Raybearer

  “We have never quite agreed on that point, Thaddace.” The High Priestess of Aritsar leaned against the doorframe, light grazing the threads of her pale yellow wrapper.

  “Good morning, Aunt,” Dayo greeted. For just a moment, he winced nervously, glancing between me and Mbali. “You’re not here to give Tarisai Swana lessons, are you? We still have a lot to cover with Uncle Thad.”

  “Let me guess.” Mbali’s voice was like thrush song, bright and clear. “The High Lord Judge has been impressing you with his unique definition of justice?”

  “He said there’s no such thing,” I muttered, finally managing to cool the heat in my chest. “That there’s only order.”

  Mbali’s soft, round nose flared with distaste. Bangles winked on her toned black arms as she challenged Thaddace. “You are perfectly aware,” she said, “that in the Storyteller’s eyes, justice begets order.”

  Thaddace flushed. “I’m just trying to keep our world from falling apart.”

  “But when the cause is right, we have risked chaos before.” Mbali smiled at him inscrutably. “Haven’t we?”

  The air shivered above me: the crisp energy of council members speaking through the Ray. Thaddace and Mbali were having a private conversation, and judging from the way their gazes roved over each other . . . I was grateful I couldn’t hear it.

  When the silent exchange was over, Mbali entered the study. But her steps faltered—like Thaddace, she was still recovering from their lodestone journey.

  Mbali laughed when Dayo and I rose to steady her. The sweet scent of cocoa butter washed over me as she embraced us. When my cheek touched hers, Mbali purposely showed me a memory: Dayo and I, age eleven, giggling with stolen sweets as we ran hand in hand from the Children’s Palace kitchens, unaware of Mbali’s gaze, watching us through a hidden door in the wall.

  She winked at me, then touched her pelican pendant and tapped my and Dayo’s chins, a blessing. “Am’s Story, Thaddace. Only yesterday, these two were lisping the Candidate’s Prayer in the Hall of Dreams. Are these the same troublemakers?”

  “Yes, they are,” Thaddace said shortly, and Mbali smirked at him over our heads.

  “You know you’ve missed them. And I’ve come to take your star pupil away; she’s needed in the gardens.”

  Thaddace frowned. “She is eons behind in study. We’ve barely begun—”

  “Twelve realms, Thad; it’s a holiday.” She gestured out to the hallway, where Yorua Keep servants bustled with palm wreaths, sides of uncooked goat, and platters of peeled plantain.

  Today was Nu’ina Eve: a festival observing when Am the Pelican fed its blood to Queen Earth, nursing her back to health and creating humankind. It was the only shared holiday of the four major religious sects of Aritsar. That evening, our council would ride in a processional to Yorua Village, where revels would last till dawn.

  “The children will need to prepare,” said Mbali. “The braiders have already arrived; that’s why Tarisai is wanted in the garden. She had better go. I’m sure her council sisters cannot gossip properly without her.”

  “Not so fast,” Thaddace barked before I could escape through the door. He thrust a pile of cases into my arms. “Solve these while you’re out there sitting pretty. Find me if you get stuck. And for Am’s sake—stop trying to be fair.”

  CHAPTER 14

  “Look who finally escaped,” Kirah greeted me when I arrived in the garden. She patted the cushion next to her and scooted me a chalice of palm wine. The grass was littered with pillows and cosmetic bottles, and the smell of olive oil hung in the air. My council sisters chattered in a circle as braiders sat above them on stools, working fastidiously.

  “We thought Thunderbrow Thad would keep you forever,” Mayazatyl put in. “Wait—are those court cases?”

  “I had to bring them.” I clutched Thaddace’s assignments sheepishly as I sank onto a cushion. “He thinks I’m behind. I know, I know—” I shielded my face as Kirah, Mayazatyl, Thérèse, Ai Ling, and Emeronya pelted me with figs.

  Braiding parties were sacred: No studying was allowed. Once a month, the strict security of Yorua Keep lifted for beauty artisans to visit from the palace. Their deft fingers would comb away our weeks’ worth of tangles, styling our hair in the Oluwan court fashion: hundreds of braids, interwoven with soft wool yarn and burned at the ends so the plaits wouldn’t unravel. The style took hours to complete and lasted for weeks. I sat submissively as my braider tugged and raked my coils with a wide-toothed wooden comb, laying out lengths of richly dyed dark yarn that matched my hair.

  “Besides the figs, we’ve got fried chin chin dough. And palm wine,” Ai Ling said, pointing to each platter and smiling mischievously. “I managed to smooth talk the cook. He was saving it for the festival tonight.”

  “I do not think the revelers will miss it,” Thérèse said with mock gravity as an artisan braided white yarn into her pale tresses. “Some treats are more intoxicating than palm wine.”

  Mayazatyl spit out her drink, chortling. “Twelve realms, Reesy! I’d never expect to hear that from you—”

  “I may have been sheltered,” Thérèse said mildly, “but I was not born yesterday. In Nontes, we have Nu’ina Eve festivals too, though we call it Fête du Feu there. I knew what happened when a lady found a rosebud in her wine.”

  “In Oluwan, it’s not a rosebud,” said Kirah. “It’s a cowrie shell. Am’s Story, I hope I don’t find one.” She wrinkled her nose. “What would I trade it for?”

  “A kiss.” Mayazatyl grinned. “Or something naughty. It’s up to you, priestess.”

  Kirah turned pink. Emeronya’s features bent in a confused frown. “You are talking of sex,” she said in her blunt, deadpan way. She was the youngest of our council, barely thirteen. “Is that what Nu’ina Eve is like in Oluwan? A night for being drunk and making babies?”

  Ai Ling laughed, patting Emeronya’s knee. “Not just that. Poor Em. Don’t they have holy festivals in Biraslov?”

  Emeronya scowled, as she always did at the slightest hint of condescension. “In Biraslov,” she said with a sniff, “People of the Wing celebrate Nu’ina Eve with fasting and a vigil. Am’s gift to Queen Earth was a sacrifice, not a party.”

  “Then I’m glad I was born in Quetzala,” snorted Mayazatyl. “People of the Well know how to relax.”

  “So do People of the Wing,” retorted Kirah, who belonged to the same religious sect as Emeronya. She added, turning an even deeper shade of pink, “Though I’m not going to kiss anyone.” Which of course made Ai Ling and Mayazatyl tease her more.

  “The wine at the festival is filled with tokens,” I told Emeronya, knowing what it was like to feel left out. Catching up to the countless opulent traditions of Oluwan life had taken me years. “The tokens are shells, bits of bone, things like that. Some are bad, some are good. If you find a good token, you can trade it. A cowrie shell is worth . . . a favor.”

  “From a lover?” Emeronya asked.

  “From anyone you like.” I matched her deadpan tone, wiggling my eyebrows. In spite of herself, Emeronya laughed.

  “I wouldn’t trade with a boy,” she said. “Girls are prettier. Except maybe Theo.”

  “Theo wouldn’t kiss you,” Ai Ling informed her. “Last time I checked, he was still writing sappy love poems to farm boys in Yorua Village. Besides, council members can’t trade our cowrie shells. We’re not allowed to fall in love.”

  “Speak for yourself,” crowed Mayazatyl. “Though what Kameron and I did last Nu’ina Eve wasn’t love exactly . . .”

  “Maya,” I hissed in warning, glancing up at the braiders.

  Their expressions remained placid, and hardened yellow wax glistened on their earlobes. Any commoner who waited on the Prince’s Eleven was required to seal their ears so our affairs would remain private.

  “They can’t hear us,” said Mayazatyl. “Besides, everyone knows council members aren’t actually celibate. They’ve dallied for centuries. Have you read some of the messa
ges scrawled in the sleeping chambers of Yorua?” She smirked. “Then, of course, there’s Enitawa’s Quiver.” Mayazatyl waited as we watched her, taking a languid sip from her chalice and filing her nails with a small knife.

  Ai Ling rolled her eyes. “Fine, Maya, I’ll bite. What’s Enitawa’s Quiver?”

  Mayazatyl batted her lashes innocently. “Why, it’s only a tree. With smooth waxy branches that grow straight up, like arms twisting around each other. Warriors used to make their quivers from the wood, because it’s flexible and it sings.” She took another long sip from her chalice, relishing our anticipation. “When the wind blows, the branches hum like flutes. Loud enough to cover up any noises that a pair might make in Enitawa’s shadow.” My sisters giggled nervously. “The tree grows beneath a cliff north of Yorua, barely a mile away. Rocks block the spot from view. Council members have been meeting there for centuries.”

  Kirah’s face went blank, as it always did when she was trying to weigh the moral weight of something. “I know most of you have had dalliances,” she said slowly. “But what about imperial law? People who represent realms can’t be making calf eyes at each other. We’re supposed to be impartial, or our subjects will suspect our rulings of favoritism.”

  “Only if they find out,” said Ai Ling. “The point of councils is to prevent war. So if we maintain the empire’s sense of equality, it shouldn’t matter what we do in private.” She flashed a rueful smile—her real one, not the charming dimples she used when giving speeches. “We’re not the saints people think we are.”

  “You’re the High Judge Apparent,” Emeronya said, turning to me. “Will you throw us in prison if we have lovers?”

  I laughed, but wasn’t sure how to answer. Enforcing the law would be my job, after all. Or at least, I had thought it would be, before my tutoring session with Thaddace. His words colored my vision, making everything murky.

  Justice is not about being fair. It is about keeping order.

  “Ai Ling’s right, I guess.” I shrugged. “The purpose of councils is to prevent war. So as long as we protect Aritsar during the day . . .” My gaze drifted to the garden bench where I had sat with Sanjeet the evening before. “It shouldn’t matter what we do at night.”

  Thérèse hummed in warning. “If I learned anything from the Nontish court, it is this: What happens in the shadows always comes to light.”

  Hours later, the smell of burnt yarn filled my nostrils. My braider held a candle to the tips of my finished plaits, searing the ropelike ends shut one by one. I held my breath, sitting on my hands to keep them from shaking. It’s just a candle flame. Don’t be stupid. It can’t hurt you.

  She handed me a mirror. Hundreds of braids spilled over my shoulders, shining with oil and winking with tiny gold accents. I felt beautiful, but—

  I tapped the artisan’s ear, asking her to remove the wax. “It’s very tight,” I told her. “My scalp aches.”

  The braider raised an eyebrow. “With respect, Anointed Honor, that’s how ladies prefer it in the capital. Not like those unruly edges they sport in the countryside! Think of your title. Oluwan ladies rein every strand into place. Complete control.”

  I gazed at myself again, remembering how I had trembled over a candle. A candle. Perhaps I could use some control. “It’s perfect,” I told the braider, smiling, and she bowed smugly.

  As my council sisters made admiring noises over each other, I guiltily collected my assignments. I had barely touched them, and I cringed at the thought of facing Thaddace again. But he had offered help. Maybe I could find him before the festival tonight. Scalp aching and bottom numb from sitting, I left my cushion to find the High Lord Judge.

  The study was empty when I arrived. That was no surprise; after having his body jumbled by lodestone travel, Thaddace would have needed to recover in his rooms. I turned a corner, mounting the broad stairs that led to the guest chambers. Then I stopped. From a dim corridor leading to salons we never used, I heard a muffled growl that sounded strangely like Thaddace.

  I frowned and turned down the corridor. What was the High Judge doing in there? One of the salon’s woven door flaps hung slightly askew, as though it had been closed improperly. From its opening, a narrow beam of light cut across the floor. I approached slowly, raising my arm to knock on the door. My hand froze midair.

  On a dust-covered divan, Mbali straddled Thaddace, clasped to his lean chest. Clothing littered the floor. He buried his face in her neck while their bodies entwined beneath the slanted light of shuttered windows.

  I did not blink. If my eyes stayed open, I told myself, what I had seen would evaporate, like water from stones. I spun on my heel and swept back down the corridor. I was going to my room. I had always been going to my room. The salons had been empty, and I had seen no one.

  My slippers were mercifully noiseless on the rough tiles. I stepped from the corridor, nearly escaping the secret—and collided with a scullery man.

  “Anointed Honor.” Bobbing, the servant gathered up the rags and bucket I had made him drop.

  “Where are you going with those?” I asked. The question came out shriller than I had intended.

  “Dusting, Anointed Honor. Sorry. I’ll just—”

  I stood in his way and asked loudly, “Are you looking for Anointed Honor Thaddace?”

  “No, Anointed Honor. I was going to—”

  “Anointed Honor Thaddace is in his chambers,” I continued, my voice carrying down the corridor. “On the other side of the keep. He told me to take a message to Anointed Honor Mbali. Return to the kitchens and take each of them some palm wine. In fifteen minutes,” I finished slowly, “I am sure you will find Anointed Honor Thaddace in the western guest chambers, and Mbali in the eastern garden.”

  Behind me, I heard a faint scuffle from the salon. I smiled manically at the servant. “Off you go.”

  He bobbed again and retreated the way he had come. The smile remained on my face as my feet carried me back to the study. I laid the court cases neatly on the desk, sank onto the divan, and plopped face-first into the cushions.

  My sleeping chamber in Yorua Keep scarcely deserved the name. It was used only to store my possessions: my spear, piles of handmade gifts from commoners, and a daunting collection of tunics and wrappers. I stood naked as I sorted through piles of memory-soaked fabric. The musical din of markets rang in my ears, and my skin pricked with the acrid heat of dye vats. My body was suddenly made of fibers, letting the skillful hands of weavers press me together. Inanimate object memories were bewildering, and I usually avoided them—but today I welcomed the distraction.

  It had been hours since I’d walked in on Thaddace and Mbali. Water still beaded on my skin from the keep bathhouse, where my council had freshened up for Nu’ina Eve. In a marble chamber partitioned by gender, we had scrubbed with cocoa ash soap and swum in orchid-scented pools, careful to keep our yarn braids dry. Over a wall, I had heard my council brothers splashing and roughhousing. My ear had tuned to a voice deeper than the others: a laugh that rumbled like thunder across the echoing marble tiles.

  I ran agitated fingers over gowns and wrappers. I told myself I wanted to impress villagers at the festival. A future High Lady Judge should be seen at her finest. My indecision had nothing to do with a pair of broad shoulders and tea-colored eyes, nothing at all.

  I rubbed my skin with shea until it glowed. Rainbow beads stacked in towers on my arms and neck, in the Swana style. Most Arit fashion mixed elements from all over the empire, but Anointed Ones were encouraged to represent their home realms through their clothing. I wondered if this would change after Thaddace’s Unity Edict.

  The Nu’ina Eve festivities would be conducted by priests of all four Arit religious sects—including priests of the Ember. I shuddered, steeling myself in advance for copious displays of fire. Unable to extinguish the thought of flames from my mind, I held up a wrapper of red and cardamom yellow. I had designed the pattern myself; the Yorua village women had taught me how to make my own wax
-dyed cloth. In the keep courtyard, my council sisters and I spent hours using beeswax to draw patterns on yards of fabric. Once we finished, we plunged the cloth into vats of dye, and then into boiling water. The wax would melt away, leaving our intricate designs behind.

  I wound the garment around my body. Across my hips, a huntress and heavy-maned beast repeated in a pattern, silhouetted in ochre and crimson. The figures connected at tail and spear, so that the woman and monster blended together. Even when my eyes crossed from gazing, I could not tell which would devour the other.

  CHAPTER 15

  “You’re squirming,” Kirah yelled at me over the music, elbowing my arm. “You should join in.”

  “I don’t dance,” I said uncomfortably. “Leave me alone.”

  My council had arrived at Yorua Village in a parade of palanquins, guards, and liveried servants. The villagers had welcomed us with drums and palm leaves, flinging the branches across our path as they sang that ancient folk rhyme:

  Eleven danced around the throne,

  Eleven moons in glory shone,

  They shone around the sun.

  In return, we had brought food enough to feed the village for a week. We held the festival in an oceanside valley, beneath the glittering black quilt of the Oluwan night sky. The air smelled of cayenne and thrummed with talking drums. Spilled goat’s milk and honeywine ran ruts in the red earth. Rice and pepper stew rose in savory mountains on each table, and children’s faces glowed with grease and cream. My council watched the revelry from cushions on a narrow dais, piled high with the villagers’ gifts of herbs and good-luck carvings. Thaddace and Mbali had their own dais, and after Mbali blessed the Nu’ina festival, acolytes from the temples of Clay, Well, Ember, and Wing began their holy dances.

  All four religious sects in Aritsar worshipped the Storyteller, and believed in the basic catechism of creation. But People of the Clay revered Queen Earth above all else. Many lived in rural realms like Swana, Mewe, and Moreyao, and they refused to eat meat and opposed the clearing of jungles and development of cities. In contrast, People of the Well criticized Earth for her fabled infidelity to Water. Many of these believers lived in coastal realms, like Sparti, Nontes, and Djbanti, seafaring people who discovered islands and continents beyond Aritsar. But the most devoted inhabited the rainforests of Quetzala, praying at lakes and underground rivers. People of the Ember—the most popular religious sect in both Oluwan and Dhyrma—credited Warlord Fire with Earth’s wealth, and showed their gratitude by mining jewels and precious metals, and forging tools and weaponry. Finally, fastidious realms like Biraslov and Blessid Valley appealed to People of the Wing, who worshipped only the Pelican Storyteller. They covered their heads, spurned other gods as distractions, and embraced a life of simplicity, piety, and sacrifice.