I would simply have to take more control.
Nights later, I dreamed Sanjeet.
Not of him, but him directly, appearing in the nebulous ether of our sleeping minds, united across miles through the Ray.
I hadn’t meant to. Dayo, Ai Ling, and I always slept with kuso-kuso under our tongues, hoping to connect with our distant siblings, and alleviate their council sickness from afar. I visited Kirah most often, nudging at the corners of her mind until she recognized my presence. Then we would dream together, suspended in her vivid thoughts for hours. Sometimes she reenacted her adventures for me, conjuring up the golden Blessid Valley dunes, where she currently hunted for riled-up alagbato—or the Great Moving City of Katsephut-Omar, which she had chased for days, hoping to catch her estranged family’s caravan. Tonight, I had dropped eagerly asleep, hoping to see her again. But before I lost consciousness, I must have spared a passing thought to someone else . . .
Because I woke in a crystalline garden hedged in cardamom and rosebushes. In the midst of trees covered in sparkling amber bark, Sanjeet’s broad form sat hunched on a bench, faced away from me, while he plucked forlornly at a flower that appeared to be made of rubies.
Once I realized my mistake, I backed away, attempting to fall out of his mind, but he heard my footsteps on the silken grass. His tea-colored eyes met mine, froze . . . and then dimmed.
“You’re not real,” he said.
I blinked. “What?”
“For council members to unite in dreams,” he said slowly, “they have to be thinking of each other at the same time. And she avoids thinking of me. So you’re not really her.” He laughed ruefully, turning back to the flower. “Just a figment of my imagination.”
My heart twinged. I shifted my feet in the unnatural grass, considered telling him the truth. But instead I asked, “How do you know she isn’t thinking of you?”
“Why would she?” he asked. “I left.” His pain radiated through the air like weather, dewy teardrops sprouting on each plant. “I did the same thing her mother did. The moment she insisted on being herself, and nothing else—I disappeared.”
“You could come back,” I suggested, fighting the pain quickly stopping up my throat. “I know she can be . . . difficult, sometimes, but she would rather have you there than gone—”
“I always wanted to bring her here.” He stood, gazing wistfully around the shimmering clearing. “The enchanted Royal Garden of Vhraipur, in the heart of Dhyrma. Amah used to bring me here as a boy. Gems, silk, precious stones as far as the eye can see. You’d think thieves would help themselves. But if anyone tries to steal a bud out of its natural habitat”—he snapped the ruby rose from its stem, and the blossom crumbled instantly to dust—“it ceases to be.”
“Jeet.” I crossed the garden in two strides, seizing his arm with my insubstantial hand. “I’m really here—well. Not here—you know what I mean. But it’s really me.”
At my touch, he trembled, pupils dilating with grief and wonder. “Tar,” he breathed, gathering me close. His dream self did not smell of anything, but I could feel his heartbeat, hammering fast against mine. “There’s something you should know,” he said, drawing back to cup my cheek. “I’ve searched for alagbatos. No signs. That’s good; it means whatever you’re doing is holding them off. But when I tried to find the new opening to the Underworld, stories kept cropping up. Leads about your ojiji. Something’s going on, Tar. Something—”
Immediately a gush of wind swept me off the ground, and the treble cries of children filled my ears.
Sanjeet left you! Hurt you. He’s trying to keep you from saving future Redemptors, keep you all to himself. Don’t listen to him. Don’tlistenDon’tlistenDon’tlisten—
I fought and kicked, reeling with surprise. Until now, the ojiji had mostly left me alone when I slept and united with my siblings. They had never interfered with a dream before.
Sanjeet yelled after me, reaching desperately for the sky. His voice grew fainter with every word. “Ojiji . . . across Aritsar . . . noble families . . . danger. Please, Tar, be care—”
But then I was back in the Imperial Suite, jolting upright and covered with sweat. I snatched another kuso-kuso leaf from my nightstand, desperate to fall back asleep. But whenever I tried to connect with Sanjeet again, the ojiji were there, shrieking, crying, filling my head until I had no choice but to wake. At last, I gave up, collapsing on my back with exhaustion.
If he wanted to help you, breathed the child chorus, as this time I drifted into dreamless sleep—then he shouldn’t have left.
Do more, Empress Redemptor. Do more.
You are alone.
CHAPTER 17
Weeks passed by in a blur. I met with Min Ja and Da Seo every morning in the sky-blue tent, chatting companionably over breakfast before inhaling kuso-kuso and succumbing to my coursing stream of memories. After my body adjusted to the daily trances, I began to have sessions in the evenings as well, with Chief Uriyah of Blessid Valley, and then with young King Ji Huan of Moreyao. I grew more adept at uprooting the barbs in my mind’s garden, tearing out unflattering memories and replacing them with neat, manicured blooms.
In this version of my story, the one I showed the rulers, I had not chosen to erase my own memories, selfishly joining Dayo’s council even though I had known it would put him in danger. No . . . my memories had vanished on their own. A traumatic side effect of the Children’s Palace fire. A tragic injury—entirely out of my control. And I hadn’t betrayed Thaddace’s secret to The Lady. In fact, I hadn’t known of Thaddace and Mbali’s affair at all. His choice to save Mbali over the emperor had shocked me as much as anyone.
Most importantly: In this version of my story, I had no memory of stabbing Ekundayo Kunleo.
I had woken above his body, yes. And his blood had been on my hands. But I didn’t remember it happening. I had been in a trance the whole time; a mindless pawn, waking from a horrible dream . . . not a monster who had lured him to Enitawa’s Quiver, lucid, calculating, and coldly determined.
I told myself I was being fair. I didn’t avoid every uncomfortable memory, after all. I let Min Ja see my failure to protect Ye Eun, my grief over the Unity Edict, and my struggle to accept my complicated Kunleo lineage. I even shared intimate moments between me and Sanjeet—my pain at his distrust after Enitawa’s Quiver, and my lust for his touch, even as I feared hurting him.
Chief Uriyah’s brow knit disapprovingly when he learned how I rebelled against the last emperor, and Ji Huan’s cheeks flushed at my steamier memories with Sanjeet . . . but the rulers and I grew closer. Min Ja claimed to dream in my voice. Uriyah smiled, gravely but paternally, whenever we passed each other in the palace hallways. Ji Huan invited me for shy games of checkers in his private villa.
Still—whenever I tried the Ray, the rulers collapsed in pain. They had grown to respect me. Like me, even. But despite the hours we swayed in that tent, our minds suspended in the musk of kuso-kuso . . . the warm affection of the three Arit rulers did not, even once, spark into love.
The ojiji scolded me as usual, flaying me with headaches, ordering me to do more, and scolding me not to give up.
Earn the trust of the rulers, they chanted. You will not be happy until you do. Be the empress Aritsar needs you to be.
My stomach churned when I remembered what the first ojiji had said—the boy who had murdered Thaddace: For our purposes, your image must remain unsullied. You must retain the trust of the Arit populace.
What purpose, I wondered, was that?
As the days blended together, and my headaches intensified, I stopped wondering, and did instead what it always took to quiet the voices: I kept my head down, flayed myself with righteous guilt, and worked harder.
My progress with one ruler crept along more slowly than all the rest combined. Zuri of Djbanti had missed four invitations to my sky-blue tent in the palace gardens. At first, I simply assumed he despised me as the other nobles did. Perhaps, I thought worriedly, he was as f
ickle as he was empty-headed, and had changed his mind about getting anointed.
Yet instead of returning to his home realm, the king remained at court: a phantom in the corridors, and a perfumed shadow at the edge of my thoughts. He appeared often at banquets, where he made a drunken show, but was mysteriously absent whenever I tried to visit his villa. I felt his eyes on me often when I held court in the Imperial Hall, a piercing gaze at odds with his pretty, vapid smile.
Only once did I dare approach Zuri in public. I came upon him one morning in the palace gardens, alone in a fragrant rosemary hedge maze. He saw me before I saw him. I squirmed, wondering how long he’d been watching me.
The curving rosemary walls were short, barely coming up to Zuri’s dark, tapered waist. Lush blossoms and small, gold-tipped onyx statues dotted the maze, making Zuri appear as a giant. His signature gold cuff glinted on his arm, and he smirked when I noticed him, raising his hands in mock surrender.
“That’s quite a scowl, Tarisai. What in the Twelve Realms have I done to deserve it?”
“It’s Lady Empress to you,” I said. “And you’ve been ignoring my invitations. Why?”
He watched me for a moment with that inscrutable, thick-lashed gaze, making my cheeks grow warm in the interim. “I am not fond of kuso-kuso,” he said at last. “And while I’d love to peek into that ravishing head of yours, I’m much less eager to have you see in mine.”
I raised an eyebrow. “That’s hypocritical.”
“Very.” He flashed that flawless smile. “Also, I was curious if you would force me to meet with you. Was looking forward to it, actually.”
“Force you?” I echoed, horrified. “Why would I do that? The whole point of accepting the Ray is doing it willingly.”
“Shame,” he said, cocking his head. “I hate it when power goes to waste.”
His twinkling eyes grated on my nerves. “Why do you always speak in riddles?” I demanded. “Why not just say what you mean? I’m getting sick of it. If you plan to let me anoint you, we’ll be in each other’s heads soon enough. So you might as well be honest now.”
I regretted the words immediately. Suppose my anger repelled him? I still needed him on my council.
But to my surprise, at my outburst, his features shone with pleasure. He leaned over the short hedge, closing the distance between us. I tensed but did not move away.
Why in Am’s name did he have to smell so good?
“Giving orders suits you, Lady Empress,” he said. “You should do it more often.”
“Another riddle,” I droned.
“No. A compliment.” He paused, considering me again. “You’ve asked me to speak plainly, and so I will. You have wasted your time at An-Ileyoba.”
I recoiled. “Excuse me?”
“You’ve been empress for two months. Three, if we’re counting since Olugbade’s death. And you’ve yet to truly accomplish anything. You have more potential than all the monarchs put together. So why do you squander it?”
“Squander?” I sputtered. “Between drowning in court sessions and trying not to get assassinated, I’ve spent every waking minute trying to form my council. You know, so the continent doesn’t get destroyed in a supernatural war? Is your head filled with mancala beans?”
He laughed appreciatively, then grew solemn. “Let’s say you succeed in forming your council. When you travel to the Underworld—less than two years from now—you will almost certainly die. When that happens, your sole legacy will be that you temporarily united a dozen rulers. Are you content with that?”
Ice chilled my veins. He had said nothing I didn’t know already. I knew how dangerous my Underworld mission was. But Zuri was the first to say it with such brutal plainness:
You will almost certainly die.
I had promised Dayo I would find a way to survive. Woo In had managed it, after all, and so had Ye Eun. But thousands upon thousands of Redemptors hadn’t. And as stubbornly as I clung to hope, by any measure of probability . . . Zuri was right.
Still, I lifted my chin. “You’ve forgotten the terms of my treaty with the abiku,” I told him. “My journey to the Underworld will end all Redemptor sacrifices, whether I survive or not. Millions of children growing to adulthood, instead of being slaughtered for peace—that will be my legacy. So yes, I’m content with that.”
His eyes shaded with an emotion I couldn’t name—something between frustration and admiration. Still he said nothing, only bending in an ironic bow of defeat.
His accusation still bothered me. “I’ve done more than form a council, you know,” I added in an aloof tone. “I’ve been planning changes for the empire. A redistribution of resources—the largest in Arit history.”
“Ah, yes,” he said, features shining. “Your famous Pinnacle. Tell me . . . how do you intend to make the nobles give up those resources without a fight?”
He leaned over the hedge even closer—but this time the movement seemed unconscious, as if his attraction was earnest. I moved back, stiffly.
“I have a better question,” I said, crossing my arms. “Why do the nobles in Djbanti hoard wealth? Your kingdom has some of the most abundant natural resources in the empire. Yet the majority of your people live in poverty.”
For the first time, King Zuri looked uncomfortable. His earnest expression dissipated, replaced by the vapid mask he usually wore. “You’ll have to ask my warlords,” he drawled, waving a dismissive hand. “They’re the ones who run my country. In fact,” he said, giving me a sidelong glance. “Why don’t you hold the Pinnacle in Djbanti? My family castle is located directly next to an imperial tannery. Game pelts are one of Djbanti’s greatest exports. My warlords punish all peasants who poach on crown land—even those who hunt to feed their families. Seems fitting to hold your Pinnacle at the heart of injustice.”
Suspicion narrowed my eyes . . . but I considered. Why not have the Pinnacle at Zuri’s castle? Djbanti was a more central continent location than coastal Oluwan, so the nobles could travel there more easily.
“Fine,” I said. “But don’t expect me to go easy on your warlords. I know they hate my edict. All the nobles do, and the empire’s too big for me to watch them all—I can’t be sure they’ll obey it. But I’m working on a strategy to make them cooperate. And if all goes well, I’ll announce it at the Pinnacle.” I smiled smugly. “Not bad for squandered time, I think.”
“No,” Zuri replied, his tone unnervingly soft. “Not bad at all.”
I shifted my feet in the grass. “Enough for you to finally show up when I invite you?”
He smiled strangely, looking at me with familiar fondness—as though recalling a memory. “Believe me, Lady Empress,” he said. “The moment you untap your full potential . . . your wish is my command.”
CHAPTER 18
“ODODO the hunter, UKPOPO, UKPOPO, more handsome than princes; aheh, no lie!”
Adukeh, the former quarry girl who now served as my akorin, trilled in a melodramatic soprano as morning light streamed into the Imperial Bedchamber. She had christened Kameron’s soot-black panther cub Ododo, and Dayo laughed as she danced with the animal, gyrating around the room.
“He’ll charm you to pieces, a-bembem, a-bembem,
Unless you’re a mouse; I tell you, no lie!”
Adukeh sashayed toward the sleeping dais, where Dayo and I sat cross-legged, awaiting this month’s Rising. The twelve-year-old girl was officially the most cheerful person of the Imperial Suite. That wasn’t saying much, of course, since only Dayo and I were left. Sanjeet, Kirah, and the rest of my council siblings had been gone for a month. Even Ai Ling had taken her leave to Moreyao, searching her home realm’s rivers and lakes for an alagbato threatening to flood the villages. Between my pain at their absence, my ongoing failure to anoint a council, and the pressure of planning a Pinnacle, few distractions cheered me up, even Adukeh’s enthusiasm.
Some days, the only real exhilaration I felt was when those ghostly apparitions stared down at me, sending thrills along
my spine of guilt and determination as they chanted:
Should have saved us. Should have saved us. Pay for our lives.
More and more, my soul seemed to hover with those grim-faced children, drifting through each day in hollow discontent. At night, I shared a pallet with Dayo, lulled to sleep by our synced breath—but I stopped trying to visit Sanjeet. Stopped visiting Kirah, and all the rest of my council siblings. I missed them terribly.
But I knew that during the day, I could focus more, work harder . . . if I just stopped dreaming altogether.
Do more. Do more.
Adukeh danced again by our dais. This time when she passed, the purple scar marring her face soured my stomach with rage.
Our empire had done this to her. Greed had caused that accident in the mines—and apathy, shown by bystanders like Sanjeet and my council siblings, too jaded to imagine a better tomorrow.
You are alone.
I inhaled. Exhaled, suspended in a bath of cold clarity. My council siblings couldn’t help me. Neither could millions of others in this empire, blind to any problem beyond their social spheres. I couldn’t blame them for not seeing what I saw. The ojiji, those guiding voices in my head, had made it clear.
And if only one person saw the systems—the brushstrokes, the tiny actions forming a mural of injustice—then that person was responsible. She had to do something. She had to fix it.
If the world didn’t care about justice, then I would simply have to care enough for all of them.
“I could heal you,” I said abruptly, interrupting Adukeh’s song.
The girl stopped midverse, dropping Ododo. Her beaded cornrows clacked as she tilted her head in confusion. “Lady Empress?”
“I could heal you,” I repeated. “So why won’t you let me?”
Adukeh avoided my gaze, chewing her lip.
I touched the girl’s blotchy forehead, my fingers itching to do, to fix something. “I could make the bad thoughts go away,” I told her. The palace healers had determined that Adukeh’s wounds were more than physical. “I think it would help, Adukeh. The trauma of your memories is hurting you. It’s probably causing your stammer. You could feel so much better.”
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