Raybearer

  To mortals, Bushland appeared no different than any other savannah or forest. A goatherd could wander from pasture to Bush-pasture without knowing it. Animals were better at sensing the difference, though plenty of cattle, lured by the smell of seductively sweet grass, had vanished overnight. The poor beasts emerged from the Bush several days later, half-starved and eyes white with madness, with fewer limbs—or sometimes more—than they had entered with. At present, however, no monster frightened me more than my own reflection. If it meant avoiding The Lady, I would cross every Bush in Aritsar.

  Disguised in our uniforms, Sanjeet and I left Yorua Keep with a cohort of Imperial Guard warriors. We traveled on foot; mules would have been no faster. They would have stumbled on the winding dirt path from the Yorua Cliffs and gone half-mad once we neared the Bush.

  The Lady did not appear to steal me away. Our Imperial Guard disguises seemed to have worked, but I remained skittish. Sometimes I saw her, a mirage lounging under a cliff, grinning like a lion at an antelope. She could so easily transform me into her lethal puppet: a sip from Melu’s pool, and I would turn on Sanjeet and the Guard warriors, racing back to the keep to finish the bloody job I had started.

  When Sanjeet had announced our plan to cross the Bush, the guards had inhaled sharply, blessing themselves with the sign of the Pelican. But Arit law forbade them from contradicting Anointed Ones directly, so they told stories among themselves instead.

  “Captain Bunmi,” said one of the warriors as we marched, “have you heard of Oro-ko, the Bush-spirit with no stomach?”

  “I have not, Yinka.” The captain was a tall old woman with a gold septum ring and a necklace of imperial sun-and-moon tattoos. She cocked her head at the warrior in feigned fascination. “Is Oro-ko as bad as the Bush-Wife, the spirit that lures infants into lakes?”

  “Much worse, Captain. Oro-ko is a spirit that cannot eat, so he forces travelers to eat for him!”

  “I do not believe it.”

  “It’s true, aheh! Once, Oro-ko lured a peasant and his son into the Bush, beguiling them with smells of saltfish and honeyed garri cakes. The son saw a great feast, and began to eat. But when he awoke from the trance, was it garri? I am not a liar: The son had eaten his father!”

  The warriors traded macabre stories for hours as we traveled, speaking loudly to ensure we would hear.

  “At least take a spear, Anointed Honor,” one of the warriors pleaded, noticing my empty halter. “You must protect yourself.”

  I smiled ruefully, glancing at Sanjeet. A weapon would make me more dangerous than any ghost-creature of the Bush.

  We stopped at a field thinly dotted with corkwood trees. Wind whistled through gnarled, long-reaching branches. Wood posts etched with skulls marked the edge of the otherwise serene meadow. The air hung faintly with kiriwi: Someone had planted the fragrant herb across the border, hoping to ward off evil. The downy plants had spread into the plain, marking an informal path.

  “Stay by the kiriwi,” Captain Bunmi said, doing her best to hide her anxiety. We had forbidden the warriors from accompanying us through the Bush. “And I beg, Anointed Honors: No matter what happens, stay together.” She considered us. “Perhaps you should hold hands—”

  “No need for that,” Sanjeet said. “We’ll be fine.”

  He tried to cross into the Bush, but I stopped him. “Me first,” I said. “If I’m behind you, how can you make sure I don’t run off?”

  The grass crunched beneath my feet as I entered the crop of trees, Sanjeet close behind. “Am be with your Anointed Honors,” the warriors yelled. We waved goodbye and moved farther in. Except for our footsteps, the meadow was pristinely quiet. A breeze tickled my face, teasing the strings of my dust mask. Within minutes the mask came loose, fluttering away. I stumbled after it.

  “Stay by the kiriwi!” Captain Bunmi shrilled from across the meadow. I could barely hear her.

  My fist closed around the mask. “It’s all right,” I called, turning to wave. “I’ve got . . .” My voice died in my throat.

  The warriors were gone.

  All around was an empty plain, corkwood trees snickering in the wind. My heart hammered, but to my relief, Sanjeet still stood behind me.

  “You’re here,” I breathed.

  “I’m here,” he echoed.

  “How did that happen? The warriors just disappeared. Maybe they’re still there, but we’ve been blinded or . . .” I trailed off as I noticed the meadow. “Oh no.”

  The kiriwi had vanished too.

  Sanjeet’s hand closed around mine. “We’ll be fine,” he said.

  I blinked up at him in surprise. Sanjeet’s tea-tinted eyes were calm, and his jaw free of its recent tension.

  “We should find the kiriwi,” I said. My stomach fluttered with unease. I had almost forgotten what Sanjeet’s gaze felt like when he wasn’t angry. Had it only been two sunsets since he kissed me by the ocean?

  “This way,” he said, still holding my hand. “We saw the plants over there.”

  The area to which he gestured didn’t strike me as familiar. But now, neither did any part of the meadow. I followed him through the grass, which grew taller and thicker with every yard. “Jeet, do you think—”

  “As long as we go in a consistent direction, we’ll reach the other side.”

  “Are you . . . feeling all right?” I asked.

  “Are you?” He glanced back, running his thumb over the top of my hand. “Please keep up, Tarisai. I wouldn’t want to lose you.”

  My head swam in confusion. Had Sanjeet . . . forgiven me? Did he trust me again? No. He was only being kind so I would calm down and we could escape the Bush. I let him tow me over the meadow, which thickened with hills and trees.

  We walked for what felt like an hour. I admired the back of Sanjeet’s neck, where loose curls grazed the top of his weapon halter. He hummed a song in his cavernous bass: an old lullaby I had heard from a maid at Bhekina House. I remembered the moon streaming through my window, and the evasive scent of mangoes as I drifted to sleep.

  “That’s from Swana,” I mumbled, feeling warm and sluggish. “I didn’t know you knew Swana songs.”

  Sanjeet did not reply. We had stopped in front of a cave, sunken into the face of a brush-covered hill. Corkwood trees surrounded us on every side.

  “Do you need to rest?” he murmured, touching my arm. His expression, soft and earnest, made my knees buckle. I resisted the urge to trace his slanted brows, his ridged nose, the deep creases beneath each eye.

  I asked, “Why are you being so nice to me?”

  “You’re tired, sunshine girl,” he sighed into my turban. His embrace was sudden, catching the air in my throat. “I’m sorry for taking you so far. The sun’s too high for walking. But it’s cool in that cave. We could rest for a while. Sleep.” He pulled back and smiled, his tone gently suggestive. “Or not.”

  “I—” I shook my head, as if to clear it. “I don’t understand.”

  “What happened last night wasn’t your fault.” His lips brushed my forehead. “I see that now. Your mother forced you to hurt Dayo; you had no say in it. I’m sorry for saying those cruel things. You’re nothing like The Lady.”

  “Nothing you said was wrong,” I faltered. “I am The Lady’s daughter. And I chose to join the council. Even though I knew it would put Dayo in danger—”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” he insisted. Slowly, my muscles relaxed. He unwound the turban of my disguise, letting my braids spill heavily over my back as his fingers grazed my neck. “You did nothing wrong. There is no reason to feel guilty.”

  It was more soothing than his lullaby. More potent than any of Kirah’s chants. It was all I needed to feel blameless and beloved, and everything I wanted to hear.

  “Tarisai,” said Sanjeet. “Come into the cave.”

  My blood cooled. In a daze, I extracted myself from his arms and backed away.

  “What’s wrong?” Sanjeet’s face was a perfect portrait of concern. “I need yo
u, Tar. I trust you more than anyone. I never should have doubted—”

  “Stop,” I rasped.

  “Tar? I don’t understand.”

  “Sanjeet of Dhyrma would never lie to make me feel better.” I snapped a slim branch from a tree and brandished it in front of me. “What are you?”

  The person froze. Then he—it—smiled with Sanjeet’s face. The Bush-spirit distorted, body rippling as it melted into acrid fog that billowed around me. I couldn’t move—couldn’t see. Ghostly laughter shook the corkwood trees.

  My feet began to advance, laboriously, as though a powerful weight pressed behind each heel. I realized with horror that I was heading toward the cave. I was sure it led to the Underworld, or some horrible limbo like it. If I entered, would I become like it? A malicious Bush-spirit, trapped for all eternity?

  I pulled against the weight, fighting, thrusting myself in the other direction. For a moment, it worked. But I was aimless; the fog muddled all direction. Before long that push, push, push toward the cave returned. I threw myself again. I was tiring. I would never keep this up for long, and then the only thing left would be to—

  “Give in,” the spirit murmured, still using Sanjeet’s voice. “You would be safer with us. Dayo would be safer. Don’t be selfish, killer-girl.”

  “Shut up,” I growled. But already my muscles were weakening. My feet began their advance again. One step. Two. Three . . .

  And then a new voice echoed from the ground, vibrating in my limbs, as though it had traveled through thick layers of dust and leather. But it wasn’t someone. It was Aiyetoro’s drum, strapped to my back, pounding of its own accord: pum-bow, pum-bow, gigin, go-dun-go-dun-bow.

  The meaning of each pitch came together in my mind: Stone. Stone. Vine-covered stone.

  I peered wildly through the mist. There, beyond two trees, a rock lay covered in vines . . . and in its shadow, a kiriwi bush.

  I lurched for it, scaling the ground as the Bush-spirit howled, doubling its efforts. But the closer I got to the kiriwi, the thinner the fog became. I saw through illusions everywhere—trees grew transparent, and a path previously concealed sprung into view. The kiriwi bush was one of many, dotting the way I had lost earlier. When I reached the path, the pull on my limbs melted away. I looked back. The circle of trees and Bush-spirit were gone . . . but the cave remained. That ominous place had not been an illusion.

  I shivered in a heap on the ground, wanting to vomit. But I couldn’t rest. Not now.

  “Sanjeet,” I whispered. “Where are you?”

  CHAPTER 19

  I would not disobey captain bunmi again.

  Stay by the kiriwi. I walked so close to the fragrant bushes, their branches scraped my sore legs. The Bush had transported me away from the border the moment I left the path. Sanjeet—the real Sanjeet—must have watched me disappear. Had he made it through to the other side?

  At least I didn’t have to worry about human adversaries. Most bandits and thieves valued their lives too dearly to risk the Bush.

  With each step, my head throbbed; the afternoon heat stifled me. I had not eaten before I left Yorua, unwilling to face my council siblings at breakfast. Kirah had lied to them and said Thaddace had sent me to officiate a court case. Far, far away. If I died in this wilderness, my only friends would never know what had happened to me.

  Phantom murmurs seeped from the shadows of the corkwood trees. I heard the voices of my council siblings, sweet and forgiving.

  “Tar? Is that you?”

  “It is! It’s Tarisai!”

  “Thank Am . . .”

  “We’ve been looking ever since you left the keep. We don’t blame you about Dayo, Tar. We know it wasn’t your fault. Come home—”

  “Stop trying so hard,” I snapped at the shadows. “I’m not leaving this path, so you might as well shut up!” Then I summoned the last of my strength and flung the Ray’s heat into the Bush, searching. I felt him. Sanjeet was still alive.

  Hope buoyed my footsteps, though when I tried to Ray-speak, he didn’t respond. His mind felt submerged in water; the normal guard around it was gone. A snippet of his thoughts bled through the fog.

  Look at you, brother. I can’t believe you’re so strong.

  Sanjeet was happy. Delighted. Who on earth was he talking to? I searched with the Ray again, and sensed him farther up the path. I heard young voices, and a sound like the clack of wooden practice weapons.

  “What in Am’s name,” I muttered. Then, with a single step, the landscape changed.

  I spun and blinked rapidly. Tents dotted the previously empty grass, and smoke rose from campfires. Scruffy uniformed youths drilled with their captains, each bearing the sigil of a cobra. From their accents, the warriors appeared to be Dhyrmish mercenaries. Cautiously, I stepped back.

  The camp disappeared.

  I crept forward, and the mercenaries blossomed again into view.

  The scene was staggeringly lifelike. I could even smell the cooking spices wafting from each fire. But when I hunted for mistakes in the illusion, I found them. Tents that failed to cast a shadow. Warriors wrestling on the ground without making an imprint in the mud. “Am’s Story,” I muttered. Why would the spirits make such an elaborate pantomime?

  Then I saw him: the only living person in a camp full of ghosts.

  “Jeet,” I cried out.

  He was facing away, laughing. That rare, thunderous sound gave me so much joy, I wondered if the Bush had conjured it to seduce me. But it was real. He was real, the solid center around which the transparent illusion shifted. Sanjeet was sparring with one of the mercenaries, a clean-shaven young man with a scimitar.

  “Jeet,” I repeated, grinning and waving at him.

  He turned at my voice. But his deep brown eyes were glassy: He couldn’t see me.

  “Follow my voice,” I said. “It’s all an illusion. You’ll see when you—”

  “Careful of ghosts, brother.” The young mercenary stepped between me and Sanjeet. “We lose rookies every time we cross the Bush. Spirits always imitate people you know.”

  My jaw dropped. This spirit had the audacity to pretend that I was one of them? I noticed then the resemblance between Sanjeet and the mercenary. The same copper complexion, heavy jaw, and protruding ears. But the spirit’s hair was straight, unlike Sanjeet’s loose curls. His face was soft and shy, a dramatic contrast to Sanjeet’s own.

  “Sorry, Sendhil,” Sanjeet replied, shaking his head. “I just . . . I thought I heard someone.”

  The spirit grinned. “An old sweetheart? Sanjeet, come find me.” The spirit mercenary mimicked my voice in a girlish falsetto. “You’re in danger . . .”

  “Don’t listen to him,” I snarled. “He’s not real. None of this is real. Jeet—”

  “Afternoon heat’s making us delusional,” said the spirit with a convincing shudder. “There’s a place we can cool off over the hill. Beat you there.” It grinned at Sanjeet boyishly. “I’m as tall as you now, big brother.”

  Sanjeet hesitated, but when the spirit beckoned, he jogged after him. Soon I heard him laugh again, that warm, incredulous sound.

  “Oh, Jeet,” I sighed. “You and your damned guilt complex.”

  Of course he would leave the path for Sendhil. Sanjeet had longed for his brother’s forgiveness, just as I had longed for his. The Bush had lured him with his deepest torment—and now I couldn’t save him. If I left the path, the Bush would simply bewitch me too.

  I paced, a panther in a cage. Then I dropped to my knees and tore up the fragrant purple flowers. I rubbed the downy leaves on my skin and stuffed them in the crevices of my Guard uniform. The blossoms tickled in my throat as I swallowed a mouthful. I didn’t know if the protection would work, or for how long. But it was Sanjeet’s only chance . . . and so I lunged off the path, and into the illusion.

  When at last I spotted him, Sanjeet was standing at the mouth of a murky brown pool. He had taken off his sword halter. The spirit-Sendhil was treading water, whooping a
nd laughing. Even from a distance, I could hear the spirit’s taunts.

  “What’s taking so long, big brother? Did you forget how to swim in that fancy Children’s Palace?”

  “I can’t see the bottom,” said Sanjeet. His words sounded slurred, suspended between wake and sleep. I reached the pool just as his foot hovered at the water’s edge.

  “No!” I grabbed his arm and yanked, toppling him backward. He landed with a confused grunt. I threw myself on top of him, snarling territorially at the Bush-spirit. “You can’t have him.”

  “Tar?” Sanjeet blinked up at me, dazed. The kiriwi had enabled him to see me. “Where . . . ?”

  “Careful, brother,” the spirit-Sendhil cried. “It appeared out of nowhere; it must be a ghost. Don’t let it touch you.” Obediently Sanjeet pushed me off him and stood, backing away.

  I leapt to my feet, brandishing fistfuls of kiriwi. “I’m not a ghost, Jeet. And if you go into that pool, you’ll never come out.”

  The spirit laughed. “Too good for watering holes, brother?” It paused, carefully arranging its face to look sad. “Of course. Anointed Ones have fancy bathhouses. Must be nice. It’s no wonder you didn’t come find me after Father sent me away.”

  “I didn’t want to stay away,” Sanjeet protested. Unconsciously, he moved toward the pool again. “Don’t ever think that, Sendhil. I’ll never stop being your brother.”

  It was then I noticed an item on the ground, nestled with Sanjeet’s abandoned clothing: the pouch containing my imperial seal.

  I stared for a moment, transfixed. The voices from the shadows returned, honeyed and pleading. Take it. Take it and return to the keep.

  The spirit held Sanjeet’s gaze. “I called for you, and you didn’t come. But don’t feel bad, brother. It wasn’t your fault.”

  “Sendhil.” Sanjeet’s voice was broken. He took another step.

  You can’t save Sanjeet, the voices told me. Besides, he’ll never forgive what you did to Dayo. Take the pouch. Go back to your friends; this quest is too dangerous for a girl. You’ll find Melu another way, a safer way . . .