Redemptor

“Oh.” My brow wrinkled with confusion. The statue depicted Warlord Fire, flames bursting from the god’s handsome face in a malevolent halo. One hand was clenched above his head in a fist, as though ready to smite, and the other held an outstretched spear, its tip capped in pearly ivory and pulsing with pale light. It didn’t look like the Oruku Breach, but then again, I didn’t have much experience with supernatural portals.

  “You’re supposed to touch it,” The Lady explained, nodding at the spear. She swallowed hard. “You won’t feel any pain. Or loneliness either. That should make up for Bhekina House, shouldn’t it?”

  I stepped out of her embrace, unsure of what she meant. “Well,” I said, glancing warily at the spear. “It’s better than climbing the stairs, at least.”

  The Lady nodded, her eyes wet and wistful. “Best do it quickly.”

  “All right.” I leaned in to plant a kiss on her stony cold cheek. “Goodbye again, Mother. Until we meet again in Core.”

  Then I turned toward the statue. The strange scent intensified, making my eyes water. Where had I smelled it? I had been in the Underworld so long, memories jumbled together. Ah well—it wouldn’t matter, once I was back home. With a last look over the sprawling shadowed landscape, I lifted my hand to touch the spear.

  And then The Lady’s arms locked around me from behind, yanking me to the ground.

  “Get back,” she shrieked. “Don’t go anywhere near it!”

  She flew us away from the island mound, dropping me in a heap on the banks of the amethyst lake. Scrambling to my feet, I stared at her in confused alarm. “Mother?”

  She was covering her face, mouth open in a static sob. Slowly she sank down by my side, looking younger than ever. Her shade robes flickered around her as she drew her knees to her chest.

  “I’m sorry, Tarisai,” she rasped. “I-I don’t know what came over me. I just thought—if I gave the abiku what they wanted—if I could free all those children . . .”

  As she babbled incomprehensibly, I remembered where I had smelled the statue before.

  The milky-eyed beast at the bridge: one of the Unnamed Deaths.

  “That shrine isn’t a portal at all, is it?” I said, in a low, strangled voice. “It would have killed me.”

  The Lady nodded slowly, bright eyes peering out at me from behind her hands. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered again.

  “Why?” Hot tears rolled down my cheeks, but my voice remained calm. “Why did you try to kill me, Mother?”

  She began to rock back and forth, keening into her fists. “To free the others,” she said. “All of them.” She pointed over the edge of the plateau. Woodenly, I rose to my feet and glanced below. Immediately, my veins turned to ice.

  For miles beneath the plateau, lines of ojiji children stretched in every direction, drilling in perfect synchronization. Their eyes were dull and empty. Most were from Songland, though a minority looked to hail from all twelve kingdoms of Aritsar. Purple Redemptor birthmarks glistened on every single child.

  “No,” I croaked. “But—but this doesn’t make sense. There must be at least ten thousand Redemptors here. And that would mean . . .”

  “It would mean,” The Lady finished, “that except for the few who escaped the Underworld, in all five hundred years of sacrifices, not a single child has made it to Core. They never got to enter Egungun’s Parade. They never got to travel to paradise, or receive their final rest. Once they succumbed to the Underworld’s torture and gave the abiku permission to kill them, they were brought here.” She indicated at the amethyst lake. “To be cursed by the shrine. It killed them, of course—but unlike every other kind of death, it also stole their memories. And a soul without memories is like a ghost—never leaving its body, even if that body is dead. What’s left is the perfect weapon: a soul that can be commanded and a body that cannot die. One of those ojiji could kill one hundred Arit warriors in a matter of hours. Ten thousand . . .”

  “Could defeat the Army of Twelve Realms,” I whispered.

  The Lady nodded. “I think the abiku must have been planning it from the very beginning. It’s why they agreed to Enoba’s treaty in the first place. The abiku, while strong, could not defeat the massive Army of Twelve realms . . . but if they could get their hands on live humans, eventually, they’d have immortal forces strong enough to rule the world.”

  “But the abiku are bound by the Treaty,” I protested. “It was sealed by blood oath, which binds even demons. They can’t attack us anymore—that was the term of my sacrifice.”

  “The abiku may not attack the Overworld themselves,” said The Lady, “But their undead puppets can. And for centuries, slowly amassing an army of non-abiku was their only hope of ruling the Overworld . . . until you offered yourself as a sacrifice.

  “They were going to use you,” she murmured. “To kill you, steal your memories, and send your puppet body to rule Aritsar while they controlled you from the Underworld. As empress, you could revoke the old treaty, allowing abiku once more to roam the Earth. But to turn you into a puppet, they needed you to enter the Underworld alive. This pool is the only way to kill someone using the Warlord Fire’s special Death.”

  Of course. The last year whipped before my eyes, every puzzle piece falling into place. Why the ojiji had protected me. Why they had guarded my reputation and won me the loyalty of the nobles. Why they had insisted I make a council of rulers—so I would have unchecked power when they stole my soul and unleashed me, their puppet monster, back into Aritsar.

  I knew then the rest of Old Mongwe’s warning.

  Don’t trust The Lady.

  “You were going to let me die,” I whispered. “To let them trap my soul in my dead body forever.”

  “Not forever,” The Lady protested. “They said they’d let you go eventually. When their work was done. And you wouldn’t have suffered—well, maybe when you first touched the stone.” She bit her lip. “But after that, you wouldn’t have felt anything. Wouldn’t even remember. And in exchange . . .” She stared out over dotted lines of Redemptors. “They promised to free all of these children. To let their souls travel to Core, instead of staying trapped in those corpses. Don’t you see, Made-of-Me? I finally had a chance to do something good. To make up for how I betrayed Woo In. To save thousands of Redemptors, instead of hurting people, like I did when I was alive. I . . . I thought then, when I went back to Egungun’s Parade . . .”

  “It would hurt less,” I finished, feeling my blood begin to boil. “You were going to lessen your own pain by killing me. By making me betray all my friends—again!”

  “Just for a little while,” The Lady insisted, features wild with desperation. “For a greater cause.”

  “I forgave you.” Hot tears coursed down my cheeks. “I trusted you, and you tricked me. You didn’t even give me a choice!”

  “But I did, in the end!” The Lady clenched her small fists. “I stopped you from touching it, didn’t I? I knew it was wrong. But I’m still learning, Made-of-Me. I’m trying to be a good person.”

  “My name,” I reminded her, “is Tarisai. And I never want to see you again.”

  The little girl’s face crumpled as though I’d punched her. And in spite of everything—in spite of the unspeakable betrayal she had almost wrought . . . I still felt pity.

  “You will see me again,” she said, after a long pause. “In Core. That’s where everyone goes, after Egungun’s Parade. And when you do—” Chin wobbling, she touched my shoulder. “I’ll be better. A good person. I’ll show all of you. You’ll see.”

  I turned away, letting the cold Underworld air dry my cheeks. “I hope so, Mother.”

  Another pause. “I still can help you leave the Underworld.”

  “Stop lying.”

  “I’m not,” she wailed. “The new breach is real. But it’s not the stone. It’s there.” She gestured down into the valley. For the first time, I noticed what looked like a rift in the air on the other side of the valley: a floating, iridescent streak, cycli
ng through a spectrum of colors, into which a stream of undead children were marching.

  My stomach dropped. The undead army had already begun its assault on the surface.

  “I could fly you down,” The Lady suggested. “It wouldn’t take long. You could go back home. Please, Tarisai. It’s the least I can do.”

  Then she smiled her famous smile as her eyes searched my face, hungry for absolution. I watched her in silence, savoring my favorite features—the first I’d ever loved.

  Then I said: “Goodbye, Mother. For real this time.”

  “But—”

  “I’ll see you in Core.” I closed my eyes and sensed her hesitate for a moment, hovering in front of me. But when I opened my eyes . . . she was gone.

  CHAPTER 35

  I made a silent plea to the air, and a short distance away Iranti materialized, plodding toward me with long-suffering dignity. I sighed, laying my head against hers. “Thank you,” I told her. “For not saying ‘I told you so.’ ”

  She huffed a sigh, then spoke in her song of sounds and symbols, extending two words into my mind: Friend. Coming.

  “Yes,” I told her. “We’ll always be friends.”

  She wagged her head—I’d misunderstood her. She concentrated harder. Friend. Coming.

  And just then, the shriek of a phoenix echoed across the mountainside.

  I stared in shock as Ye Eun appeared over the mountain ridge, stumbling onto the plateau. Overhead, Hwanghu flew loops in the emerald sky, leaving icy streaks across the zenith.

  I recoiled. Were they both abiku illusions?

  But that theory vanished the moment Ye Eun reached me, seizing my hand. “You’re all right,” she panted, eyes wide with relief. “Hwanghu’s been scanning the Underworld, looking for you everywhere.”

  I pulled her into a hug, heart racing with disbelief. She was the first live human I’d seen in . . .

  “Ye Eun,” I breathed, “how are you here? And how long have I been gone?”

  “I’d guess about two weeks,” she said. “I’m not sure, though. After the battle started, I knew something must be wrong. So I left Ae Ri with her nurses and came in to find you.”

  “Battle? What battle?”

  Her gaze was empty. “They started coming a day after you entered. Undead children—Redemptors. Hundreds of them . . . and they haven’t stopped coming. The attack came from that new portal to the Underworld north of Ebujo City, instead of the Oruku Breach in the temple. The Army of Twelve Realms lay mobilized in wait for them, but . . .” She shook her head, looking haunted, and placed my hand against her forehead.

  I am standing on the walls of Ebujo City, watching chaos unfold below. Though I inhabit the memory as Ye Eun, my heart is moved as Tarisai, and tears of pride spring to my eyes: Warriors from all twelve realms of Aritsar fight side by side. They advance, united to defend the city from the armed, soulless killers pouring from the ochre breach.

  Sanjeet, Dayo, and Captain Bunmi lead the fray atop armored war buffalo, beating back the undead creatures with a cohort of Imperial Guard warriors.

  In truth, it is not an Army of Twelve Realms, but thirteen, for Songland has arrived. From atop a turret, Min Ja directs a unit of fire-speaking sowanhada warriors, her long jet hair streaming like a pennant. The warriors punch the air in unison, sending up a spray of flame, which Min Ja directs in a lethal wind toward the invaders.

  The battleground is a patchwork of realms. Quetzalan war machines ignite cannons, sending frozen balls of holy water into the Breach, while Moreyaoese archers shower the enemy with arrows. Biraslovians in horned helmets ride packs of snow-white battle wolves, providing cover for Swanian and Nyamban warriors, who hurl spears with deadly accuracy. Warriors of the new Djbanti commonwealth fight shoulder to shoulder with Spartian soldiers, and Mewish berserkers, fierce in bright blue war paint and capes of tartan, share mounts with Dhyrmish charioteers. Blessid and Nontish healers retrieve the fallen, tending to wounds with grim efficiency.

  Yet for all its colorful glory, dispatching hordes back into the Breach like a well-oiled machine, the Army of Twelve Realms was flagging. How could it do otherwise? Their enemy could not die. For every cursed Redemptor set aflame or corralled into cages or hurled back into the Underworld . . . there were ten more behind it. And they’d only continue coming.

  I pulled out of Ye Eun’s mind, heart racing. Sanjeet. The vassal rulers. Hundreds of thousands of Arit warriors all doomed. Am’s Story, even the cursed Redemptors were victims in all this, souls trapped, forced to desecrate their bodies with blood and murder.

  “Well?” Ye Eun breathed. “What did you do? Why are those Redemptors doing this?”

  I swallowed hard. “It didn’t start when I came here. The abiku have been planning this for a long time.”

  “And you, Wuraola,” hissed a triad of rasping voices, “have the power to stop it.”

  Ye Eun and I whirled. Amidst a noxious cloud, a gaggle of ashen abiku had appeared in the clearing, baring their sharp smiles.

  I shivered. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Their all-pupil eyes flashed, beady and crimson. “We extend the same offer that we gave to your mother.” They pointed to the statue of Warlord Fire. “Die so that more may live. Give your memories to the shrine, and once you have, go above world, and be our empress. Revoke the Treaty. Weaken the continental realms . . . and in return, we will use our powers to destroy the shrine, freeing your memories, and those of the ojiji army.”

  I eyed them suspiciously. “Why would you give up an undead army? You’re already defeating the Army of Twelve Realms. With enough time, your enslaved child soldiers could decimate the entire continent. You’ve won, so why offer me a deal?”

  “You misunderstand our goal, Wuraola. We never wanted to obliterate humanity—not even in the time of Enoba. No, Little Empress, we wanted to rule it. To expand our territory from this realm of death and smoke to the young, unmolested Overworld. There we may grow strong, as we once were, at the dawn of time.” Their eyes glittered, gray faces taut with longing. “But we may only do so if you revoke that accursed Treaty.”

  “Why would I do that? Why would I allow you to take over the continent?”

  “Because the alternative,” sneered the abiku, gesturing at the mobilizing army below, “is death for everyone, and eternal damnation for those poor, poor Redemptors. The choice is simple, Wuraola.” The demons were morphing, growing before my eyes, shedding their usual skins of monstrous children to stand before me as winged beings, smoldering in dark green flame. “A new age for humanity, in which they finally serve the abiku—their natural superiors . . . Or the end of all life on your continent. Decide quickly, Wuraola.” They glanced again at the lines of child soldiers and smirked with wide, scaly mouths. “Your friends in the Aboveworld don’t have much time.”

  The memory of Dayo and Sanjeet—of Min Ja, Ji Juan, Uxmal, and the others leading cohorts against the undead masses, faces streaked with sweat, voices hoarse as their strength begins to quail flashed in my mind. I ran puzzle after puzzle, desperate to craft a solution. But every single answer to this problem involved a deadly sacrifice.

  I reached for Iranti, asking her permission. Her fate was tied with mine, and so where I fell, she would follow. Grief filled her many eyes as her horn grazed my fingers. But with a nod of her dark, galaxy-wide head, she gave her consent.

  “Well?” demanded the abiku. “Do we have a deal, Empress Redemptor?”

  I closed my eyes, feeling the sulfurous wind of the Underworld beat about my hair. I touched Ye Eun’s lily and said goodbye to everything I’d once known: the color of being alive, the weight of a living soul.

  Then I commanded Iranti, aloud so the abiku could hear: “Take me to the Warlord’s shrine.”

  “No,” whispered Ye Eun, her stony face wet with tears. “There has to be another way.”

  I only smiled at her, leaning down to kiss her forehead—then pulled her lily from my hair and tucked it behind her ear.
“Don’t worry,” I told her. “No matter how bleak the world gets, I’ll make sure there’s always a corner to plant flowers.”

  Then Iranti knelt, allowing me to climb onto her vast leathery back, and carried me into the amethyst lake. When she set me down on the shrine’s small island, the abiku cackled with anticipation, sending bursts of pale green lightning across the sky.

  The handsome, merciless face of Warlord Fire stared down at me. The metallic smell of the Unnamed Deaths filled my nostrils, turning my stomach. My gaze fell to the statue’s outstretched spear, its tip capped in chilling white ivory.

  “For a world worth surviving in,” I whispered. Then I nodded at Iranti . . . and in one deft movement, she lowered her horn to press between my eyes, and I touched a finger to the spear of Warlord Fire.

  I screamed, immediately seeing red.

  Blinding, searing pain—shooting up my arm, enveloping my skin like a wave of crackling acid. I was dying. It was killing me—grasping at everything I was. Hungry to extract every memory, every day and hour, the marks on my soul that made me Tarisai. In only an instant more, it could have me. It would all be over. I would fall into a deep, dreamless sleep, my soul a slate wiped clean. My body a willing puppet for the abiku: their instrument for a new age of terror. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad. Perhaps humanity would fight back. All I had to do was let them have me, just for an instant more and the pain would disappear.

  I clenched my fists. Not all pain was worthless.

  Sometimes, pain could write a story.

  “Now,” I shrieked at Iranti. With a burst of heat, she magnified my Hallow as I thrust it into the statue, inverting the shrine’s power, taking its memories before it could steal mine.

  Every nerve in my body begged for me to stop, alight with torture. But I pressed on, on, absorbing the complete and unabridged memory of one Redemptor’s life—then ten—then a hundred. My skin sweltered where it touched the spear, and I watched my finger pale as the life leeched out of it—from dark brown to tan, and from tan to clammy white. I couldn’t feel it anymore. A small part of me knew that I would never feel it again. But I stood firm, sobbing with agony and triumph as my body blazed with stories.