Kingdom of Souls

by Rena Barron

  “Hey, I was talking to her first,” Kofi says, crossing his arms. “Wait your turn.”

  Rudjek laughs and pats Kofi’s head. “Hello to you too.”

  I cast an apologetic glance at Kofi. “I’ll stop by to see you tomorrow, I promise.”

  Kofi pokes his tongue out at Rudjek before darting off into the crowd.

  “That little runt.” Rudjek feigns indignation. “I have half a mind . . .”

  “Shall we go?” I ask.

  Without waiting for an answer, I head for our spot along the river, taking one route while they take another. It wouldn’t be so secret if four people marched straight to it. Rudjek has had many attendants over the years, and he’s bribed them to keep our secret. When coins haven’t worked, he’s turned to subtle and sometimes not-so-subtle persuasions. He really can be charming when he wants. Not that I’d tell him, lest it go to his head.

  As I push through the crowds, an ice-cold chill runs down my back. Familiars slink across the market like a pack of rabid cats ready to pounce. No longer than my arm, their shadowy bodies are shapeless and ever changing, as fluid as a breeze. As they flood the streets, their presence sucks the warmth from me. I take a deep breath, watching as dozens of them swarm around a young girl. They crawl across her face and cling to her limbs, and she’s none the wiser.

  A few others in the market see them—the ones with tribal blood. Their faces have gone stark and they whisper to each other. But most people don’t see the Familiars at all.

  One or two Familiars are a nuisance, with the way they slither over everything, but a horde means only one thing: something bad is coming. Thinking of the missing children, I realize that the bad thing is already here.

  In a daze, I cut through the mud-brick houses on the bank of the Serpent River and travel upstream from the docks. There are no Familiars here, but cold gnaws at my bones. The tribes believe that Familiars are the relics of a people destroyed by the demons long ago. In the demons’ lust for kas, they ravaged a whole realm before Koré and Re’Mec, the Twin Kings, waged war to stop them. Familiars are the only things left of that time. Restless ghosts with no souls, seeking what they cannot have again—life.

  When I reach our well-worn spot amidst the tall reeds, I see Majka and Kira standing guard on the riverbank—far enough away to give us privacy. Rudjek sits on a yellow blanket spread across the grass. “Father’s putting on a big fight to celebrate the end of the blood moon,” he says after a yawn. “You must come. I’m undefeated in the swords competition three years straight. I’m only the best swordsman in Tamar. Well, outside of the gendars, I suppose.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea after this morning,” I say, my throat parched.

  His eyes, darker than the hour of ösana, widen in question. With his full attention on me, the space feels smaller, the air warmer. “What’s wrong, Arrah?”

  His voice cracks when he says my name and his boasting fades away. As I sit beside him, his scent of lilac and wood smoke sends a tinge of heat up my neck. I should say something to distract him or pretend that I don’t like the way my name rolls off his tongue, but I don’t. Not immediately. I let this strange, wonderful thing linger between us. He’s my best friend, and insufferable half the time. But lately I imagine something else—I imagine something more.

  Guilt settles in like an old friend, and I glance away. Even if our parents didn’t hate each other, a wrongness edges into the back of my mind. Yes, I want more, but I don’t want to ruin what we have now if it goes wrong. One moment I’m on the verge of confessing to him and the next I bury my feelings under a rock.

  “Nothing,” I say quickly, before our conversation veers off-course. So many thoughts tangle in my head. The Familiars, the child snatcher, the green-eyed serpent. On the surface they’re unrelated, but together they remind me of moves in a game of jackals and hounds. A game built upon strategy, evasion, and misdirection. I could be drawing connections where none exist, but I don’t believe in coincidences. I shake my head and smile at him. “Why the fancy blanket today?”

  I smooth my hand across the quilt, feeling the intricate patterns of the stitches. He knows me so well that he doesn’t protest when I change the subject.

  “I didn’t want you to ruin your fancy dress on the grass.” He rearranges his scabbards, which lie next to him on the ground. “It’s very pretty.”

  “Thank you,” I say, staring at the boats ambling down the river. It’s so wide that the water seems to stretch on forever.

  After a long and awkward pause, we both try to speak at the same time. We laugh and some of the tension eases. “You go first,” I say.

  “About this morning,” he says, his voice catching in his throat. “My brothers would never do something so vile. Jemi and Uran haven’t been themselves since the Rite of Passage, but my father . . . my father keeps them in check. He has a gendar who sends regular reports on Jemi’s squadron, and Uran is never without his attendants. When I say never, I mean never.”

  I reach out for the family crest affixed to his collar, but I stop myself. “May I?”

  Rudjek scratches his head, looking sheepish. “Of course.”

  I run my fingers across the smooth craven bone carved into the shape of a lion’s head. It’s cold even in the heart of a much-too-warm day. Had I any magic, it would repel me. But nothing happens. Its yielding touch is a reminder that I should listen to my mother. Maybe it’s time to give up my dream.

  “What does it feel like when someone with magic is near you?” I’ve never asked before, avoiding anything that could lead back to my lack of magic. What would it be like if I had magic and we were close . . . closer than we are now? That’s the true question burning on my lips.

  Rudjek shrugs. “I don’t know. . . . It vibrates a little if the magic is directed at me; otherwise, I don’t feel anything.”

  I move from the crest on his elara to the pendant that hangs around his neck. My fingers brush his throat and we both tense. He leans a little closer to me, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I missed you.”

  Majka clears his throat and we jump apart. “Am I interrupting anything?”

  “No!” we both yell in unison.

  “Nothing at all,” I add, piqued.

  “Of course not.” Rudjek frowns at him. “What do you want?”

  Majka glances over his shoulder at Kira, who is still on watch. “I am to remind you that your father expects you at the council meeting at fourth afternoon bells.”

  Rudjek grimaces at his pant legs, dusty from the market. “Give us a moment, will you.”

  Majka nods with a crooked grin and pads off to where Kira is waiting.

  “I’m sorry, I do have to go.” Rudjek sighs. “Father will be in a mood after this morning.”

  “It’s true, then,” I say, my throat dry again. “He’s going to name you his heir?”

  Rudjek winces and looks away. “It is. I . . . don’t know how I feel about it yet. I’m the youngest. I never thought the responsibility would fall to me. My father’s expectations—well, everyone’s expectations—of me have changed.”

  I don’t want to think about what this will mean for our friendship. If he—no, when he becomes Vizier one day, he won’t be able to shun his duties to sneak off to meet me by the river.

  “What about the gendars? All you’ve ever talked about is joining their ranks.” I regret my question when he glances longingly at his shotels. “How will you survive if you can’t fool around in the arena all day?” I add to cheer him up.

  “I’ll make do.” Then under his breath, he says, “I can be quite crafty.”

  I pick at the beads on my sheath. “You can’t turn it down, can you?”

  “No.” He scoops up a rock and flings it into the river. “My mother sent a message to her childhood matron in Delene asking her to come teach me proper etiquette.” He forces a humorless laugh, somber like both our moods. “What do the Aatiri say? ‘A man’s character lies not in his fine clothes, but i
n the purity of his soul.’”

  “The purity of his ka,” I correct him.

  “I’m sorry,” Rudjek says with a shy smile. “Here I am rambling on and on, and I haven’t asked you about the tribal lands. How did things go?”

  I groan. “Not well.”

  Rudjek arches an eyebrow. “You want to talk about it?”

  “Another time.” I’m not ready to tell him about the Blood Moon Festival and Grandmother’s vision. It’s something I’m still trying to wrap my mind around, and he’ll only worry. I’ve done enough of that on my own.

  “One more thing before I go.” Rudjek rubs the back of his neck. “Mother sent an invitation to my Coming of Age Ceremony to your father’s shop. I thought if your mother got her hands on it, that would be the end of it. But . . . you’re coming, right?”

  I wrinkle my nose, reminding him what I think about his Coming of Age Ceremony—hence the donkey on my letter to him. Before I can answer, he adds, rushing his words, “True, it’s a bit archaic, but . . .”

  “You mean with the half-naked dancers?” I cross my arms. “It’s a silly tradition.”

  “Pretty please.” He bats his lashes at me and I can’t help but laugh.

  It isn’t that our parents don’t know we’re friends. There’s only so many of the scholar district’s ceremonies one can go to and not know everyone your age. I’ve seen Rudjek compete in the arena countless times. This should be no different, yet I hesitate to say yes.

  “I’ll think about it,” I say, but I know what Arti’s answer will be if I ask her.

  I utter a goodbye as Majka and Kira drag him off. Staring at the river again, I can’t stop thinking about the Familiars swarming the East Market. Enough people can see them that the scribes have come up with an official explanation. They call them harmless, wayward shadows, but I’ve never believed that. Even without real magic, I can’t deny the signs.

  Wherever the Familiars go, death soon follows.

  Seven

  After another restless night I crawl out of bed before dawn. So many dreams spin in my head. One about a real green-eyed serpent slithering through the East Market. No bigger than a river snake, it moved through the throng of shuffling feet with ease. In another, the child snatcher stalked the tribal lands with a string of children bound by rope. Then I saw Rudjek standing on the edge of a forest as dark as night, with the eye of Re’Mec at his back. Some connection between the three had been clear in the dreams, but now sleep fog clouds my mind.

  If I hurry I won’t miss my father before he leaves for his shop. I slip into the sea-blue tunic and trousers I wanted to wear yesterday and carry my sandals to not wake the others. Terra will be put out when she finds me gone at eighth morning bells.

  The sun peeks over the horizon as I pad down the long hallway. Our villa curves around a courtyard where my father grows herbs for his blood medicines. My parents’ twin rooms are at the opposite end of the villa. Ty and Nezi have their own rooms, and Terra’s is next to mine.

  Mosaic figurines dance along the wall, twisting, twirling, and leaping to keep pace with me. The magic is Mulani, one among many traditions of my mother’s tribe. From the dancers to the white curtains to the silk pillows in the salon, Mulani staples decorate our home. Even if Arti never visits the tribal lands, she must miss something about her life there, to keep these small mementos. I pause to stare at one of the dancers, and he stops too. When I was little, I used to press my hand against the wall to feel the hum of magic. Arti tried to teach me how to make the dancers move, but I couldn’t. She knew what it meant even then. Years later, the unreadable look on my mother’s face in that moment still haunts me.

  Oshhe squats over the roots of a kenkiliba bush in the courtyard, running his fingers through the soil. “You’re up early, Little Priestess,” he says, his back to me. “Can’t sleep?”

  After I inhale a deep breath, I say, “I have a lot on my mind.”

  “Help me collect herbs.” He offers up a pair of shears. “It will put your mind at ease.”

  My father cuts leaves from the bush while I settle in front of a thicket of tangled matay vines. I snip at the small red buds, careful not to prick my fingers on their thorns. He doesn’t press me to talk; instead he quietly fills a small sachet with leaves. The courtyard is his sanctuary. Nezi manages the gardens surrounding the villa, but my father cares for his medicinals.

  “I received an invitation at my shop yesterday—one I know you were expecting.” Oshhe moves on from the kenkiliba bush and begins collecting seeds from a neem tree. “You have my blessing to attend, but we’ll need to convince your mother.”

  I do want to go to Rudjek’s ceremony, but with all the things that kept me up last night, it’s the least of my concerns. “What she did yesterday was awful.”

  My father’s face pinches. He says he wants nothing to do with politics, so it’s a subject rarely discussed in our household. I figured out long ago that it’s not politics he doesn’t want to hear about: it’s my mother’s schemes.

  “It was cruel,” I say, unable to hold back my words. “She made a spectacle of the missing children just to strike at the Vizier. What kind of person does that?”

  “Still your tongue, daughter,” Oshhe says, “before you say something you may regret.”

  I snatch another vine so fast that a thorn pricks my finger. I bring my thumb up to my lips but think better of it. Matay causes sleepiness in small doses and hallucinations if one ingests too much of it. My father nods his approval when he sees that I remember.

  “I don’t agree with your mother’s ways,” Oshhe says, “but her animosity toward the Vizier is not unwarranted. He is not a kind man, daughter. I need you to understand that. I know that you and his son are close. I was hesitant all those years ago when you asked if you could go play with him by the riverbank. I only allowed it because one cannot judge the son by the father. Children are innocent.”

  Rudjek has always wanted to keep our friendship from his father. I assumed his reason was the same as mine, since our parents hate each other, but I’m no fool either. The rumors about the Vizier are even worse than the ones about my mother. People say the Kingdom has no enemies because he orders the assassination of anyone seen as a threat. “Father, I didn’t come to talk about the ceremony.”

  He gives me a sheepish grin. “Sometimes it’s better to ease into difficult conversations.”

  It’s hard to know where to start or what to say. Everything that’s happened since the Blood Moon Festival tangles in my mind. Disappointment, fear, and disbelief eat at me, but I refuse to let them win. I have too much pride for that. I’m too stubborn.

  “Do you think the green-eyed serpent is a demon?” I finally work up the nerve to ask. “Could one have survived the war with the orishas and hidden herself this long? What would a demon want with me?”

  My last question strikes a nerve, and my father flinches. It pains me to admit that my mother has a point. There’s no reason a demon would have anything to do with me. I dig my fingernails into my palms. I’m grasping for connections, a reason, but nothing makes sense. Before my father can answer, another, more desperate question rolls off my tongue. “Do you know when the first child went missing?”

  Oshhe cocks an eyebrow, waiting to see if I’m done. When I don’t speak again, he inhales deeply. “It’s hard for a parent to not have the answers their child seeks . . . but I sense that there may be a link between the Aatiri chieftain and Arti’s visions. Whether this is the work of craven anti-magic or demon magic, I cannot say. We must hope it’s anti-magic. If demons are back, then there will be much trouble ahead.”

  My father pauses, studying the tangled matay vines on my lap. His eyes brim with the shine of fresh tears held back. He wants to be strong for me and I want to be strong for him too. “To answer your other question: the first child went missing at the start of the blood moon. You are right to make that connection,” he says, his voice strung tight. “I need you to be very careful, Arrah.
I know you like to visit the markets and go to the river, but these are not safe times.”

  I tuck my hands between my knees, trying to push back the sinking feeling in my chest. There’s no mistaking the fear in my father’s eyes. A look so foreign on him that it tears out a piece of my heart. He can’t bring himself to say the rest, so I do it for him. “You think Grandmother’s vision means the child snatcher or demon, whatever it is, will come after me.”

  My father’s posture straightens—his jaw clenches. “I won’t let that happen.”

  “You wouldn’t need to protect me if I had magic of my own,” I say, bitter. “When my magic comes, I . . .” My words trail off at his pained expression.

  “Arrah.” My father’s voice is gentler, almost placating. “It doesn’t matter if you ever have magic. You’ll still be my favorite daughter, and I’ll protect you until my very last breath.”

  I’m your only daughter, I almost say to be spiteful, but I can’t bring myself to hurt my father even in anger.

  That’s it, then.

  Even my father has given up on me ever having magic. The news is too much to bear.

  Every day at eighth morning bells, the Almighty Temple opens to the public. Most people climb the precipice to the Temple on their own, but some take litters. The Almighty Palace gleams against the western sky, even higher than the Temple, overlooking the city proper and the ambling Serpent River to the east. The Vizier’s estate sits on a cliff opposite the Temple at the southern edge of the city. It’s a palace in its own right with tan walls that glow in the morning sunlight. But my mind is far from the magnificent views of Tamar right now.

  Dread crawls through my belly as I remember my father’s words. It may not matter to him that I never have magic, but I’m not going to sit around and do nothing. If I want to know more about demons, the Temple’s the best place to start.

  Robed scholars and scribes sweep up the path beside street merchants wearing their very best. No matter their social status or family name or religion, everyone comes to the Temple. For the morning lessons are also the time to pay tithes.