Raybearer

  It had now been over two months since I had seen Dayo and my other council siblings. Sanjeet’s and Kirah’s presence had slowed the symptoms of council sickness: As long as I had at least one anointed sibling with me, the illness was mild, and I would never go completely mad. But the Ray still bound me to the remaining members of our family. I ached, like a body functioning without all its parts.

  But if they knew what I had done to Dayo, would they still love me? Mayazatyl, and Ai Ling, and Umansa, and the rest? Would they even want to see me? My stomach churned as Sanjeet and Kirah flashed our seals, and the palace guards hurried us through the gates.

  “It’s good to have you back, Anointed Honors,” sang a palace attendant as she led us through the polished stone halls. I remembered her well—Bimbola, one of many Children’s Palace maids who had cared for us as candidates. She could not be more than ten years my senior. When she took my hand to kiss it, a memory passed into me: her plump, gentle fingers weaving my hair into neat cornrows. She had been kinder than the other maids, who would smack my head with the comb when I squirmed. “The palace has been so lonely since the trials ended,” she sighed. Bangles rang on her arms as she walked. “I have a child of my own now. Sometimes I take him to the playroom and say, ‘See? That is where the crown prince played tag with Anointed Honor Tarisai. Yes! She was small once, just like you. And look, this was Anointed Honor Sanjeet’s favorite playsword. Shall you grow big and defend the prince, just like him?’” Bimbola smiled warmly. “The chambers are just as you left them—before the fire, anyway. His Young Highness and council have just sat down for luncheon. They will be so excited to see . . .”

  Kirah noticed my wooden steps and sweaty palms. They’ll understand if you explain, she Ray-spoke, guessing my fears. They’ll forgive you. I’m sure of it.

  But she could not be sure. My council could shun me forever. They could want me killed. Besides—how was I to explain The Lady’s actions? It’s not my fault I stabbed Dayo, I imagined saying. The Lady thinks I’m a Kunleo and that I deserve Dayo’s throne. My shoulders hunched around my ears. That explanation was worse than none at all.

  I stopped in the middle of the hall, and Bimbola paused in surprise. “Is something the matter, Anointed Honor Tarisai?”

  “I’m not coming,” I said.

  Kirah smiled briskly at the attendant and took my elbow, turning us away and lowering her voice. “Our council needs to see you,” she said firmly. “If you keep hiding, they’ll start to wonder—”

  “I won’t put Dayo’s life in danger again.”

  “Then where will you live while you’re here? A locked prison tower?”

  “That’s not a bad idea.”

  Despite Kirah’s and Sanjeet’s protests, I asked Bimbola to prepare the farthest possible room from the Children’s Palace. Bemused, she bowed and hurried away.

  “Someone will have to guard me at night,” I told Sanjeet. “Are you up for the job?”

  He nodded reluctantly, though Kirah groaned. “Come on, Tar. You’re not a wild monster.”

  “No,” I retorted. “I’m a quiet, clever one.” I handed her the bust of The Lady. “I won’t miss you all terribly,” I lied. “I can watch the Children’s Palace through Mother’s mirror. Don’t let me miss too much.”

  An hour later, I stood alone in a chamber with close walls and a high, shadowy ceiling. Bimbola had shown me multiple bedrooms throughout the central wing of An-Ileyoba, each grandly furnished, with direct access to the courtyards. I had refused them all. The exasperated attendant had finally found a tower in the southwest wing: the farthest possible building from the Children’s Palace.

  The walls were round, dappled sandstone hung with mudcloth tapestry. The floor had been hastily swept and strewn with reed mats. Near the hearth lay a down-stuffed bedroll, clearly salvaged from another bedchamber. A table, two weathered chairs, and a mirror tinted with age comprised the furniture. Most important: The only entry was a wooden door that locked.

  “We can remove that from its hinges,” Bimbola had suggested brightly. “Put up some pretty cloth flaps, perhaps—”

  “The door stays.”

  She tutted. “Well, we’ll at least make the place presentable. I’ll send for a chest, and a futon, or at least some cushions . . .”

  I barely heard her while I stared through the single unglazed window.

  It was a direct view of the Children’s Palace. The domes rose far away, on the opposite end of An-Ileyoba, but I could still make out the arched windows of the Hall of Dreams. Unable to resist, I drew The Lady’s mirror from my pocket.

  Kirah had placed The Lady’s bust on a ledge overlooking the Hall. My breath caught: My anointed siblings, my best friends, were roughhousing and laughing, mouths open in jokes I could not hear. They retraced our old haunts, giggling at our cherished games and toys, checking furniture for initials we had carved underneath.

  I considered sending a pulse through the Ray, tempted to watch their expressions as my voice sounded in their minds. Do you miss me? Do you hate me? I miss you more than you’ll ever know.

  But I said nothing, and put the mirror back in my pocket. It was wrong to spoil their joy. The Lady’s curse was mine to bear alone.

  Bimbola had promised to return with a second bedroll, since Sanjeet would be sharing my confinement. When knuckles rapped on the tower room door, I was at the window again. The sill was deep enough to make a seat as I watched the Children’s Palace. Still wearing my dusty wrapper from Tegoso, I hugged my knees as someone entered the room.

  “You’re early,” I said without turning. “There isn’t a bed for you yet.”

  A high voice cleared its throat. Bimbola, two palace attendants, and a female guard stood in the doorframe instead of Sanjeet.

  “You’ve been summoned by the emperor, Anointed Honor,” said Bimbola, worrying her bangles with excitement.

  My stomach turned to stone. “What does he want?”

  Bimbola’s eyebrows shot up at my irreverent tone. “I was not told. But you can hardly meet him as you are. We shall accompany you to the bathhouse. Perhaps I can . . .” She looked askance at my hair. “Assist in your toilette.”

  Several minutes later, I stood in a shallow, bubbling river that wove through a tiled floor. Stone hyenas perched on walls overhead. Water gushed from the beasts’ grimacing mouths, fed from a reservoir on the roof. The rainwater lapped at my bare hips, and sunlight warmed my back, streaming through unglazed windows shaped like suns and moons.

  I had washed in the palace bathhouse before, a child splashing with dozens of other candidates. Now that I was anointed, the chamber had been emptied for my privacy.

  My attendants had stripped to their shifts and waded in beside me, scouring my skin and coaxing tangles from my hair. “You’re feverish, Your Anointed Honor,” Bimbola tutted. “That’s council sickness for you. The sooner you’re back with your anointed siblings, the better.”

  After my bath, the attendants buffed my limbs with shea butter until they glowed, and then swabbed my pulse points with fragrant bergamot. I refused to let Bimbola restrain my billowing hair, but consented to a thick crown braid at my hairline. My new clothes were an ochre blouse and azure wrapper, embroidered with raised yellow patterns. As a finishing touch, the attendants dusted my jaw and collarbone with shimmering gold powder, clucking with satisfaction.

  We passed through the gilded halls of An-Ileyoba, deeper and deeper into the palace’s heart. My attendants grew quiet as we passed over the gleaming tiles, our faces reflected on walls of onyx marble. My feet were wedged in the latest Oluwan fashion: leather slippers with precariously high soles.

  Someone rounded a corner of the corridor, nearly causing a collision. My attendants leapt to surround me, tutting with offense—then they recognized the stranger.

  “Anointed Honor Mbali,” Bimbola stammered, sinking with the others in a curtsy.

  I tried to bow as well, but Mbali grasped my shoulders. The pelican pendant on her br
east rose and fell, and her priestess robes were rumpled, as though she had sprinted across An-Ileyoba. Her fingers dug into my sleeves.

  “I looked—the Children’s Palace,” she panted. “You weren’t there. Thank Am I found you before—” She glanced behind her, where the wooden doors to Olugbade’s chambers loomed. “Remember the mango tree.”

  I shook my head. “Anointed Honor, I don’t under—”

  “When you first came to the palace, you stole a story from my head.” Mbali’s grip on me tightened. “Remember what happened when the boy grew afraid of his tree. He cut it down. He burned the branches. But as long as the tree stays in its pot—as long the boy believes it will never grow—the boy is happy. Remember, Tarisai.”

  My heart hammered. She did not release me until I nodded. Then she stepped aside and let us pass, and when I looked back, Mbali was gone.

  We entered the imperial antechamber, a round, gilded room leading to the personal wing of Olugbade and his council. My attendants bid me farewell, and two Imperial Guard warriors replaced them to march me into a small, warmly lit apartment. Then the door flap was shut behind me, and I was left alone with the emperor of Aritsar.

  He faced away from me, stirring the chamber’s small firepit with a poker. He was smaller than I remembered: broad but of short stature, with thinning gray curls, and robes that would blend easily into a crowd. The room had modest tapestries and no windows—a former servant’s quarters, converted into a study. A conspicuous display of humility.

  Quietly, I lifted the sunstone around my neck and concealed it beneath my blouse. Then I knelt to the man’s back and murmured, “Your Imperial Majesty.”

  When he turned, I clasped my hands to hide their trembling. I had forgotten how strongly the emperor resembled Dayo. The same full mouth and sudden, infectious smile, though his lacked the glow of innocence. “My son’s favorite,” he greeted.

  I remembered the mango tree.

  “The Crown Prince of Aritsar has no favorites, Your Imperial Majesty,” I replied, reciting the catechism I had memorized as a candidate. “A Raybearer loves his council with equal favor, and governs Aritsar with equal justice.”

  “You have learned well,” he replied, and I glanced up just in time to see that his jaw had clenched, and a vein pulsed in his forehead. But the expression vanished, replaced by the jovial, fatherly face beloved by all the empire. “Rise, child,” he said. The lion mask shone on his chest, its striped mane glittering in the firelight. “And tell me why you left Yorua Keep the day after Nu’ina Eve.”

  “Research, Your Imperial Majesty,” I said, rising. “I felt stifled in Yorua. I wanted to see how our laws affected our people.”

  “A natural desire,” Olugbade said, “and one that does you credit. But you must know how your actions appear. My forces arrested The Lady on Nu’ina Eve, and you left the next morning. I am not angry. I know it must have been hard to remain at the keep, knowing that your mother was in danger.”

  His voice was so kind with pity, I almost nodded. But Mbali’s hunted gaze was too fresh in my memory. “When I left, I did not know that The Lady had been captured, Your Imperial Majesty,” I said, neatly dodging the trap in his words. “Kirah brought word to me in Swana.”

  He cocked his head. “Your mother has many friends in that realm.”

  “I would imagine so, Your Imperial Majesty. She raised me there for many years. Was Swana where she was born?”

  “No, she—”Olugbade stopped, and his calm facade slipped as he tried to determine how much I knew. I blinked, doing my best to look insipid. At last he asked, “Why do you think your mother is in prison, Tarisai?”

  I pretended to consider. “I heard she was caught near Yorua Keep, trying to trespass. Perhaps she wanted to visit me. She should have known better,” I added. “Everyone knows that members of the Prince’s Council aren’t allowed to see their parents. No one is above the law.”

  “No one indeed.” Olugbade nodded. “Which is why you will condemn The Lady to death at your First Ruling, in one month’s time.”

  The blood drained from my face. “I . . .” My mouth was dry. “Anointed Honor Thaddace means for me to give a different ruling, Your Imperial Majesty. He thought—a festival. For orphans . . .”

  “Thaddace is aware of the change,” said the emperor. “If Arit citizens are to accept you as their High Lady Judge, you must demonstrate that your loyalty is not compromised. That your allegiance to the empire is complete. But perhaps your love for The Lady is too strong. I would understand, Tarisai. Any parent would. You must tell me if this task is beyond your capability.”

  “I—” Mbali’s warning gripped my throat. I must be a tree who loved her pot. I fought to keep my tone docile. “I was not aware that death was the punishment for trespassing, Your Imperial Majesty.”

  “You do not understand the charges.” Olugbade arranged his features in a sympathetic smile. “Many years ago, The Lady committed treason. She led a coup, trying to turn my own candidates against me. I showed mercy, allowing her to escape, but her continued disregard for the law has forced my hand.”

  Lies, my heart pounded. Lies, lies, lies.

  “No one at court has seen The Lady since she was a child,” Olugbade continued. “Few, if any, have made the connection between the woman I have in custody and the child traitor of thirty years ago. For your protection, I would prefer to keep it that way. The court gossips know only that I have imprisoned your mother, a raving Swana woman, for crimes against the empire.”

  He wasn’t trying to protect me. He was afraid that someone at court would recognize The Lady, and revive rumors of a second Raybearer. “If my mother is a traitor,” I asked, doing my best not to snap, “then why did you allow Dayo to anoint me?”

  “Because it was time to rewrite the past.”

  We stared at each other. I understood, then, the true reason I had survived as a child in Olugbade’s palace. He had not killed me, because doing so admitted the possibility that I was a Raybearer. Killing me admitted that The Lady had been right all along.

  Olugbade had watched me grow beside his son, watched my subservience, my submission in my gilded cage—and he had enjoyed a peace of mind that my death could not have brought him. My First Ruling would be his ultimate victory. The final proof that only one Ray ruled in Aritsar. Mbali had known this all along, and her message in the hall had been clear: survive.

  “No one is above the law, Your Imperial Majesty,” I repeated, and curtsied serenely. “I look forward to my First Ruling.”

  When I emerged at last from Olugbade’s chambers, my attendants flocked around me in the corridor. “Was it terrifying, Anointed Honor?” Bimbola fretted. “Am’s Story! Such trembling hands. Your fingers, they’re cold as rocks—”

  “Take me to see her. Now.” My voice was hoarse. “I want to see The Lady.”

  CHAPTER 26

  She too lived in a tower now. But unlike me, the lady had not chosen hers. The open-air prison of An-Ileyoba was located on a roof overlooking the north courtyard, and most children learned of it from a nursery rhyme:

  Thieves will rot in hell below, hell below, hell below

  But Heaven is where traitors go, traitors go, traitors go.

  Ordinary convicts were kept in the palace dungeons. But Heaven—as courtiers had nicknamed the turret obscured by clouds, with no walls and a sheer, ten-story drop—was reserved for the emperor’s most personal enemies. The design was effective: No guard could watch a prisoner better than a crowd of gawking courtiers. Day and night, visitors squinted from the courtyard to observe a distant, sunburnt figure sleep and eat. The giggling audience dodged out of the way when the prisoner vomited, or emptied his or her bladder over the edge.

  As a child at An-Ileyoba, I had never let myself believe that the prisoners in Heaven were real. They were shadows against the sky, and their anguished cries were so faint, I could pretend to hear the call of birds instead, or the wail of wind between the turrets.

 
A staircase inside the tower led to a landing, from which a single door led out to Heaven. I smelled the roof long before my attendants reached it: the sickly sweet stench of feces and urine. The door was made of iron bars, and a hatch opened at the bottom. Two buckets lay on the other side: one with water, and one encrusted with filth and flies. An impassive pair of guards manned the landing, which was lit dimly by a lamp on the floor. On the roof, a stiff bundle, pressed against the landing door, attempting to shelter itself from the night wind.

  Mother.

  My lips felt frozen, but I must have said the word out loud. The bundle shifted, and cracked hands gripped the bars. Then a slow, elegant voice. “My darling girl.”

  Three words, and sixteen years of abandonment evaporated. I was no longer Anointed Honor Tarisai, the High Judge Apparent. She was no longer The Lady, a puppet master who had forced me to attempt murder.

  I was a little girl in a cold study, and she was my warmth: the only one who touched me, who loved me, who wasn’t afraid.

  I let the guards search me for lockpicks and weapons, then I bribed them to stand out of earshot. When I knelt at the door, The Lady reached through the bars, touching my loose hair. “This must be recent,” she observed. “My spies did not report it.” The Lady’s throaty voice was still musical, though her comment turned into a weak cough.

  “I’ve missed you,” I said.

  She laughed and made a tutting noise. “Now, now, Made-of-Me. We both know that isn’t true.”

  The words stung. “You pretended to leave me,” I said, pulling away. “When I was small. You lied and hid at Bhekina House, even though I cried for you every night. Why?”

  She sighed. “Children are always so ungrateful.”

  “What? Mother, I—”

  “You had a lovely childhood.”

  She spoke with such calm certainty, I began to doubt my own memories. Perhaps I hadn’t been so miserable, locked in that study with no light. Perhaps I hadn’t thrown myself in firepits, or sobbed myself to sleep when she went away.