I sucked in a breath, and Sanjeet noticed, eyes shading with an emotion I couldn’t name.
“I assume you know Zuri’s secret. I didn’t know he was the Crocodile until that day in Djbanti. But I’d been obsessed with the vigilante for a while, sending spies to track his movements. I visited the sites of his demonstrations, talked to the commoners there. And after a while . . . I can’t explain it, Tar. But the more I saw—the children pulled from mills and quarries, the hope in peasants’ eyes . . . It was like something woke inside me. Passion—something I’ve been afraid of my whole life. I knew how dangerous it was to long for change, especially change of a system, something beyond any one person’s control. But I couldn’t help it. For the first time I felt . . . restless. I chafed at the apathy of others, chafed at all the time I had wasted. That’s when I sent you that spear. I finally felt like I understood you, just a little bit. And I wanted to say I was sorry.” He bit his lip. “But I couldn’t come back. Not yet. My spies brought word of a revolution planned in Djbanti, the day of your Pinnacle. I thought of sending word to you, but didn’t want to risk such a message being intercepted. I knew I had to go. Not to protect you—you haven’t needed that in a long time. But to help those peasants, however I could. So I doffed my uniform and hid my seal ring. Some of my warriors, also in plain clothes, volunteered to go with me. And it looked like we came just in time.”
He paused watching my face. I swallowed, unable to hide the grief there, and he nodded.
“We weren’t able to recover his body,” he said quietly. “Apparently the peasants took it, and no one’s seen it since. I can’t imagine what it must have been like to lose a council brother. Well, I can, after Dayo almost died, but—” He shook his head, his voice going carefully toneless. “I heard rumors that what you had with Zuri was special. From what I’ve heard of the Crocodile, I’d guess you two had a lot in common.”
“He was like my braver twin,” I said after a long, heavy pause. I smiled weakly. “He used me, and I hated that. But even more, I hated that I understood him. His anger. His pain, loneliness. Zuri was more of a hero than I’ll ever be.” I bit my lip. “I’ve never met anyone like him. And I don’t think I ever will.”
Sanjeet avoided my gaze then, fighting to keep his face emotionless. “I’m glad he was there for you.” A beat passed. “I’m glad you had someone who stood with you, instead of standing by.”
I moved through the water, closing the space between us and resting my head against his. “Jeet.”
“I was insufferable,” he said softly. “And—” He frowned, swallowed, then said the words in a rush. “I can’t beat a dead man’s memory. Zuri understood you. He didn’t leave you, for Am’s sake, or try to cage who you are—”
“Jeet.”
“Let me finish.” He smiled, clear brown eyes sharp and resigned. He shifted in the water and then cupped my face: a warm, wet hand against my cheek. “I know I’m not him,” he whispered. “I know it’s unfair for me to hope. But if there’s a chance. If—if, after you’ve had time to grieve—someday, we might—”
I pressed a finger to his lips. He blinked, dazed, as I placed his arms around me. Then I braced myself on his shoulders, wrapping my legs around his waist so he held me, weightless, in the water. “Jeet . . . I wasn’t in love with Zuri.”
His breaths came short. “You weren’t?”
I shook my head.
“Oh.” He looked so dumbstruck, I laughed. I kissed his nose, then each of his bushy eyebrows, smiling when they knit together.
“I assumed,” he mumbled. “I mean—you spent so much time with him. And you called him a hero.”
“That’s because he was.” I smiled sadly. “But you can’t hold a legend’s hand, Jeet.” I screwed up my face. Zuri had been right—the Ray didn’t require someone to truly love you. Only the idea of you. I had always been an idea to him, and enamored as he had been with The Lady, I suspected even she had only been a tool in his revolutionary imagination—like a keen knife, or a gleaming sword. And when she lost her usefulness, he had simply exchanged her for a younger, sharper copy.
“Zuri didn’t want the girl,” I said. “He only wanted the empress.” I sighed, wrapping my legs tighter around him. “Only you ever tried to love both.”
The doubt left his eyes, replaced by warmth as my thighs pressed his hips. We kissed—gently at first, shy pecks containing apologies for fights before. Then my tongue grew bold. His skin tasted strongly of salt, seasoned by the spring. I clutched him closer, sharply aware that the cloth binding my breasts had soaked sheer. A sound escaped him, and his mouth dipped beneath my collarbone, moving my obabirin mask aside. I moaned, seeing stars. In the dark, I could not see below the water. But I felt—and wanted—every inch of him.
My head swam. Inhaling so much steam had made me giddy, and I’d had nothing but broth and water for days. Part of me also knew that if we kept this up much longer, my qualms about risks and heirs would fade quickly to white noise, no matter how imminent those risks were. Still, my hands gripped his back, and I let his mouth explore a few blissful moments longer before I broke the embrace.
“We should—” I gasped. “We should go inside.”
He nodded reluctantly, eyes glazed with hunger.
A pile of linens lay stacked neatly beside the jade altar. We climbed from the pool and wrapped our shoulders in the perfumed towels. But before we could leave the clearing, my tutsu swarmed.
“What in Am’s name,” I said, moving to shield Sanjeet. But to my surprise, he didn’t seem afraid.
“Oh. I forgot to tell you,” he said. “After you fainted, we—ah—received a message from . . . an old friend. It was on her advice we brought you to the temple.”
I watched, speechless, as the tutsu hummed and spun, growing denser as they descended. At last, the glowing swarm took the shape of a hunched, scowling old woman. Hands on its hips, the being made of tiny sparks stood before us in the clearing.
“Well, Wuraola?” it demanded. “How did you like your bath?”
“Old Mongwe,” I squeaked, gaping at the priestess’s shifting form. “But . . . how? You’re—How are you—”
“I cannot see or hear you. Talking through these sprites is exhausting enough as it is, let alone trying to cast a message back,” the hermit priestess huffed, speaking over me. “So this better be you, child, and not some other yam-brained royal. I told the sprites to find the wuraola, but they can be thick-thick in the head, especially during mating season—”
I tried again. “How—”
“—or if they sense that the land is in mortal danger, which, if I’m being honest, is more often than not these last hundred years. Anyhow. I assume you want to know how I’ve appeared before you. Well, I haven’t! I’m home in Swana, inhaling a fresh brew of kuso-kuso leaves. The fumes let my soul leave its sorry sack of bones every once in a while, which is nice for errands, when the weather is bad.”
Mongwe paused, observing the air where she assumed I stood.
“The sprites whispered of you,” she said quietly. “‘Mongwe,’ they whined, ‘the Wuraola is in a bad-bad way.’ It took me an age to make sense of their stories. Shades that return more than once? Children like reanimated corpses? But once I figured out it was ojiji . . .” She inhaled sharply. “I know their tricks of old. You have been in grave danger, child, and you are not cured yet. Though you’re feeling better now, I expect. Baths can treat a staggering number of ills, and you won’t find a more luxurious tub than the pools of Iyaja.” She chuckled to herself, then sobered. “The temple has bought you time, but once you leave it, the hauntings will return. The ojiji will do their best to confuse you, but remember this: Do not confuse guilt with conviction. Guilt is self-centered, and leads only to destructive obsession. But conviction brings balance—a sense of purpose beyond oneself. The abiku want to keep you when you descend to the Underworld. I don’t know why. But let me be absolutely clear.” The old woman hovered close, her stern, sparkling e
yes inches from my face. “Wuraola: Under no circumstances should you enter the Underworld, unless you are certain that you will return alive.”
I opened my mouth to object. She seemed to sense this.
“No buts,” she snapped. “Yes, breaking your vow to the abiku would mean disaster. A supernatural war, and a terrible one. But those futures pale in comparison, I fear, to what the abiku could accomplish with you in their clutches.”
I frowned with confusion. How could a supernatural war be better than my death in the Underworld?
Her wrinkled features grew distorted. The sprites began to wane and disperse, and so Mongwe spoke quickly. “The kuso-kuso is fading. Malevolent spirits work against me, and I may not soon visit you again. More advice: In the Underworld, the abiku may not touch, harm, or kill you without your consent. These are the laws of the Storyteller—laws to separate life and death—by which even the abiku must abide. Spirits of dead humans are different, but they seldom leave Egungun’s Parade. Oh—and no matter how you much you want to, don’t you dare trust the—”
But then Mongwe vanished, and the sprites dispersed, ascending from the clearing in a buzzing cloud.
“Don’t what?” I yelled after them. “Don’t trust the what?”
But Mongwe was silent, now nothing but a purple scatter of lights across the sky.
CHAPTER 30
“You kissed him?” Kirah Sputtered, wisps of hair escaping from her prayer shawl. “You kissed the king of Djbanti?”
I laughed, tossing a fig at her as our legs dangled over the edge of the Children’s Palace roof. The fruit missed her, bouncing on a balustrade and tumbling to the courtyard far below.
“Out of everything I just told you, that’s what you remember? Kirah, there was a whole battle! A Djbanti revolution.”
“I know! But . . . Zuri?” she squealed, and wrinkled her nose, an expression I had sorely missed these past several months. Then she looked apologetic. “Sorry, I shouldn’t make fun. Now that he’s . . . you know—”
“No, it’s all right.” I smiled at her. “You’re allowed to tease, after the hard time I gave you about Woo In. By the way, have you finally forgiven him and admitted you’re crazy about each other?”
Kirah’s moonlike face flushed. The setting sun dyed An-Ileyoba in rose gold, and orange blossoms floated on the Oluwan City breeze. I could almost pretend we were small girls again, braiding each other’s hair and trading secrets before scampering back down to the Hall of Dreams. I’d asked Kirah to come here for old times’ sake—and to avoid Woo In, who followed Kirah around the palace like a sullen, lovesick lapdog.
Woo In and Kirah had only just returned to Oluwan, their peace campaign in Songland a tentative success. With Min Ja’s blessing, they had brought an entire barge of Songlander merchants and dignitaries to Oluwan, all of them eager to establish their presence in the Arit capital.
“My relationship with the prince of Songland is political,” Kirah said primly. “We work well together, yes, but the priorities of our realms come first—”
“You sing his name in your sleep,” I deadpanned. “You dream about him flying you around the moon, and going on mountaintop picnics, where for some reason, neither of you have any clothes on—”
“Am’s Story, stay out of my head at night!” Kirah snorted, and I only smirked.
“It’s hard when you dream so loudly.”
She was quiet for a moment. “We have talked about it,” she admitted. “Once, in Songland, we all but confessed everything. That he likes me, and I like him. I didn’t even mind that he wasn’t a council member. But . . .” She swallowed. “He’s eight years older than me, Tar. I thought I didn’t care before. But he’s been so many places. Done things I haven’t. And no matter how much I dream of him . . .” She hugged her knees to her chest, wrinkling her priestess’ kaftan. “I don’t want to look up to the man I’m in love with. I’d rather see eye to eye.”
I shrugged. “Chuck him, then. Never thought he deserved you, anyway. What kind of a prince takes a cat wherever he goes?”
Kirah dimpled, then grew serious. “A year from now, or two, or three—after I’ve traveled the continent and seen everything I’ve ever wanted . . . maybe I’ll let Woo In fly me to the moon. But for now?” She stared serenely at the city skyline, twilight shading her wistful features. “I might grow some wings of my own. High Priestesses are supposed to resolve disputes between the Arit religious sects. They usually work from one temple here in the capital, but what if I traveled to other temples instead? There are so many places in Aritsar I haven’t seen. So many people who need a healer.”
I pouted. “You’ve only just got back, and now you want to leave me again.”
“You’re one to talk,” she shot back, though she looked immediately regretful. “Sorry,” she mumbled. “I just . . . Sometimes, I get a little tired of pretending it’s not happening.”
“I know. It’s all right.” I stared at the marks on my arms and legs, which glistened as whispers filled my ears. After leaving the Temple of Iyaja a month ago, I had followed Old Mongwe’s advice, ignoring the ojiji who haunted me. My headaches had remained at bay, though translucent children still mobbed me in the palace, their words nipping at my ears.
Unworthy. Unworthy. Pay the price. Paythepricepaytheprice—
My eighteenth birthday was tomorrow. I had anointed a council in less than half the time I’d asked of the abiku, and still had a year before I had to enter the Underworld. But—much to the chagrin of both my councils—I had decided to go early. The longer I waited, the more it seemed like I was preparing for death—and Mongwe’s warning weighed like a stone in my stomach.
Under no circumstances should you enter the Underworld, unless you are certain that you will return.
“Have you rehearsed your answer for the Bridge of the Warlord’s Deaths?” Kirah asked, and I nodded. Ye Eun had drilled me in every Underworld riddle and obstacle I would encounter, forcing me to memorize the map on my skin. “Say it,” Kirah insisted. “Say your answer until you believe it. Why should you live?”
I sighed, wetting my lips. “I should live because I’m saving lives. I’m doing the right thing. I’m a good empress. A good person.”
Not enough, hissed the children. Not enough.
I told myself it didn’t matter what the dead Redemptors thought. Ye Eun had said that the Deaths would have to let me pass, so long as I believed my answer. And I believed it. Of course I did.
Didn’t I?
“I wish the ojiji would leave you alone,” Kirah said softly. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell us how bad it had gotten.”
I chewed my lip. “It’s complicated,” I said at last. “The thing is, even though the ojiji are cruel, they tell the truth as often as they don’t.”
“Tar, how can you say that?” Kirah shook her head wildly, shaking the tassels on her prayer scarf. “Those voices called you worthless. They isolated you on purpose. Stopped you from asking for help, made you do everything yourself.”
“They’re trying to wear me down,” I admitted. “So I’ll feel hopeless enough to stay in the Underworld. Still . . . they drove me to do things. Good things. The Pinnacle, the battle in Djbanti—none of that would have happened if I hadn’t felt so guilty. I want the voices to go away, Kirah, but . . . I’m afraid of what happens when they do. What if being free—feeling happy—makes me blind again? Ignorant of all the injustice around me, like I was before?”
Deep in thought, Kirah scowled at the priestess pendant around her neck—a golden pelican, inlaid in mother-of-pearl. She clutched it with pale knuckles, as if trying to squeeze out an answer.
“What was it you told me Old Mongwe said?” she asked suddenly. “About guilt?”
“That it’s useless.” I sighed, remembering the hermit’s opaque words: Guilt is self-centered, and leads only to destructive obsession. But conviction brings balance—a sense of purpose beyond oneself.
“And what you said,” Kirah presse
d. “When you convinced Thaddace to leave that prison?”
I blinked in confusion. She gripped my shoulders, hazel eyes alight. “It was important, Tarisai. You said you heard it from someone—someone powerful.”
I remembered then—the voice from the shrine at Sagimsan, turning my limbs to water as the breath of the Storyteller swelled on the mountain air.
“Do not ask how many people you will save,” I murmured: “Ask, to what world will you save them? What makes a world worth surviving in?”
“That’s right.” Kirah nodded fervently. “And what made Thaddace keep going—what made him try—it wasn’t guilt. It was love.” She reached out and squeezed my hand. “It was love, Tarisai.”
I’m scared, Empress Tar, Ji Huan Ray-spoke, his voice cutting through the din of my birthday banquet.
Instead of a stately festival in the Imperial Hall, I had opted for an intimate party in the palace orchards. Encircled by gold-dappled trees and a breeze perfumed with orange blossoms, all twenty-one of my living council siblings knelt in the grass, feasting in flower crowns around a long, low table.
I sat between Sanjeet and a shy Ji Huan. The boy king laid his palm in his silk-robed lap, examining the now-faded scar where he had combined his blood with mine. He seemed surprised when I placed an arm around him. Why are you scared, Ji Huan? It’s just a party.
He blinked. Sorry. I didn’t mean to tell you that. He flushed pink. Even before I was anointed, I talked to you in my head all the time. I guess now I Ray-speak by accident.
Well, your secret’s out. I nudged him in the ribs. What are you afraid of?
The boy picked glumly at the colorful wax-dyed tablecloth, piled high with sweet plantains and suya meat skewers. We’re all together now, he said at last. But soon, we’re all going back to our home realms. Our council—it isn’t like your other one. Jealousy seeped into his voice as he eyed my original council siblings, who crowded together, laughing at one end of the table. We don’t all get to live together in one big palace. Soon I’ll be back in Moreyao, alone again. I’ll get sick. He shivered, and suddenly I felt cold too, thinking of my years in an icy bubble at Bhekina House.
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