“Er—thank you,” I repeated, shifting beneath the teetering pile of books. “But there’s a lot I have to get done before my journey to the Underworld. I’m not sure I’ll have much time for, um, leisure reading.”
“Of course, of course,” he said, patting my hand. “I understand completely.” But before my shoulders could sag with relief, the chief added, “I’ll summarize the texts for you. In particular, I think you’ll truly connect with Elenya the Acolyte’s musings on the nature of friendship and betrayal. I recall one passage in which she . . .”
My neck pricked with worry. Had I succeeded in giving my memories to Uriyah, only to be saddled with another arduous task? Would he need me to become an expert in philosophy before I could anoint him?
But over the next few days, as I fought to keep my eyelids open through lectures on royal virtue, I soon realized that the rate of my progress meant little to Chief Uriyah. It was my potential that enamored him—that chaotic canvas of my life’s mistakes, waiting to be molded into a work of art. This would have annoyed me more, if it weren’t for Uriyah’s boyish joy in teaching. He seemed to crave a project: a willing vessel for his years of pedantic study.
As my headaches progressed, and the chorus of ojiji grew louder in my head, a strange relief enveloped me as I sat in Uriyah’s dusty study. I nodded in the right places when he waxed philosophical, and watched his wrinkle-set eyes shine when I quoted a text correctly. Here was one person, at least, who I had not disappointed as an empress. Whose needs I could satisfy with nothing more than a listening ear—and a cup of honeybush tea, shared over the ramblings of dead philosophers.
I would never be as close to Uriyah as I was to Min Ja, or even to Ji Huan. But at the end of one lesson, when I Ray-spoke as an experiment, Pride is a stumbling block to the young ruler . . . and Uriyah absentmindedly Ray-spoke back, Rinel the Goatminder, treatise five, verse twenty—I was pleased to hear his voice in my head.
I woke hours before dawn, soothed by my Ray-synced breathing with Dayo. His familiar scent of shea butter and fresh linen made me sigh. Where he lay on my shoulder, a tiny pool of drool stained my nightshirt. I poked his nose fondly.
But as usual, peace lasted only a moment before the ojiji began their song in my head.
You’re struggling. You’re not enough of an empress. Not enough of a sister. It’s why people always leave you. Why Sanjeet left you. Make up for it. Do more. Do more. Should have saved us. Should have cared.
Fever flared between my temples. In my exhaustion, I had long ceased to try to separate the ojiji’s truth from their lies. Instead, I plunged into what shut their grating voices up, if only for a while: my work.
I wriggled from Dayo’s embrace and padded into the salon, rifling through the chests for a pen and ink. Then I plopped down at my kneeling desk, scribbling furiously. I didn’t realize I was talking to myself until a hand pressed my shoulder.
“Tar?” Dayo had roused, and was staring down at me, hair misshapen with sleep, brow creased.
I started. How long had I been sitting here? I glanced around the room. Minutes? Hours? The oil lamp wicks had burned to half their height. Dawn seeped through the salon skylight.
“Tar. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” I said, my voice breathy and shrill. I beamed up at him. “Better than fine. You know I’ve been worried about how I’ll enforce the new edict. Even if they seem to accept it at the Pinnacle, they know I can’t watch them all.” I dug through the piles of paper and waved a leaf at him. “Well. I’ve come up with ideas on how to keep them accountable. We could even enlist that vigilante, the Crocodile, to help us. It’s risky, but I think it could work . . .”
“That . . . sounds useful.” He squeezed my shoulder. “But why are you working now?”
“Couldn’t sleep. Besides, there won’t be time during the day.”
In three more months, I had anointed seven more rulers: Uxmal of Quetzala, Sadhika of Dhyrma, Danai of Swana, Edwynn of Mewe, Helius of Sparti, Nadrej of Biraslov. After seeing my fraught memories of The Lady, even Beatrix of Nontes developed a perverse maternal affection for me, allowing for an anointing.
Two stripes remained pale on my lioness mask: one for Kwasi of Nyamba and one for Zuri of Djbanti. Apparently I only gained immunities when I anointed members of my empire—when Min Ja accepted my Ray, the stripes had remained as they had before. Redemptor marks covered my skin from toe to collarbone, leaving clear my neck, face, and the palms of my hands alone. Shadows pooled beneath my eyes, and every limb in my body ached with cold. I drifted through each day, a raft on a vast, numb ocean. Only those children’s voices—a constant, bracing wind—egged me on.
Do more.
“These days,” I said softly, “between Aritsar’s mill and quarry workers, my old siblings, and my new ones, I never can decide who needs me more. No matter what I do . . . it feels like I’m betraying someone.”
Dayo sat cross-legged beside me. “You aren’t replacing our old council, Tar. That’s not how love works. Besides,” he added a little wryly, “if anyone could use a bigger family, it’s us.”
I didn’t reply. Some topics—like our lack of heirs, with no clear way of getting them—were too heavy to discuss before breakfast.
My heart ached. The suite seemed barren with all our siblings gone. Especially without . . . I banished Sanjeet’s face from my mind. That pain too could not be borne on an empty stomach.
He had left nearly four months ago. I heard news of him through reports from his guard captains, but in all that time, he’d sent me nothing, not even letters—until yesterday, when a package arrived at the palace: a long and bulky bundle.
It was an ivory-handled spear: perfectly balanced, with a head of razor-sharp adamant. Old Arit characters glittered on the shaft, in block script that I deciphered with a shiver.
WURAOLA
The name belonged to Enoba’s sister—first of the Raybearers, though Enoba had stolen her birthright. No one had called me Wuraola since the memory of the Storyteller had possessed me on Mount Sagimsan, hurling my body to sacred ground. The name meant girl of gold, girl of sunshine. When I touched the spear’s shaft, a wave of regret and longing passed into my skin. The memory of Sanjeet’s emotions must have slipped into the spear as he engraved it. Perhaps he’d known they would be more eloquent than a letter.
“I still don’t understand why you won’t slow down,” Dayo sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m worn out every day just holding court; approving plans that imperial experts assemble for me. But you’re inventing new things from scratch. Tar—you’ve already done so much. More than anyone else could.”
“But I’m not finished,” I muttered. “I still haven’t anointed Zuri, and only Am knows how long that’ll take. There’s also King Kwasi . . . though I think he’ll come around. I just need to do him a favor.”
“What’s that?”
I smiled tiredly. “I have to take him shopping.”
CHAPTER 21
“You think I’m frivolous,” the old man accused. “A fop.”
“Of course not,” I said. “It’s just, um, itchy. But really—it’s beautiful, King Kwasi.”
I stood with the portly king of Nyamba in a bustling tailor’s stall, where I perched like a peacock on a rotating pedestal. Dressmakers clucked around me, sweat beading on their upper lips as they wrapped me in orange-striped fabric, pinning the excess in looping drapes across my hips.
“You hate it,” insisted Kwasi, leaning on his walking stick. His jowls quivered in a pout.
“It’s . . . not my usual style,” I admitted, and the sulk vanished from Kwasi’s features, exchanged for a wheezing giggle.
“Don’t mind me, child,” he chortled. “I’m just having fun. You should have seen the look on your face!”
I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help smiling. The eighty-year-old king’s delight in pranks could grow wearisome, but these days, I welcomed any diversion.
“Bring out more s
amples,” Kwasi ordered the dressmakers, clapping his ring-adorned hands. “I believe we are coming close.”
“Don’t you think we’ve seen enough fabric today?” I suggested, watching with pity as the dressmakers scrambled. The head tailor, wholly unprepared for a king and an empress to visit in the same afternoon, shrieked orders at her staff and bowed to us so many times, I feared her bright pink gele would topple.
Still, Kwasi shook his head at me, tapping the side of his nose with a wink. “We are not going anywhere,” he said, “until you’ve chosen something interesting. Should we look at the cobalt? The crimson? Or did we see that already? Maybe once more, just to be sure . . .”
I had spent the entire day in Ileyaso, the textile district of Oluwan City, puffing to keep up with the surprisingly nimble ruler. After weeks of absorbing my memories, he refused to try my Ray until I agreed to the outing.
“I cannot possibly love a person until I have seen them select a wardrobe,” he had said, and then laughed as though he were joking, though I highly suspected he wasn’t.
All the center realms—Oluwan, Swana, Djbanti, and Nyamba—were known for beautiful clothing, but Nyamba took the crown. I’d heard of Nyamban lords going bankrupt trying to follow their country’s ever-revolving fashions, and of weavers with divine gifts, like Umansa and his prophetic tapestries.
I had grown fond of Kwasi. His boyish, good-natured absentmindedness was how I imagined Dayo as an old man, though Dayo barely noticed the clothing on his own back, let alone anyone else’s.
“Have I worn you out, child?” Kwasi asked, with real concern. All of a sudden, the shop had gone quiet. The head tailor and her attendants were staring at me on the pedestal, fidgeting with worry.
Then, as though having an out-of-body experience, I realized that I was doubled over, massaging both my temples and moaning.
“Someone fetch a healer,” fretted the head tailor.
“No,” I insisted. “It’ll pass. I’ll be fine.”
The dressmakers gasped as the Redemptor marks on my skin began to pulse and shift, glowing with blue malevolent light.
A filthy child had appeared in the corner of the shop. I barely jumped—by now, I was used to the apparitions. But the ojiji’s visions were growing more intense. They would not let me rest—would never let me be complacent.
Do more, the child repeated. Justice for us all. Pay the price. This one appeared to be from Songland, dirt streaking its transparent face. Guilt weighed like lead in my stomach. I hissed under my breath, “Can’t you see I’m trying?”
The child shrugged and disappeared. The marks on my body faded, dull and still again.
I’m crazy, I thought calmly. I am very, very ill. Part of me knew I should tell someone. Perhaps write to Kirah, or confess my visions to Dayo, who grew increasingly worried. But what could they do? And really . . . what did it matter? Once I stepped into the Breach, I would soon cease to feel anything, let alone pain.
I revoked the thought immediately, shocked at myself. I planned to come back from the Underworld. Woo In had managed it, so had Ye Eun. And I had promised Dayo, promised everyone that I would try. Yet the thought remained.
You will almost certainly die.
Over the past few months, I had developed a sinister suspicion about what the ojiji truly wanted. Why they were never satisfied. Why there was always more to do, more to pay for their lives.
Deep down, I knew they wanted more than justice. They wanted revenge: recompense for the lives already lost—the blood already shed. And the worst part was . . . I didn’t blame them.
I wasn’t even sure if they were wrong.
Kwasi placed a soothing hand on my arm, rheumy eyes scanning my face. “It’s that nasty council sickness, isn’t it?”
“No. I don’t get the sickness anymore.”
This was true—I’d discovered it by accident after visiting Min Ja and Da Seo alone. The symptoms of council sickness had not surfaced—not since I anointed Dayo to my council months ago. Our Rays appeared to have struck a balance inside me, freeing me to travel without a sibling. Part of me felt guilty at how relieved this discovery made me. I loved my council siblings, after all. But in the last few weeks, any activity unrelated to work—courting vassal rulers, preparing for the Pinnacle, appeasing the ojiji—made me anxious with impatience.
They are blind, and you are alone. Justice. Justice.
You must care enough for everyone who does not care.
“It’s only a headache,” I told Kwasi, smiling wanly. “Happens a lot these days.”
“I’m not surprised,” he chided. “The bags beneath your eyes could carry half a day’s shopping. Do you sleep at all, child?”
I avoided his searching gaze. “I’m fine,” I said. “Just busy. You know how it is. Court sessions, judge rulings . . .” Trying to appease an army of ojiji ghosts.
“I may be a king,” Kwasi replied, “but even I know that rulers can’t do everything. Make some time for fun!” He made a sweeping gesture at the colorful fabrics festooned around the shop. At my glazed expression, he grunted. “You think I’m a shallow old fool.”
I shook my head. “There’s nothing shallow about appreciating beauty.”
I liked Kwasi, and wanted to make him happy—so I perused the bolts of fabric, pretending to consider each one. Kwasi made a delighted sound when I stopped at a stack of cloth.
“These are Nyamban textiles,” he said proudly. “Woven to reflect one’s destiny.”
As I touched them, he watched my face, keeping his own neutral. But I had been raised in the Children’s Palace—I knew a test when I saw one.
At first, I picked up a colorful fabric with designs that mimicked the weave of a basket. The blocked pattern repeated in sky blue, crisp green, and bold streaks of black. Kwasi made a pleased sound.
“Nwentoma cloth,” he sighed. “An excellent choice. And those colors have significance—blue for harmony, green for good health, and black for strength.”
I nodded but had already put the cloth down, curiously drawn to a swatch peeking out from beneath the other bolts. I pulled it out, revealing a strange ream of black, white, and metallic gold, tiny hand-etched glyphs blocked together in stark patterns. The longer I watched, the more the symbols seemed to move, congregating in slow revolution around a symbol in the center—a prancing lioness.
“This one,” I said immediately.
Kwasi’s expression was hard to read. Something like awe . . . and profound, restless fear.
“Adinkra cloth,” he said at last. “I am surprised it is sold here. Back home, it is only worn by high priests, or else those burdened with certain gifts—the ability to see other realms and commune with the spirits who live there.”
I continued to stare, mouth agape, as the patterns moved for real—converging on the lioness, glyphs covering her body like tiny children until she disappeared. Then I blinked, and the pattern reverted, lioness intact. Kwasi swore softly.
“I have not seen something like that happen in a very long time,” he whispered, and I gulped.
“Should I choose something else?”
“Of course not,” he said, sucking in a breath. “My child, if there was ever a sign you were made for an outfit . . . that was it.”
We paid the head tailor, who promised to visit the palace with my completed garment within the week. Then I turned hopefully to Kwasi. “Well?” I said. “Will you receive my Ray now?”
He gave a sly grin. “Not until we’ve found you some accessories. A silk sash, perhaps. Or some beaded tassels.”
So our Ileyaso odyssey continued, Imperial Guard warriors following patiently behind with our purchases as we shopped our way through the district. When we came to an open-air luxury market of panther and donkey hides, Kwasi stopped to admire a dove-gray pelt, exclaiming at its quality.
Several hides hung on clotheslines between stalls and high-rise buildings. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a flash of dark green amidst the motley rows o
f animal skin. I squinted. Was someone standing on a window ledge?
“Marvelous. Just marvelous,” Kwasi gushed, examining a pelt with dappled white spots. “Tarisai, wouldn’t this be just the thing for your adinkra?”
I was barely listening. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. Heart racing, I swiveled to check on our guards. They stood nearby, armed and calmly scanning the area.
“. . . as a trim,” Kwasi was saying. “Or a mantle, draped over one shoulder . . .”
I was barely listening. When had I felt this cold foreboding before? A song from a harrowing, moonlit night stole into my memory:
Why, you ask? Why?
The Pelican has spoken.
“Get down,” I roared at Kwasi, right before a mob of masked, mounted warriors clattered into the marketplace. Merchants shouted and scrambled for cover, and the Imperial Guards leapt to form a wall around me and Kwasi. But instead of whizzing arrows or slashing spears, I heard only the din of overturned carts and stalls, and the screams of confused shoppers, some of whom were pointing overhead.
High above, hazy through the smoke of street fires and rows of hanging pelts, a man stood on a window ledge, his green, tooth-encrusted mask glinting in the sunlight.
The Crocodile.
“Having fun shopping, Oluwanis?” he boomed at the crowd in a strident tenor that sent a thrill up my spine. Scaly leather bands glinted on his arms. “My, what a wealth of bargains! Aheh: The stalls are just brimming with good deals today! Some of you could buy this whole market, and your purses would not feel the difference.” He laughed, a thundercrack that echoed through the stone square. “Well—how is this for a price? The lives of men, women, and innocent children worked to death in tanneries and textile mills throughout the empire!”
The crowd chattered objections, but the Crocodile talked over them.
“Try to forget it! Pretend that it isn’t true. Pretend you don’t know what it means when pelts run cheap, or when furs sell for a song. Go on—drape your grand mantles! Clothe your bodies with a child’s suffering!” His last words were guttural, as if growled through his teeth. “But if you will wear the fruits of poverty and greed . . . at least show the world what it truly costs.” Then he leapt from the ledge, disappearing from sight, and the sound of metal creaking echoed overhead.
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