the statues of gods staring him down.

  “We can take ’em,” Kenyon whispers from behind. “We have our magic. They only have guards.”

  “We can’t risk it.” Tzain’s voice cracks.

  Baba gives the slightest shake of his head. He doesn’t want to be saved.

  No.

  I step forward but Kenyon grips my arm, whipping me around. “You can’t surrender!”

  “Let me go—”

  “Think of someone other than yourself! Without the ritual all the divîners will die—”

  “We’re already dead!” I shriek. My voice echoes against the dome, revealing the truth I wish I could change. Gods, please! I plead one last time, but nothing happens.

  They’ve abandoned me once again.

  “My magic’s gone. I thought it would come back, but it hasn’t.…” My voice shrivels and I stare at the floor, biting back the shame. The anger. The pain. How dare the gods force themselves back into my life only to break me this way.

  Against everything, I try once more, searching for any remnant of ashê that might remain. But they’ve discarded me.

  I won’t let them take anything else away.

  “I’m sorry.” The words are hollow, but they’re all I have. “But if I can’t do the ritual, I’m not going to lose my father.”