by Rena Barron
Her amber eyes shine too bright, her raven hair too lustrous in the glow of the fire lamps. She is the opposite of Oshhe in every way. The light catches the angles of his ebony face, making his jaw more prominent, his nose more distinguishable, his forehead prouder. She is softness and curves and radiance even now. I catch my father stealing glances at her, his expression yearning, his smile small. After all this time, he’s still so happy to see her.
The tribal boys had called her the Siren of the Valley.
They should’ve called her the Snake instead.
“Did you find the white ox, Father?” I shouldn’t ask in front of Arti, but I’m desperate. Its bones may be strong enough to break her curse.
“Indeed, Little Priestess.” Oshhe nods as I settle on the pillow to his left. “I spied the ox on the edge of the Dark Forest.”
My father’s voice vibrates in the room like a great song and wraps around me. He has to sense something wrong. At the very least he should be able to feel the tension between Arti and me that’s thick enough to cut with a knife.
As Oshhe takes another gulp of beer, I wish I could gather up all the awful things in my mind and bury them someplace far away. I wish that I could burn the invisible cursed serpent from my chest. Why can’t he feel something . . . anything? From the gleam in his eyes, he’s on the verge of a story. I sigh in resignation, for it has been too long since my father told me a story and I need to feel safe.
When my father tells stories, I’m a little girl again, hanging on to his every word. “Did you see one?” I ask, my heart pounding against my chest. The twinkle of mischief in his eyes hints that something extraordinary must’ve happened. “Did you see a craven?”
“One does not see a craven, Little Priestess.” Oshhe beams with pride. “For they are as elusive as they are dangerous. But if one has enough magic, one can sense their presence. It feels like a heavy cloak, like air that’s too thick, like the sky is falling. It weighs upon your ka and makes you want to flee.
“As I said, I spied the white ox on the edge of the Dark Forest,” my father continues. “As this was no ordinary ox, he knew why I had come and what I meant to do. He ran like the wind in a storm, wild, unbridled, and without caution. But I would not leave without his bones. I ran too—as fast as a gazelle—and caught him as he entered the forest. When I kneeled to say a blessing for taking the beast’s life, I felt them.
“Even in the heart of day, the Dark Forest is forever night,” he tells me. “The trees are so tall and wide that they block out the sun. The cravens surrounded me in this twilight. I thought I was dead for sure, but they stayed in the shadows. How many I cannot say. Seeing that they did not attack, I used magic to lessen the weight of the ox to that of a child. It took much effort, for the cravens’ presence had weakened my powers. The white ox bones contain powerful protective magic, but the cravens’ anti-magic poisons it. It’s a venom to which there is no antidote.”
Oshhe pauses to refill his bowl with beer. “As you can imagine, I had no intention of lingering there for long. I carried the ox from the Dark Forest as fast as I could. It wasn’t until I was far away that I stopped to rest.”
“Thank you, white ox,” I whisper. “I promise to honor your bones.”
It’s an Aatiri prayer, one to respect something taken. I hope his sacrifice can undo Arti’s curse. “When will you make the charm, Father?” Again, my question is too eager in front of my mother, but I don’t worry about that now.
“Wasting time with bone charms,” Arti scoffs. “Such foolishness.”
“Just because it is not your way does not make it foolish.” Oshhe shakes his head at her, his look one of pity and disbelief. Then he reaches into a sachet near his side, grinning. “A gift for you, daughter.”
He holds the charm out to me. It’s a single curved horn, polished and hollowed out with a hole on either end. He’s strung a silver chain through the holes so it can be worn around the neck. It’s inlaid with gold and shimmers with his magic. Not just any magic—magic that will protect me from the green-eyed serpent, protect me from my mother.
But when I make to reach for it, the muscles in my arms tighten and I can’t move. I raise my eyes to my father in desperation.
Oshhe’s about to say something when Arti rings the bell for Ty to send our meals. She must know it won’t be long before my father figures out the truth. She’s trying to distract him. It won’t work forever.
Terra slips in from the kitchen with a tray in her arms. She kneels between Arti and Oshhe, offering the food for their inspection. Peanut soup spiced with ginger and garlic, served with generous balls of fufu. Herb-crusted lamb garnished with mint leaves. Wagashi cheese and a warm loaf of bread. Oshhe gestures for Terra to set the platter down, but he hardly notices her or the food.
Arti dips her head to Terra. “Give Ty my compliments.”
When we’re again alone in the salon, my mother takes up the pitcher of beer and refills Oshhe’s bowl. “We’ve missed you so very much,” she remarks, her voice quiet and leading. “Haven’t we, Arrah?”
I stare at the empty porcelain bowl in front of me. It’s bone white. The air in the room shifts like the bubble the Litho boys created when I wandered into their camp. It’s a shield so no one will hear or see what happens in the salon. I force myself to look at my mother. My eyes beg her to put an end to this, to confess, to tell us what she’s done with the children. I’m losing hope that we’ll find them alive—hope that there’s a chance to make things right. If only I could reach the charm . . .
“Arti,” Oshhe says, watching her intently. “What have you done?”
“I’m afraid that I have some bad news.” Arti picks up a cloth from the table and dabs at the corners of her mouth. “I’m sorry for what I must do now.”
My body stiffens as my father and I lock gazes again. His eyes are the shifting black of a night sky, a pool that reflects color with brilliant clarity. When he finds what he’s looking for, his face shatters. The pain in his expression cracks me in two. His lips tremble as he opens his mouth to speak, but he doesn’t. His words escape on a dead wind. Sparks of magic dust the room, passing through the ceiling to answer my father’s silent call.
His skin takes on a white glow as he pushes away from the table, dropping the bone charm in his haste. I struggle against Arti’s magic to get it, but the fight is only in my mind. The want, the need, the desperation balls up inside me like a storm. On the outside, I’m shaking but still seated on the pillow. I can’t move, I can’t speak, I can’t act against Arti. The only things my mother doesn’t control are my thoughts and feelings. Every curse word under the sun pops in my mind—and still it’s meaningless.
Arti takes her time to come to her feet, her movements weary. Magic alights on both of my parents. It clings to their bodies. My father beckons for me. When I don’t move, he tugs me behind him as if I’m still his little girl.
Their magic erupts in an explosion of bright lights and colors. It cracks through the room like thunder, swirling into clouds of mist. My father stumbles back a few steps as blood trickles from Arti’s nose.
I throw my mind against the force binding me to my mother. My teeth tear into my cheek and my mouth fills with blood. I wiggle like a worm until my trembling hands brush against the bone charm on the floor. I clasp the horn in my fist, desperate to feel something—any hint that it’s broken her curse. There’s nothing, only a cold reality. The white ox’s bones, the strongest source of protection magic possible, fail to scratch the surface of my mother’s curse, let alone break it.
Oshhe falls to his knees behind me, and I abandon the charm.
“Father, no!” I scream, crawling to him. “Let him be!”
Oshhe’s jaw goes slack, and his arms hang limp at his sides. He tries to speak but the words come out in stops and starts, turned upside down and inside out. Tears cloud my vision, and I swipe them away.
“No, no, no,” I whisper as I shake my father. “Heka, please.”
“What have you done?” I want to claw out my mother’s evil eyes, claw the vacant look from her face. Instead, I hold my father in my arms as his body falls completely still.
“You tried to reach the bone charm, even after I forbade it with my magic,” Arti says, glaring at me. “How are you able to resist me?”
She’s right. I resisted her magic for a moment, but my surge of defiance was for nothing. The charm didn’t work, and I can’t do anything to help my father.
When I don’t answer, she shrugs, wiping the blood from her nose. “It doesn’t matter.”
Arti blows on the bowl, revealing fire script covering the white porcelain. Tears streak down my face as I cradle my father in my arms. His skin is so hot, too hot. He should’ve sensed the curse on the bowl upon touching it. If he had, he wouldn’t have taken so long to feel the curse on me too. He only saw the sweet girl he once loved, just as I spent too long yearning for my mother’s affection to suspect the truth. We had both been so blind.
“Why?” I hear myself ask over and over, the word tasting like bile on my tongue.
Arti stares at me across the bowl. “I need your help.”
I blink back tears. The way she says “need” sends chills down my spine.
Arti glowers at the bowl again, her mouth set in a hard line, determined and unyielding. Her eyes rage with so many emotions that for a moment she looks confused. She balances the porcelain on the tips of her long fingernails. It wobbles as she rocks it back and forth—her attention never swaying, never faltering. Beer spills over the edges and runs down her hand. Mist creeps up from the rim and curls around her wrist. My mind races. I can’t think straight. I’ve seen this script before at the Temple. In magic, script seals; like circles, it binds. If the bowl has captured something of my father, some part of him, and if it should drop and shatter, it will break him too. The bowl suddenly stills on her fingertips, and I inhale a sharp breath, daring to hope that she’s changed her mind. Could there be something left of her heart after all? She blinks, her whole body rigid, then lets the bowl slip from her grasp. I lunge for it, but I’m too slow and can’t untangle myself fast enough.
The bowl crashes against the table and shatters into a thousand pieces. Each shard lights up as bright as the sun. I shield my eyes as her magic scrapes my forearms. When the light dies, I pull my father closer as if I can somehow protect him against the impending firestorm.
I will find a way to free you, Father, I swear it on Heka.
Sixteen
I sit on the floor, cradling my father in my arms. The muscles in his neck jut out as he clenches his teeth. He fights the curse, but by the end of the night it takes control of him. Arti doesn’t carve a symbol of a serpent into his chest. Lines of the fire script from his bowl crawl across his skin like centipedes and settle into tattoos.
Except for his face, which remains untouched, ink even darker than his skin covers most of his body. He’s like Tribe Zu now, but instead of his tattoos protecting him, they bind him to Arti. Even tighter than the binding she inflicted on me. She asked how I was able to resist her, but have I done much? I couldn’t tell Rudjek or the Vizier the truth. I couldn’t warn my father.
Arti puts the salon back in order with her magic. A blinding light sweeps through the wreckage. It mends the broken table, rights the spilled food, makes shards of glass whole again. The bubble around the room flickers but remains intact. She doesn’t so much as look at Oshhe as she sits back down at the table—as if nothing has happened. Anger flares in my chest. How can she completely dismiss him? The person who found her broken and tried to help her when she needed him the most.
Her hands shake as she pours herself more wine and lifts the glass to her lips. I want to shove it down her throat. The thought catches me off guard and dread pulses through my veins. Even if I could do it, there’s no way to know for sure if her death would break our curses. My mother is powerful and she’s no fool.
“This is your fault, charlatan,” she spits after draining the glass. “Had you not poked your nose into my affairs, all would be well with you and your father.”
She snatches up the wine jug again, spilling some on the tablecloth. “I had but one thing left to do,” she hisses. “Do you think I would let you ruin my years of careful planning? Events have been set in motion that cannot be undone.”
She speaks in riddles worse than the tribal elders. Let her keep talking so I can figure out a way to stop her. She snaps her fingers and Oshhe inhales a sharp breath. “Come sit, husband,” Arti tells him, her singsong voice like poison, “and let’s enjoy a nice meal together as a family.”
Oshhe doesn’t hesitate as he climbs to his feet, brushing me aside like a worrisome gnat. My tears choke me. This isn’t my father. Oshhe’s face is slack and gray, his eyes bright with admiration for Arti. My father is strong—he is a son of the Aatiri tribe, his mother not only a great witchdoctor but their chieftain. My father has a warm smile and a big heart. He’s the ever-careful gardener with endless patience. He isn’t afraid to stand up to Arti when she’s wrong. This man is someone else wearing my father’s skin.
“Come, Little Priestess.” He pats the pillow next to him. “I have a story to tell you.”
To anyone else’s ears, there would be no difference in his deep timbre. But his spark is gone. The underlying promise that he’ll always keep me safe is gone too. He sounds like a very talented stage actor performing as my father now, able to convince the masses of his sincerity. But not me. I won’t play this game. I don’t move even when he beckons me.
“Isn’t it enough that you cursed him?” I glare at Arti, my hands balled into fists. “Did you have to make him your puppet too?”
Arti brushes off my words like specks of lint from her kaftan. “In binding his ka, I’ve made it so he will answer only to me. He will not have to suffer the truth,” she explains, as if she’s performed some small mercy. “In his mind, he will only know happiness. Isn’t that enough for you?”
“Enough?” I shudder with disgust. “We should be basking in your mercy. Is that it?”
That gets her attention. She leans forward, her Ka-Priestess’s ring flashing from sapphire to moonstone. Had the ring belonged to Ren Eké before? It’s miserable to think that she’d wear his ring. That just as the first Ka-Priest had taken up root and grown into a tree to escape death, Ren Eké did the same with Arti. Did he carve out a place in her mind to live on? “Come sit, daughter,” she orders.
My body trembles as I resist the pull of her magic. Then my muscles tense and force me to my feet. I grit my teeth as my legs drag me across the room and lower me to the pillow.
“All this time,” she drawls, “we thought you didn’t have any magic.”
I don’t speak. If I had any real magic, I wouldn’t be in this situation. But that isn’t true. My father has plenty of magic and he couldn’t stop Arti either. What chance do I have?
“You shouldn’t be able to resist my magic even the slightest,” she says, her eyes gleaming. “I’m impressed.”
The words are a slap in my face. How many years have I wanted an inkling of my mother’s approval? Any little bit would do—and now this. She’s impressed that I can sass her and struggle against her magic and fail. She’s impressed that I had to crawl on my hands and knees for a charm that didn’t even work. I can’t help but wonder if I’d shown some aptitude for magic long before, if she wouldn’t have become a monster. I know it doesn’t make sense to feel this way, but I still do.
“There may be slack in the magic that binds you to me,” she muses. “But make no mistake: you will not betray me, daughter. Try as you may, you’ll still fail. It’s—unfortunately—the one thing you’re good at.”
Better to fail at magic t
han to do something so evil with it. I don’t speak my mind. No sense in antagonizing her. I need information about Kofi and the others. “I know what the Ka-Priest did to you . . . it wasn’t right.” I try another approach.
I half expect Arti to hide behind her vacant mask again, but she doesn’t. Her eyes are hungry and dangerous, and I second-guess myself. “He deserved what he got,” I add, and she cocks her head to the side. “But the children . . . why have you taken them? They’re innocent—what harm could they’ve done to you?”
“Do you take me for a fool, girl?” Arti snaps. “I know the children are innocent.”
There’s no mistaking the regret threading through her shaky voice.
She glances down. “I had to take them for that very reason.”
“Why?” I burst out. “Wasn’t killing the Ka-Priest enough? What purpose does taking the children serve?”
Oshhe cuts himself a piece of spiced lamb and herbed cheese. He’s oblivious to our conversation as he eats his meal.
“You think I killed him?” Arti laughs.
“Didn’t you?” I shoot back through gritted teeth.
Arti pours herself another glass of wine, her face flushed. “No,” she answers, almost as an afterthought. “Killing him would have been too kind.”
“Eat, Little Priestess,” Oshhe coaxes me through a mouthful of food. “You don’t look well.”
Tears slide down my cheeks. He sounds so much himself.
“Do as your father says.” Arti’s voice is a low hiss. “Eat.”
Her magic flares underneath my skin again and I eat. The food tastes like ash.
“There’s much no one knows about the former Ka-Priest,” she says. “Suran Omari has done an excellent job of keeping Ren’s legacy intact by spreading lies. He does it to spite me, but also to keep his hands clean. The Ka-Priest suffered an unfortunate illness of the spirit.” She scoops goat cheese onto her finger. “It kept him bedridden during his final years.”
It doesn’t escape my notice that she drops Eké from his name—a show of disrespect in the Litho tradition. Not that someone as vile as him deserves any honor even in death.