Children of Blood and Bone (Legacy of Orisha)

by Tomi Adeyemi

  Kenyon unhands me. Hatred doesn’t begin to describe the looks I receive from the gathered men. Only Amari’s eyes are sympathetic; even Roën looks taken aback.

  I step forward, clutching the sunstone and scroll to my chest. The bone dagger presses into my skin, almost cutting with every step. I’m halfway across the floor when Kenyon yells, “We saved you!” His screams bounce against the walls. “People died for this! People died for you!”

  His words dig into my soul, into everyone I’ve left behind. Bisi. Lekan. Zulaikha. Maybe even Mama Agba.

  All dead.

  Because they dared to believe in me.

  They dared to think we could win.

  As I approach Inan, Baba’s shaking grows frantic. I can’t let him break my resolve. I don’t want them to win, Baba.

  But I can’t let you die.

  I clench the stone and scroll as Inan moves forward, gently guiding Baba ahead. The apology is stark in his amber eyes. Eyes I’ll never trust again.

  Why? I itch to scream, but it withers in my throat. With each step, the echo of his kiss presses against my lips and travels down my neck. I stare at his hands on Baba’s shoulders, hands I should’ve crushed. I swore I’d die before I let a guard have his way with me, yet I gave their captain free rein?

  I know we’re meant to work together. We’re meant to be together.

  His pretty lies play in my ear, each new one drawing more tears.

  We’d be unstoppable. A team Orïsha has never seen.

  Without him, Ilorin would still stand. Lekan would be alive. I would be here saving my people, not sealing their fate.

  As my tears burn, my insides rip raw. It’s worse than the searing of Saran’s knife. Despite everything, I let him in.

  I let him win.

  Baba shakes his head one last time, my last chance to run away. But it’s over now. It ended before it even began.

  I pull Baba out of Inan’s grip, dropping the parchment and stone on the floor. I almost reach for the bone dagger, but then I remember Inan has never seen it. I toss out Tzain’s rusted knife instead, keeping the true bone dagger hidden in my waistband. I can hold on to this one thing. This one artifact now that he’s taken everything else from me.

  “Zélie—”

  Before Inan can mutter another treacherous word, I take off Baba’s gag and walk away. As my footsteps echo against the ritual ground, I focus on the statues instead of the hateful glares.

  “Why?” Baba sighs. His voice is weak but rough. “Why when you were so close?”

  “I was never close.” I choke down a sob. “Never. Not even once.”

  You tried, I console myself. You did more than your best.

  It wasn’t meant to be. The gods chose wrong.

  At least it’s over. At least you’re alive. You can leave on that boat, find a new—

  “No!”

  I freeze as Inan’s cries ring against the dome walls in a deafening timbre. Baba throws me to the ground as a swoosh! flies through the air.

  I move to shield Baba, but it’s too late.

  The arrowhead pierces my father’s chest.

  His blood leaks onto the ground.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY

  ZÉLIE

  WHEN THEY CAME FOR MAMA, I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t think I would ever breathe again. I thought our lives were connected by a string. That if she died, I would, too.

  I hid like a coward as they bludgeoned Baba half to death, relying on Tzain to be my strength. But when they wrapped the chain around Mama’s neck, something in me snapped. As frightened as the guards made me, nothing compared to the terror of them taking Mama away.

  I chased her through the chaos of Ibadan, blood and dirt splattering against my small knees. I followed her as far as I could until I saw it.

  All of it.

  She hung from a tree like an ornament of death in the center of our mountain village. Her and every other maji, every threat to the monarchy crushed.

  That day I swore I’d never feel that way again; I promised they’d never take another member of my family. But as I lie paralyzed now, blood drips down Baba’s lips. I promised.

  And now I’m too late.

  “Baba?”

  Nothing.

  Not even a blink.

  His dark brown eyes are empty. Broken. Hollow.

  “Baba,” I whisper again. “Baba!”

  As his blood spreads onto my fingers, the world goes black and my body grows warm. In the darkness I see everything—I see him.

  He runs through the streets of Calabrar, kicking an agbön ball through the mud with his younger brother. The child in him has a smile Baba never had, a grin ignorant of the world’s pain. With a hearty kick, the ball bounces away and Mama’s young face appears. She’s stunning. Radiant. She takes his breath away.

  Her face fades to the magic of their first kiss, the awe of their firstborn son. The awe blurs as he rocks his baby daughter to sleep, running his hands over my white hair.

  In his blood, I feel the moment he woke after the Raid, the heartbreak that never ceased.

  In his blood, I feel everything.

  In his blood, I feel him.

  Baba’s spirit tears through my being like the earth ripping in half. Every sound rings louder, every color shines brighter. His soul digs deeper into me than any magic I’ve ever felt, deeper than magic at all. It’s not incantations that run through my veins.

  It’s his blood.

  It’s him.

  The ultimate sacrifice.

  The greatest blood magic I could wield.

  “Kill her!”

  The first two guards charge at me, swords pointed and raised. They run with a vengeance.

  The last mistake they will ever make.

  As they near, Baba’s spirit tears from my body as two sharp, twisting shadows. The darkness wields the power of death, commands the power of blood. They pierce through the soldiers’ breastplates, skewering them like meat. Blood splatters into the air as dark matter spills from the holes in their chests.

  The men choke on their last breaths, eyes bulging in defeat. They wheeze as their bodies crumble into ash.

  More.

  More death. More blood.

  The blackest part of my rage finally has the power it’s always craved, the chance to avenge Mama. Now Baba. I’ll take these shadows of death and end them.

  Each and every one.

  No. Baba’s voice rings in my head, steady and strong. Revenge is meaningless. There’s still time to make this right.

  “How?”

  I peer through the frenzy as Roën’s crew and Kenyon’s team lunge into battle. Revenge is meaningless, I repeat to myself. Revenge is meaningless.…

  As the words settle, I see it, the one person running away from the fight. Inan scrambles for the rolling sunstone through the madness, dodging the blades of Roën’s men.

  As long as we don’t have magic, they will never treat us with respect, Baba’s spirit booms. They need to know we can hit them back. If they burn our homes—

  I burn theirs, too.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE

  INAN

  THE GIRL I HELD in my sleep is nowhere to be seen.

  In her place a monster rages.

  It bares fangs of death.

  Two black shadows shoot from Zélie’s hands and hurtle forward like venomous snakes, hungry for blood. Vengeance. They pierce through the first two guards. Then something in Zélie’s silver eyes clicks.

  Her gaze homes in on me. The sunstone glows in my hand. I barely have time to draw my sword before the first shadow attacks.

  Pointed like a saber, it clashes against my sword, recoiling through the air. The next attack comes in fast. Too fast for me to block—

  “Prince Inan!”

  A guard lunges forward. He trades his life for mine. The shadow pierces through his body—he wheezes before turning to ash.

  Skies!

  I retreat into the insanity. Her shadows rear back for an
other attack. As I run, she chases after me. Her sea-salt soul rages like an ocean storm.

  Even with the sunstone’s surge, I can’t stop her. No one can. I’m dead.

  I died the moment her father hit the ground.

  Skies. I fight my own tears back. Zélie’s heartbreak still throbs in my core. A sorrow so strong it could shake the earth. He was supposed to live. She was supposed to be saved. I was going to keep my promises to her. I was going to make Orïsha a better place—

  Focus, Inan. I force out a deep, long breath and count to ten. I can’t give up. Magic is still a threat. One only I can end.

  I race across the dome to Orí’s statue. The outcomes run through my mind. If Zél performs the ritual, she’ll wipe us out. And then all of Orïsha will burn. I can’t let that happen. No matter what, my plan remains the same: take the stone; take the scroll.

  Take magic away.

  I hurl the sunstone toward the ground with all my might. For skies’ sake, please shatter. But it rolls away untouched. If anything’s to be destroyed, it has to be the scroll.

  I tear it from my pocket and dart into the frenzy. Zélie dashes after the stone. With the few seconds of life I have left, the gears in my head turn. Father’s old words ring. The scroll can only be destroyed with magic.

  Magic …

  What about my magic?

  I focus the energy of my mind onto the parchment, losing track of Zélie in the turmoil. A turquoise glow wraps around the weathered scroll. The scent of sage and spearmint fills my nose as a strange memory takes hold of my mind.

  The hysteria of the temple fades out. A sêntaro’s consciousness flashes in: generations of women with elaborate white ink tattooed into their skin. All chant in a language I cannot comprehend.

  The memory only lasts an instant, but the attempt is no good. My magic won’t do it.

  The scroll remains unharmed.

  “Help!”

  I spin as shouts ring; Zélie’s shadows skewer more men. Dark matter consumes their bodies as they’re bucked from the black arrowheads.

  Before they crash into the ground, the soldiers disintegrate into ash. In that instant everything clicks—the answer hidden in plain sight.

  Perhaps if I was a Burner, my flames could incinerate the parchment, but my Connector magic is of no use. The scroll has no mind for me to control, no body for my magic to paralyze. My magic can’t eliminate the scroll.

  But Zélie’s magic can.

  I’ve never seen her powers wielded this way. Her magic destroys everything in its path, vicious and twisting, howling as it tears through the sacred temple like a tornado. Its black arrowheads strike with the vengeance of spears, impaling armor, ripping straight through flesh. Anyone unfortunate enough to encounter them crumbles into ash.

  If I do this right, the scroll shall crumble, too.

  I take a deep breath. One that’ll probably be my last. Zélie’s fatal arrowheads shoot through the guts of four soldiers, leaving ruptures through their cores. Their bodies crumble into nothing but dust as they fall to the ground.

  As Zélie rips through more soldiers, I run forward.

  “This is all your fault!” I yell.

  Zélie skids to a halt. I don’t think I will ever hate myself more than I do now. But I need to draw this pain out of her. It can’t be about us.

  It never could.

  “Your father didn’t have to die!” I shout. It’s a line that shouldn’t be crossed. But I have to unlock her fury. I need a lethal blow.

  “Don’t speak of him!” Her eyes flash. All grief and hate and rage. Her anguish fills me with shame. Yet, I press on.

  “You didn’t have to come here. I would’ve taken him back to Lagos!”

  Shadows spin around her like a sharp wind sweeping into a tornado.

  She’s close now.

  My life is nearing its end.

  “If you trusted me, worked with me, he’d still be alive. Him.” I swallow. “Mama Agba—”

  The shadows charge me with a speed that takes my breath away. It’s all I can do to hold the scroll before my chest. In that instant, she realizes her mistake—the trap I’ve baited her into.

  She screams and jerks her hand back, but it’s too late.

  The shadows rip through the parchment as they arc.

  “No!” Zélie’s shrieks reverberate through the hallowed dome. The ash of the destroyed parchment falls through the air. The shadows wither and fade, disappearing as particles leak through her hands.

  You did it.…

  The fact doesn’t sink in. It’s over. I won.

  Orïsha is finally safe.

  Magic will die for good.

  “Son!”

  Father runs to me from the outskirts of the battle. A smile like I’ve never seen beams on his face. I try to smile back, but a guard closes in behind him. He raises his sword, targeting Father’s back. A mutiny?

  No.

  One of the mercenaries.

  “Father!” I shout. My warning won’t reach him in time.

  Without thinking, I draw on the surge of power left from the sunstone’s touch. Blue energy flies from my hands.

  Like in Chândomblé, my magic pierces through the mercenary’s head, paralyzing him in place. I freeze him long enough for a guard to cut through his heart. It saves Father from the attack.

  But the sight of my magic turns Father to stone.

  “It’s not what you think—” I start.

  Father jerks back, recoiling like I’m a monster he can’t trust. His lips curl back in disgust. Everything in me shrivels.

  “It doesn’t matter.” I speak so quickly it all blurs together. “I was infected, but it’s going away. I did it. I killed magic.”

  Father kicks the mercenary over with his feet. He claws at the turquoise crystals left in the assailant’s hair. He stares down at his hands, and his face twists. I can see him putting the pieces together. These are the same crystals he held in the fortress.

  The same crystals they plucked from Kaea’s corpse.

  Father’s eyes flash. He grips the hilt of his sword.

  “Wait—”

  His blade rips into me.

  Father’s eyes pound red with rage. My hands clutch at the sword, but I’m too weak to pull it out.

  “Father, I’m sorry—”

  He pulls out his sword with a mangled scream. I drop to my knees, clutching the gushing wound.

  Warm blood spills from the cracks between my fingers.

  Father brings his sword up again, this time for the final blow. There’s no love in his eyes. No hint of the pride that flashed just moments ago.

  The same fear and hatred that burned in Kaea’s final gaze stains Father’s now. I’m a stranger to him. No. I’ve given up everything to be his son.

  “Father, please,” I wheeze. I beg for his forgiveness as I pant. My vision blacks out—for a moment, all of Zélie’s pain leaks in. The destroyed fate of the maji. The death of her father. Her heartache mixes with my own; a sickening reminder of everything I’ve lost.

  I’ve sacrificed too much for it to end this way. All the pain I caused in his name.

  I reach out to him with a shaking hand. A hand covered in my own blood. It can’t be for nothing.

  It can’t end like this.

  Before I touch him, Father crushes my hand under the heel of his metal boot. His dark eyes narrow.

  “You are no son of mine.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO

  AMARI

  THOUGH A DOZEN MEN barrel forward, they are no match for the vengeance of my blade. By my side, Tzain tears through the guards with his ax, fighting though tears stream down his face. It is through his pain I fight, through his, through Binta’s, through every poor soul ended by Father’s life. All this blood and death—an endless stain on every breath.

  I rip through the guards with my blade, striking first with a debilitating attack.

  A guard tumbles when I slice through a tendon.

  Another fa
lls as I slash at his thigh.

  Fight, Amari. I spur myself onward, forcing myself to see past the Orïshan seals that adorn their armor, past the faces that fall from my sword. These soldiers are sworn to protect Orïsha and its crown, yet they betray their sacred vow. They come for my head.

  One swings a sword at me. I duck and it plunges into his fellow soldier instead. I prepare to strike the next when—

  “No!”

  Zélie’s cries from across the temple force me to pivot just as my blade pierces another soldier. She falls on her knees, shaking, ash spilling between her fingers. I run to help her but skid to a halt as Father raises his sword and plunges it into the stomach of one of his own soldiers. As the boy falls to his knees, his helmet slips off. Not a soldier.

  Inan.

  Everything inside me runs cold as blood spills from my brother’s lips.

  It is a sword through my own gut. It is my blood that spills. The brother who carried me through the palace halls on his shoulders. The brother who snuck me honey cakes from the kitchen when Mother took my dessert away.

  The brother Father forced me to fight.

  The brother who cut me in the back.

  It can’t be. I blink, waiting for the image to correct itself. Not him …

  Not the child who gave up everything to be everything Father wanted.

  But as I watch, Father raises his sword again, prepared to remove Inan’s head. He’s taking him away.

  Just like he took Binta.

  “Father, please,” Inan cries, reaching out with his dying breath.

  But Father steps on his hand and crushes it. “You are no son of mine.”

  “Father!”

  My voice does not sound like my own as I dash forward. When Father spots me, his rage explodes.

  “The gods have cursed me with you children,” he spits. “Traitors who stink of my blood.”

  “Your blood is the true curse,” I snap back. “It ends today.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE

  AMARI

  FATHER’S FIRST CHILDREN were loved, but they were frail and weak. When Inan and I were born, Father would not allow us to be the same.

  For years he forced Inan and me to trade blows and bruises under his watchful eye, never relenting, no matter how hard we cried. Every battle was a chance to correct his mistakes, to bring his first family back to life. If we got strong enough, no sword could take us down, no maji could burn our flesh. We fought for his approval, stuck in a battle for his love neither of us would ever win.