by Rena Barron
Barasa stands in the courtyard, his yellow kaftan tattered and dirty. “Who else would trap his ka in this gods-awful place?”
Sukar laughs—tears swimming in his eyes. “Only a fool.”
The seer appears to be flesh and blood, but as I stare at him, he becomes mist shaped into a man. The way Arti had been in my vision before she took form. It was his magic humming on the wind when we first reached the Temple. The magic of a dead man.
“A fool who needs to deliver a message.” Barasa waves for us to follow him. “The wind tells secrets.”
Sukar and Essnai do so without question. Rudjek raises an eyebrow at me, and I shrug. We’re so close that our fingers brush against each other as we follow too. We rush into the vestibule and pour into the Hall of Orishas. Thinking of what Sukar said earlier, I try to imagine Efiya in the Unnamed’s place. Could my sister somehow be her? The magic inside me reaches out to the statue, seeking answers, but Barasa breaks my focus.
“There isn’t much time,” he explains. “I must deliver the message that binds my ka to this place before the magic fails.” His voice falters, then he frowns. “I am aware of recent events . . . of the tragedy that has befallen our people.”
I glance down to hide from the pain in his eyes—pain that’s like a rancid wound growing worse. “Does Efiya know that I’m here?” My question echoes in the hall, and we all seem to hold our breath.
Barasa nods, his face pinched. “Yes, but she’s too busy killing orishas to care at the moment.”
I grit my teeth, remembering how Koré fell at my sister’s feet. “How many?”
“Along with the Twin King . . . Ugeniou, the harvester, and Fayouma, the mother of beast and fowl,” Barasa says.
I lean against an orisha statue, not even seeing which one as I absorb this new information. “Eleven left if we count the Unnamed.”
Barasa snaps his fingers and the torches along the walls flare to life. “The Temple is safe for now.” He shuffles across the floor, half floating, half walking. His pale yellow kaftan rustles in his wake. “It’s warded against demon magic.”
“Why didn’t you appear before now?” Sukar crosses his arms and glares at his uncle. “I’ve been up here more times than I can count and you never showed yourself to me. I’m your nephew. I performed your burial rite, for Heka’s sake.”
“Always so fussy! Pipe down, boy.” Barasa pats Sukar on the shoulder. “Don’t you think I would have shown myself if I could? The orishas had a hand in the magic binding my ka to the Temple, and they wouldn’t let me appear until both of them were here.” The seer juts a crooked finger at me, not meeting my eye, then at Rudjek.
Rudjek and I exchange a look, not understanding.
Chills creep down my arms. “Why us?”
“You two must kill the serpent.” Barasa threads his fingers together. When he finally meets my gaze, he gives me an apologetic look. “Before she finds the Demon King’s ka.”
I hug my shoulders. “I’ve already tried that. I failed.”
Rudjek rests his palms on the hilts of his shotels. “I’ll do it.”
Same old Rudjek, as brash as always. I bite back a smile.
“If just anyone could do it, boy”—Barasa throws up his hands—“then we wouldn’t be having this conversation. While the orishas keep Efiya busy, they want Arrah to take the Demon King’s dagger. Only someone touched by his magic can wield the blade. You are to help her.”
“What’s so special about a knife?” Essnai leans against Re’Mec’s statue, arms crossed. It’s so large that her head rests against his knee.
“The Demon King used the dagger to trap the souls of his enemies,” Barasa says. “The orishas used a similar magic to trap his ka.”
Koré knew about my curse all along and how she could use it to her advantage. Rudjek steps closer to me, his stance protective. He doesn’t know. Now is a good time to tell him. I keep it short. I can’t admit to him the worst of it. The thing that I haven’t wanted to admit to myself—that the Demon King’s magic burrowed deep inside me. It coiled around my heart and touched my ka. It felt familiar in a way I couldn’t explain. I tell him about Efiya too—about the children she turned into ndzumbi.
When the seer opens his mouth to speak again, Rudjek lifts a hand to shut him up. “Twenty-gods, I can’t believe we’re wasting our time listening to this,” he says, voice shrill. “The orishas and the seers are the ones who cooked up the Rite of Passage. How many families have they destroyed with their little games? This is another game for them. They don’t care what happens to any of us.”
Essnai and Sukar look away from Rudjek’s shattered face. His pain for his brothers swells in his midnight eyes like the first raindrops of an impending flood. No one in Tamar can claim the Rite hasn’t touched them in some way.
“Didn’t Re’Mec send you back, boy?” Barasa demands. “He helped you.”
“He helped me after he got me killed,” Rudjek retorts.
I startle at the coolness in his tone—the resignation. We’ll have to talk about this whole dying and coming back business. At the first opportune moment.
I think of my mother’s hands, curled around the dagger that carved the serpent into my chest. “I’ll do it,” I say, and Rudjek falls silent. “I’m not going to stand by while Efiya destroys the rest of the world. I’ve stood by long enough. I won’t anymore.”
He opens his mouth to argue and I give him a look.
“I agree with Rudjek for once.” Sukar clears his throat. “If Efiya can kill orishas, what chance does anyone have against her? She killed the witchdoctors too, and even with the chieftains’ combined magic it will be near impossible.”
“She has a chance.” Barasa cuts his eyes at me again. “She alone.”
“I’m the only one touched by demon magic,” I mumble to myself.
“I thought the Demon King ate kas?” Rudjek asks, still seething.
“He ate the kas he wanted”—Barasa’s voice is impatient—“but every ka he consumed became a part of him. The rest he imprisoned in the dagger.”
“The orishas used his own trick to trap him,” I whisper, thinking of Koré’s box.
“What’s to stop Efiya from killing Arrah before she’s close enough to use the dagger?” Rudjek asks.
“I can stay alive long enough to do it.” I cross my arms. I almost got to Efiya before, when Merka stepped in my way. I can again.
Essnai pushes off from Re’Mec’s statue and stands up straight. “I don’t like it.”
“Finally, someone else has come to their senses!” Rudjek’s voice peaks again. “It’s a bad plan! It doesn’t account for the fact that Efiya has a demon army. It’s not like we can walk up to her and stab her in the heart.”
As soon as I decided to do it, it became we. Rudjek wouldn’t let me go alone.
“When you say we”—Sukar steps forward—“I hope you’re including us all.”
Rudjek shrugs. “I volunteer myself to help.”
“I volunteer as well,” says Essnai.
If Essnai helps, Kira will be at her ama’s side. Majka will want to help too—if not for me, so that he can pester Rudjek. But I dread my friends anywhere near my sister, knowing what she’s capable of.
I sigh, head and heart heavy. “Where’s the dagger?”
“Hidden in a vault beneath the Temple of Heka,” the seer answers.
“How come the orishas didn’t think of this before, when Efiya wasn’t as strong?” Rudjek asks.
“Arrah had to break the Ka-Priestess’s curse first,” Barasa explains, his tone sharp, “then the chieftains had to die . . .” He meets my eyes again. “As your Grandmother foresaw.”
I’m left speechless as Rudjek tenses at my side. Grandmother knew. Her vision at the last Blood Moon Festival surfaces in my mind. In all her previous visions, she had seen me standing alone in front of the Temple of Heka. In her last vision, she saw the shadows of the five chieftains standing behind me, each with a hand on my should
er. Dread sinks in my belly, knowing how horrible it had been for her to live with that knowledge.
Sukar narrows his eyes at his uncle. “What aren’t you telling us?”
Barasa’s phantom body twitches as he turns to me again. “Wielding the dagger will kill you, too.”
Thirty-Four
Had the seer not already been dead, Rudjek would have driven his shotels through his heart. Chills scrape down my back as their raised voices echo in my ears. My heartbeat pulses so loud that pain shoots along my temples. I don’t want to die, but the truth is I already have one foot in death. Even the chieftains’ magic won’t bring back the years I’ve traded off my life. The demons in the desert called me walking ndzumbi. I am a walking corpse, and to stop my sister, my life is a small price to pay.
“Enough,” I say, putting an end to their argument. My vision blurs as I rub my forehead. “It’s my choice, and I’ve already made up my mind.”
A shadow falls across Rudjek’s face, but it doesn’t mask his tears. His hands slip from the hilts of his shotels and go slack at his sides. He doesn’t challenge my decision; he knows it’s pointless.
With him quiet, I ask, “Why will the dagger kill me?”
“The orisha who forged the blade made it that way,” the Zu seer spits, disgusted. “She gave him and him alone the ability to trap souls, and the magic only answers to his touch.”
I’ve known Barasa most of my life, and I’ve never seen such darkness, such pure hate, as he regards the Unnamed’s statue. The orishas stripped away her name. They erased her from history. If Koré is any example—a petulant child one moment, a dangerous assassin the next—then the orishas are volatile. The Unnamed must’ve made his dagger. She did side with the Demon King during the war—she betrayed her brethren for him.
“Anyone else would die if they touched the knife, but you can trick it,” the seer tells me. “A residue of the Demon King’s magic still lives within you. The dagger is powerful enough to kill both mortal and immortal kind . . . It’ll be enough to do the deed, but not enough to keep you alive.”
Barasa’s form begins to fade around the edges. “If you have more questions, now is the time to ask.”
I have none.
We decide to stay at the Temple until we’re ready to set out on the eight-day trip to the tribal lands. Barasa spends his final moments alone with his nephew before the magic binding his ka fades. Afterward, Sukar and Essnai leave to buy supplies for the journey, fetch Kira and Majka. Rudjek and I wash in the barracks, then ramble through the bunks looking for a change of clothes. We both end up in the black tunics and close-fitted trousers worn by Temple attendants. The clothes smell as musty as the halls.
Sukar’s uncle had searched my mother’s quarters and found nothing of interest. He’d searched the catacombs beneath the Temple too. He told us that there are three levels underneath the Temple—two he discovered only after death. Most of the chambers remained untouched, but it was clear that my mother had used some to perform rituals. I decide that I will search them, too, and use my magic to see if there are any clues to her next move.
My mind is uneasy as Rudjek and I cross the dark antechamber on the way to my mother’s apartment. I’ll start there and depending on how that goes, then I’ll try the catacombs. Though I’m afraid if I go beneath the Temple, the memories from that night with Arti and Shezmu will rush back in.
As we make our way through her apartment, I want to ask Rudjek about the Dark Forest. But it’s nice being together like this without talking, so I hold my tongue. In contrast with the stone corridors outside, Arti’s chamber is lavish in a way that I’ve never seen at home. It reminds me of props on a stage—like she was in front of the assembly, grander than life itself. Wisps of my mother’s honey and coconut scent perfume the air—and conflicting emotions twist in my belly. It’s a smell of home, and a smell laced with bad memories.
Gossamer curtains hang around a bed large enough to sleep a giant. Gold-plated finery and trinkets of all sorts litter her sitting room. During vigils, the seers would sequester themselves at the Temple. I always looked forward to those times because Arti stayed away, working, for days. No one guessed that she was plotting the destruction of the world. Yet there’s nothing more than a faint echo of her magic here, and I’m relieved when we leave.
The firelight in the antechamber holds the shadows at bay. I close my eyes and in my mind, I see a shotani in every corner. Where has the new Almighty One sent them and the rest of the gendars? Essnai said that no one knew for sure, but I can’t help but question the timing. If he doesn’t care about the demons pillaging the Kingdom and killing his people, then what does he care about? I run my hand across the damp wall, feeling the seers’ sharp-edged script carved into the stone. It swirls in my mind. The whispers of the Zu chieftain—the master scrivener—grow louder than the others. Since the witchdoctors’ kas joined with me, my perceptions have changed. I sense a deeper connection to the world—that there’s so much more that I can’t quite wrap my head around.
I stare at the mural of the Supreme Cataclysm, the orishas’ creation story, on the opposite wall. Storm clouds spew from the mouth of a volcano. According to the seers, the Supreme Cataclysm existed before all. Before the orishas, it created order and chaos. From order came time, and from chaos came life and death. The whispers in my head are so feverish that they make me feel like I’m falling into the Supreme Cataclysm too. Tam told me a more colorful version of the creation story. The more I learn of the orishas, the more his version sounds closest to the truth.
I’ve walked through these halls countless times, but now I see them through the chieftains’ eyes, too. I catch impressions of past seers performing rituals. A brush of very old magic. The faintest lines that connect everything in the universe. The chieftains’ thoughts jostle beneath my own. It’s dizzying to keep mine separate from theirs. To keep my memories whole.
Rudjek touches my hand. “Are you okay?”
I blink and his face comes into focus. “Turns out the five chieftains are high-maintenance. They like to talk over each other.” I’m aware of how close Rudjek is to me and a flush of warmth creeps up my neck. I clear my throat. “Were you with Re’Mec this whole time?”
“So to speak, yes. After I escaped from my rooms, I ran into Tam on the way to the East Market.” Rudjek sneers when he says his name. “By ‘ran into him,’ I mean, he stepped into my path and we collided.” Rudjek pauses and takes a breath to gather himself. “Arrah . . . How well do you know Tam?”
“I know he’s a selfish bastard.” I wrinkle my nose. “He didn’t care after he sent you on a false trail.”
“Indeed.” Rudjek’s brows shoot up in surprise. “I’ve known Tam all my life. We grew up competing in my father’s arena and took private lessons together for years. I didn’t question his word when he said he overheard the Ka-Priestess ordering an attendant to secure passage to the Aloo Valley.”
Twenty-gods. I should’ve known it was a mistake not to burn Tam to a crisp in the alley. He had single-handedly delivered Rudjek to the cravens. “I don’t know if he was working with my mother or . . .”
“Tam isn’t who we thought he was,” Rudjek says quietly.
Tam with his Yöome bronze complexion set upon bold, Tamaran features, hair the color of sunlight, and azure eyes. Before he became a scribe, I hadn’t seen much of him in either of the markets. I’d thought nothing of it, since many families of high status didn’t frequent the heart of the city. They sent their servants for that.
Tam told the orishas’ origin story with such nostalgia that one would think he saw it firsthand. And the thing he said in the alley about the demons when I pondered why one was so easy to kill. Ask again once one has consumed a hundred or a thousand souls. The truth dawns on me.
“Tam is Re’Mec.”
Rudjek nods. He’s been right all along about the orishas. They like to play games. The hot lash of the truth burns—we’re no more than rag dolls to them. The firs
t time I met Koré in the alley, she appeared human by all accounts. Her magic and writhing hair and the box had given her away, but only because she chose to let me see those things. I’ve never felt a hint of magic from Tam, but he’s always been a chameleon. The whole time that Koré was helping me, he must have been with Rudjek. But there’s more to it: Re’Mec has been watching him since childhood.
After years of lessons with the scribes, my mind still can’t wrap around the idea that the orishas walk among us. To them, we’re no more than pieces in their game of jackals and hounds. Arti and Efiya are the Demon King’s pieces, and Rudjek and I are the orishas’ counterparts. I trusted Koré even after discovering that the orishas lied about the demons. Now I realize she’d known the chieftains’ plan all along and kept me in the dark. It frustrates me to no end that without them we would already be dead.
Rudjek studies my face again. “You look like you’ve just seen the end of the world.”
“Old news,” I sigh, waving my hand, “I saw that months ago.”
We stand so close that the heat from his body rolls off him in waves. I can’t stop staring at his long, dark lashes, and the hall feels much smaller, and more private than it ought to. With our families scattered and our friends away, there’s no one to interrupt this moment. No one to snatch us apart now.
“A few days after I crossed into the Aloo Valley, I found an abandoned camp.” Rudjek clears his throat and continues his story. “I can’t explain it, but . . . the camp smelled of you.” He ducks his head to hide his blush. “Like you smell right now. Sweet and intoxicating. Like something forbidden—”
“Rudjek!” My cheeks warm too. “We’re talking about the Aloo Valley, remember?”
“Sorry.” He runs his fingers through his messy black curls. “You’re very distracting.”
“And you’re not?” I retort.
Rudjek grins and I cluck my tongue at him. “Where was I?”
“The abandoned camp.”
“Someone had ravaged the camp.” He swallows hard, shifting on his heels. “I thought of the Dark Forest and the cravens. About the stories we were told as children . . .”