Sanjeet gripped the edge of the damp stone bench. “Dayo will inherit the Imperial Guard and the entire Army of Twelve Realms. He will need help commanding a force that large.” In the hollow of his chest, sweat glistened from when he had wrestled the shovel from Dayo. “I will be what he needs me to be.”
A moment passed in silence. “Do you think Kirah’s right? That nothing can be done about the Songland Redemptors?”
“I don’t know,” he replied. “But we need that Treaty with the Underworld. Without one, Aritsar will never have peace.”
“But we could change the Treaty,” I suggested. The renewal ceremony was in six months. After the continent’s rulers accepted the Treaty’s terms, they would be forced to uphold them for another hundred years. Nothing would change. The Breach would devour thousands more children like Ye Eun. “I don’t know why all Redemptors come from Songland. But if we made a new deal—if we started over—we could make it fairer.”
Sanjeet shook his head. “The Arit rulers would never allow it. Redemptors used to be born in every realm. No one knows why it stopped, but I doubt anyone’s eager to go back to the way things were.”
I chewed my lip, scowling into the darkness. For just a moment, the old heat flashed in my chest, a demon restricting my lungs, roaring to get out. “Why does everyone hate change so much?” I demanded.
“Because things could get worse.”
“Maybe. But do you know what I think?” My chest throbbed. “I think deep down, we’re afraid that things could get better. Afraid to find out that all the evil—all the suffering we ignore—could have been prevented. If only we had cared enough to try.”
“That’s a grim prognosis.”
I shrugged, then crossed my arms over my chest, coaxing the burning to rest.
Sanjeet’s profile was tense in the garden shadows. I remembered the night we had first met. His features had still been boyish then; awkward and round. That was gone now—replaced by an angular, protruding brow, and the shadow of a dense curly beard. His ears were the only whimsical thing about him, sticking out from his head like conch shells. I had always liked those ears.
“If Dayo didn’t need your protection,” I asked, “if he didn’t remind you of Sendhil—would you still have joined the council?”
“Yes,” he said slowly. “I think so. On my campaigns, I’ve seen the scars of what this continent was like before. Back when the abiku did whatever they chose. Burning towns and demanding sacrifices, causing floods and plagues, setting realms against each other. If the Kunleos hadn’t made us work together, united us in a common goal . . . I don’t think the realms would have survived. Still, I doubt Enoba Kunleo was as perfect or peaceful as the history scrolls say. No one conquers an empire with charisma alone.”
“What about the councils?” I asked. “Do you think they’re perfect?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, his fingers brushed the top of my unbandaged hand, sliding in meditative circles down my wrist. “There she goes again,” he said. “Asking illegal questions. Even when we were small, a word, a small suggestion from Tarisai of Swana . . . and every candidate in the Children’s Palace would be buzzing about systems they would topple. Rules they would break.” He smiled at me, and my breath shortened. “You’re infectious, sunshine girl.” Then suddenly he withdrew his hand, balling it into a fist.
“What’s wrong?” My skin chilled where his fingers had been. He shook his head, but I pressed him. “Tell me.”
He sighed. “When I promised to protect Dayo, I didn’t just mean his life. I meant his heart too.”
“It’s not like you to be cryptic, Jeet.”
“Now is another one of those times,” he said, “that I would like to tell a lie.”
I laughed in spite of myself. It was an old joke now: Sanjeet’s crippling inability to sugarcoat. His honesty was his tribute to Sendhil—the lost brother with a Hallowed tongue that never lied.
Sanjeet inhaled, and then spoke as if battling his own nerve. “Dayo will need to sire a Raybearer someday. He has to choose a partner from our council. And it’s going to be you. Everyone knows it, and I’m not going to get in the way. I shouldn’t make things—complicated.”
I practically fell off the bench. “Oh, everyone, is it?” I stood and planted my hands on my hips. “All of Aritsar is just waiting around for Dayo to impregnate me?”
“Yes.” Sanjeet’s tone was unnervingly matter-of-fact. “Some courtiers thought it might happen before we left the Children’s Palace.”
“What the—” I gaped with disgust. People had been gabbing about Dayo bedding me since we were kids?
Sanjeet stood too, running agitated fingers through his dark curls. “Look, I’m not saying it’s right, it’s just . . . when you and Dayo are together . . . Tar, you’ve no idea how it looks. I can’t explain it. The two of you are like planets. Orbiting. Two sides of a coin.”
Beans in a pod. I shivered, remembering Dayo’s words from that night in the Children’s Palace.
“It won’t be long before Dayo stops seeing you as a sister.” Sanjeet’s jaw hardened. “And it’s time I accept that some things are set in stone.”
“Stone?” I snorted. “Don’t I have any say in this?”
Sanjeet’s expression remained carefully blank. “I assumed you felt the same way about him.”
“Well, stop assuming.”
“Because it’s none of my business?” Sanjeet fixed me with those tea-colored eyes. “Or because I’m wrong?”
“Uh, both?”
He swore softly and shifted his feet, shaking his head. “Sorry. I’m being stupid. Just . . . forget I said it.”
A long moment passed. “I’ve never wanted Dayo that way,” I said quietly. “All right? I’d kill for him. Die, even. But I’ve never wanted . . . more.” I considered. “Not like that.”
Several emotions crossed Sanjeet’s face. Most of them I couldn’t read—but one was unmistakable, spreading across his features like the shy halo of dawn.
Relief.
Dragonflies spun circles in my stomach. I turned on my heel, needing to be back with the others, anywhere but there, beneath the heat of those searching eyes.
“Going to bed,” I mumbled, tucking my bandaged hand beneath my arm and fleeing back through the wisteria arbor.
Sanjeet did not follow me. But the Ray fluttered at the back of my neck, and a deep, warm voice floated above my ear.
Sleep well, sunshine girl. I will take whatever dreams you give me.
CHAPTER 13
“Your council is heinously behind in its studies.”
“Glad to see you too, Uncle Thaddace,” Dayo quipped. “Feeling refreshed after your trip from the capital?”
It was early morning, mere hours after my talk with Sanjeet in the garden. Pigeons cooed from the window of my keep study, where I sat shoulder to shoulder with Dayo. Thaddace sat across from us at my kneeling desk, rolling his sharp green eyes at Dayo’s attempt at a joke.
Two of the Emperor’s Eleven visited Yorua Keep every month, overseeing the studies of the heirs who would replace them. The High Lord Judge and High Priestess had arrived from Oluwan City only an hour ago. The idea of meeting with High Lord Judge Thaddace had made me nervous, but I had been excited to meet with Mbali. I felt horribly underprepared to assume her position as Swana Delegate, and so Mbali had scheduled time this morning, offering to tutor me in Swanian economy and customs. But when I had arrived at my study, she wasn’t there.
“Oh—forgot to tell you,” Dayo had said, yawning and patting the cushion next to him. “I rescheduled your meeting with Aunt Mbali. You don’t want to discuss stuffy Swanian politics this early, do you? Besides, I want to hear what you have in mind for your First Ruling. I’ve invited Uncle Thaddace to consult.”
Surprised, I had put away my notes on Swana, pulling a stack of court cases from beneath the desk instead.
As Crown Prince, Dayo had the authority to dictate our schedules at the keep, though it was
unlike him to wield it. This was the second time Dayo had rescheduled my lessons with Mbali. Strangely, when she had visited months ago, Dayo suddenly needed my assistance on a trip to Yorua Village.
I shook my head, dismissing my annoyance. Dayo was right. The years leading up to my First Ruling would pass quickly, and I needed all the preparation with Thaddace I could get.
High Judge Apparents were granted a coming-of-age ceremony called the First Ruling: a way to foster the empire’s confidence in the young new judge. In the palace Imperial Hall, the High Judge Apparent would hear a controversial case, weigh the evidence, and bestow an official ruling. By imperial law, a High Judge Apparent’s First Ruling was irreversible—even by the emperor. Thaddace had written to Yorua Keep, asking that I review court cases backing up the pipeline and pick one to consider for my ruling.
“I see,” the High Lord Judge intoned, shrugging off his tartan-lined council cloak, “that the goodwill tour hasn’t made you children less incorrigible.” He looked wan; traveling by lodestone had probably wreaked havoc on his stomach. I was surprised he could sit upright at all.
“I’m sorry I’m behind in my studies, Anointed Honor,” I said, stifling a yawn. “We’ve had some trouble sleeping.”
“Yes. Well.” Thaddace adjusted the red mourning sash he wore around his neck for the lost citizens of Ebujo. “I can only imagine, after what happened in the temple. Your council made quite a mess, though it has also done an impressive cleanup. When Ai Ling gave her speech last month, she made Arit citizens feel safe again. Riots are at a minimum. You could learn from your council sister’s methods.”
I frowned. “How would Ai Ling’s speeches help me solve cases? Beg your pardon, Anointed Honor, but I’m not trying to make people happy. I’m trying to be fair.”
“Fair.” The overhang of Thaddace’s brow deepened. “I often find that term . . . short-sighted. But you will learn in time. Have you selected a case for your First Ruling?”
I produced a dog-eared stack of pages. I had spent weeks looking for a case that didn’t bore me, and once I had found one, I had worked into the small hours of every morning, determined to come up with a flawless ruling. I might have failed Ye Eun, but this was my chance to change something, to help people. At last I would shake off this deep, ugly feeling that for reasons I could not remember . . . I was a threat to everyone who trusted me.
Thaddace frowned over my chosen case, then made an incredulous noise as he read the title.” ‘Bipo of Nyamba versus the Imperial Council of Aritsar’?”
I nodded. “I thought it was a joke at first. But I checked the laws. If a citizen can prove that anyone—including the council—has hurt them unjustly, then they can submit a case to the Imperial Court.”
Thaddace’s brow wrinkled with amusement as he leafed through the pages. “I would be lying,” he said at last, “if I said I wasn’t impressed.”
“As you can see, Bipo is a beggar. He’s accusing our councils of being responsible for his life on the streets. When his parents died, he was kept at an orphanage workhouse, and never had a chance of learning a trade, or having a family.”
Thaddace’s eyebrows rose into his hairline. “And what exactly,” he asked, “do you propose we do about it?”
I sucked in a breath. “Rule in his favor,” I said, producing another stack of paper. My heart beat with excitement as I pushed the stack toward Thaddace. “We’re the wealthiest empire in five oceans, so why do we still have children wandering the streets? I call it the Lonesome Child Edict. Think: If we give Arit families silver for adopting orphans and teaching them a trade, then orphanages would empty overnight. We’ll send Imperial Guard warriors to check on each family, making sure the adopted children aren’t harmed. The reward would be higher for older children and misfits . . . I’ve written out all the details here.”
“Am’s story, Tar,” Dayo exclaimed, flipping through the pages. “This is brilliant. Uncle Thad, why didn’t we think of it sooner?”
A deep V had formed on Thaddace’s brow as he glanced over my edict and shook his head. He sighed, making a tent with his hands. “It is an admirable notion,” he said at last. “But ultimately, a foolhardy one. Do you know how many millions of greedy hovel-dwellers would swarm the orphanages in hopes of silver? Do you think they’d care a whit about a child’s well-being?”
“That’s what the guards are for,” I countered. “They could check.”
“How often? Every month until the child is grown? Every week? How much would that cost the crown? Would Imperial Guard warriors travel to every smallest hut in every farthest village, to check if a farm boy is too thin?”
“We could just . . . ,” I began, but stopped, biting my lip in embarrassment. I hadn’t actually calculated the cost of sending warriors to every village in Aritsar. The lodestone fare alone could vastly outweigh the price of running orphanages.
“But we have so much money,” Dayo blurted. “Surely the crown can do something.”
“I understand your objection,” Thaddace murmured. “Believe me, I do. When given the power of a High Judge, one wants to heal every wound in the empire’s body. But authority is not power. Not completely. It takes resources, sustainability. Popular support.”
“What about what’s fair?” I demanded. “For the children? For everyone?” I crossed my arms, staring at the notes I had worked on for weeks.
Adopted children must be permitted to call their carers “Mother” and “Father.” No caretaker shall be absent for more than one week, unless the child is informed of the caretaker’s whereabouts.
The child’s room must have a window, never to be boarded up.
The kindness did not leave Thaddace’s gaze, though the lines around his mouth deepened. “It took me many, many years to learn this, Tarisai. But justice is not about being fair. It is about keeping order.”
Wrong. Immediately, fire blazed in my chest, and I winced in surprise. The mysterious heat had rarely assaulted me since we left the Children’s Palace. What was wrong with me? I struggled to maintain my posture, breathing evenly. “If my ruling is impractical,” I asked, “what would you suggest instead, Anointed Honor?”
Thaddace considered for several moments, then sat up and rapped the table. “I have it,” he said, brightening. “You’ll rule in favor of Bipo, and win the hearts of every Arit noble in An-Ileyoba. But instead of the Lonesome Child Edict . . .” He took a new leaf from my desk, and a faint burning smell hung in the air as words appeared rapidly on the paper. I had never seen Thaddace use his heat-precision Hallow in person, though I’d received plenty of his calfskin letters before, inkless script tanned neatly into the hide. “You will introduce the Edict of Orphan Day,” Thaddace announced, and a new title smoldered at the top of my case notes. “A festival for family dreams. Decree a holiday in which all nobles take orphans into their homes for a day and a night. The nobility won’t require payment. They’ll do it because it’s fashionable, and to curry favor with the crown.” He snorted. “Hell, they’ll probably compete with each other. Who can lavish their orphan with the most luxury? It’s neat. Decorous.”
Useless, I thought glumly.
He put down the quill, wiping the ink from his fingers. “Children like your Bipo get a temporary family. A night in a villa, and a cartful of sweets. And no family is stuck with a child they won’t care for. Who knows? Maybe the nobles will get attached. They can be very sentimental.”
The ruling barely solved anything. But he had made my plan feel like fishing for the moon, while his looked so . . . plausible. Was it better to have a perfect solution that I couldn’t enforce? Or a weak solution that everyone loved?
Slowly, I gathered my draft of the Lonesome Child Edict and closed the papers in a drawer. “It certainly sounds orderly, Anointed Honor.”
“Good.” Thaddace smiled and then frowned, noticing my deflation. He produced a document from his robes. “I was going to wait before announcing this. But I see now that the sooner you are accustomed
to the realities of running an empire, the better. This edict is just in from the capital. In time, His Imperial Highness would like your assistance in promoting it. Another goodwill campaign, perhaps.”
He laid the imperial calfskin on the desk, and Dayo and I leaned forward to read it.
* * *
By decree of His Anointed Honor, High Judge Tkaddace of Mewe, in the name of His Imperial Highness Emperor Olugbade of Oluwan, descendant of Enoba the Perfect:
All griot drums, stories, and history scrolls of individual realms must be surrendered to the emperor’s forces. In exchange, citizens will receive gifts: new drums, scrolls, and songs, compliments of the crown.
These gifts will reflect the new stories of our beloved empire. The story of assimilation, of realms growing together instead of apart.
Families are encouraged to forgo realm names for their children, choosing instead names that reflect virtues of a united Aritsar. While this request is not mandatory, children with empire names will be rewarded with additional food for their families, as well as clothing cut from Empire Cloth: the new favored style of the capital.
The emperor thanks his subjects for ushering in this new era of unity and peace. Residences will be searched, and griots will be watched. Failure to comply will be met with discipline.
* * *
“I proposed the Unity Edict to Emperor Olugbade after the disaster at Ebujo,” Thaddace explained. “The realm loyalties displayed by Arit citizens on that day resulted in the loss of human life.” His pale hands clenched into fists. “Rewarding families for birthing isokens was a step in the right direction, but it clearly wasn’t enough. If the twelve realms continue to see themselves as separate entities instead of as one Aritsar . . . we will never survive another attack by the abiku.”
Dayo reached for my hands, which were clasped over my heart. The words of the edict had made the dragon in my chest return with full force, and I gasped, trying to fight it. But before I could respond, Thaddace’s sharp gaze drifted toward the woven study door flap. The severity melted from his features like butter, and without looking, I knew who had entered the room.
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