Redemptor

  I was a young Redemptor girl from Dhyrma, the daughter of beggars, thrust into the Breach before I even turned five years old. I was the son of Djbanti hunters who tried to hide my Redemptor marks with mud and clay, living in denial of my fate until monsters attacked my village, and guilt drove me into the Underworld. I was thousands and thousands of Songlander children, raised in the shadow of an empire that only valued their bodies once they were dead. I am generations. Three thousand lives. Four. Six. Seven.

  Ten thousand lives and more, teeming throughout my body, expanding in my soul like rice absorbs water, rising until the pot threatened to overflow.

  Too late, the abiku realized what I was doing. They screeched, filling the sky with their wrath, but all in vain. I was still a living breathing human, and they could not touch me.

  Once I had stolen every last story from the Warlord’s shrine, I broke contact with the spear, gasping with pain. I collapsed, too weak even to thrust my arms out and break my fall.

  “Ye Eun,” I croaked, barely loud enough for her to hear me on the opposite bank. “It . . . it’s your turn now.”

  Faintly, I sensed Ye Eun splashing through the lake, swimming to my aid on the island mound. She knelt at my side in her dripping clothes, Hwanghu flapping anxiously on her shoulder.

  “You can save them,” I told her. “The Redemptors. All of them.”

  “How?” she asked, voice breaking with sobs. “How am I supposed to do that?”

  “It’s like you always said.” I smiled. “You’ve never needed me. Just like Songland never needed Aritsar. I had to undo what my ancestors did, but the song of the Redemptors was never mine to finish.” I gestured toward the plateau’s edge, where far below, droves of hollow-eyed children marched into battle. “You’re the hero of their story, Ye Eun,” I whispered. “This has always been your fight.”

  Then I dropped my head, spent, and thrust my hand over the edge of the island. My fingers dangled in the water, and with my last ounce of strength . . . I released them. All ten thousand lives’ worth of memories, surging into the lake with a gurgling roar.

  Ye Eun stiffened with understanding, then rose to her feet, crying out Hwanghu’s name. The bird let out a jubilant shriek before plunging into the lake, disappearing into the amethyst depths. Then Ye Eun lifted her hands high above her head. The island shook as the entire lake rose into the air, water floating and twisting in a dripping mass until at last, beneath Ye Eun’s masterful control, it took the shape of a giant, broad-winged bird. Moving her arms with fluid grace, Ye Eun directed the bird down into the ravine of Redemptors.

  “No!” screamed the abiku, but they could do nothing as the bird broke shape, dissolving into a flood of memory.

  As I lay on the island, I could not see the Redemptors. But later, through Ye Eun’s memory, I would witness thousands of children gasping with joy and pain as their souls were restored. Released at last, their cloud of laughing shades flew to Egungun’s Parade, letting the prison-like cages of their bodies crumble to dust. Outside Ebujo City, the Army of Twelve Realms would watch in confusion as their undying adversaries dropped one by one, bodies washed away by a cleansing river of amethyst.

  When Hwanghu returned and Ye Eun knelt by my side again, she was grinning and laughing, eyes as bright and childlike as the day I’d first met her. “It’s over,” she said. “I did it, Lady Empress. They’re free . . . we all are.”

  I tried to smile back, but shadows were closing in on the edges of my vision.

  “Lady Empress?”

  My hand still dangled over the edge of the island. Faintly, I felt her lift it and gasp.

  “Your finger,” she whispered. “It’s . . . it’s not good, Lady Empress. If I leave it, the death will spread through your whole body.” She murmured something, drawing water from Hwanghu’s wings and shaping it into a glinting ice knife. “I’m sorry, Lady Empress. But . . .”

  I nodded and looked away. I barely felt it as the knife sliced through ruined bone, severing the snow-white index finger of my left hand. Ye Eun sealed the wound with ice and ripped her blouse to wrap it. Then she heaved my limp body onto Iranti’s starry back, climbing up behind me.

  “Let’s go home, Lady Empress,” I heard Ye Eun say, moments before I slipped from consciousness. “Let’s go plant some flowers.”

  CHAPTER 36

  “I need a favor, Adukeh.”

  My akorin snapped to attention, her crescent-shaped eyes fixed on me as Ododo, the almost-grown panther cub, tumbled from her lap. She’d been teasing him with a piece of fish, which he pounced at triumphantly, spiriting the morsel away before Adukeh could change her mind. “Anything, Lady Empress.”

  Morning light streamed into the Imperial Bedchamber. Adukeh sat in a corner, and I could barely see her through the army of clothiers and beauticians fussing over me, Dayo, and my council siblings.

  From the windows, the cheerful clamor of several thousand Arits wafted up to the bedroom—the guests to our coronation, feasting in the courtyards before the official ceremony in the Imperial Hall.

  I asked, half yelling through the fray, “Adukeh, how quickly can you make up a song?”

  She dimpled, breaking at once into a comic soprano: “Come and see my empress, nse, nse. Tell me, is she mighty? Bem-bem-bem. Ah, but see her akorin! Nse, nse—isn’t she a genius? Bem-bem-bem.”

  My council siblings and I laughed, though they fell silent when I cried out, cradling my left hand.

  “Forgive me, Lady Empress,” gasped Adebimpe, covering her mouth in horror. While slipping bangles onto my wrists, she had squeezed my hand by accident, grazing the tender tissue that had once been my index finger.

  I smiled at it ruefully. “It’s all right. It’s my fault for being vain enough to remove the bandage.”

  It had been two weeks since I returned from the Underworld. The amputated finger was barely scarred over, though it was healing nicely.

  In an instant, Sanjeet was at my side, pressing my palm to his lips, eyes scanning me anxiously as his Hallow checked for infection.

  “No fever,” he observed, broad shoulders sagging with relief. Sanjeet stood resplendent in a heavily embroidered tunic of black and gold. Kohl lined his tea-colored eyes, and his beard and bushy eyebrows had been trimmed and manicured, framing his face in sleek, dark lines. “Though your pulse is elevated. You’re still recovering, sunshine girl. Until we’re sure Warlord Fire’s death has left you, go easy on your heart. No exercise or sudden shocks.”

  I grinned at him wickedly, filling his mind with the Ray. No shocks at all? You didn’t feel that way last night when we—

  He smirked, cutting off the thought with a kiss on my lips. But I could feel his trepidation. Once I had returned from the Underworld, little more than a barely warmed corpse draped over Iranti’s back, Sanjeet had gathered me to his chest, sobbing tears of relief into my neck. Of course, Dayo and the others also celebrated my return, but for two whole weeks, Sanjeet had not let me from his sight, changing my bandages on the hour, spooning stew down my throat. Carrying me to the bathhouses each morning, and cradling me close at night. Even now, I could see, he couldn’t quite believe I’d come back. That unlike Sendhil, or his amah, or many others he’d held dear, I was his forever. I hadn’t disappeared, vanished into memory smoke. And I never would.

  My attendants herded Sanjeet away, fretting he’d ruin my makeup. I didn’t blame them—the beauticians were artisans, and today, I was their masterpiece. After a few more finishing touches, they presented me to the floor-length mirror.

  Dayo’s reflection appeared beside mine, and his heavily draped arm slipped around me, squeezing me tight.

  “It’s how I’d always thought you’d look,” he whispered, tears sparkling in his pure dark eyes. “When you came back.”

  For banquets, my attendants made me look warm and alluring, like a pretty flame. But today, for my coronation, I looked as untouchable as a star. Lovely and terrible: the glittering empress from the Watching Wall.r />
  My arms, cheekbones, and clavicle glowed with gold powder, as though I were cut from polished stone. Crimson paint dotted the bridge of my nose and spiraled above each eye. A necklace of stacked metal rings glinted around my neck. Swirling cornrows decorated the front of my scalp, while the rest of my hair floated in a dark, ethereal cloud. The halo-crown of Aiyetoro shone against the coily mass—an upright disc of mirror gold, like the sun bursting from my scalp, restored from its two-hundred-year hiding place in the Oluwan crypts.

  My garments matched the cloth of Dayo’s agbada: finely woven ashoke so purple, it was almost black, shot through with thread of gold. The crisp cloth furled around my body in a wrapper, sash, and jewel-studded train. But as Dayo watched me in the mirror, I knew which part of my outfit he liked best: the rainbow-striped mask on my chest, which he had fastened around my neck the moment I returned from the Underworld.

  “You look beautiful, Lady Empress.” Adukeh’s reflection fidgeted behind us, though her stutter had grown almost imperceptible. “Did you still need a favor?”

  I turned to face her, bangles clinking on my wrist as I bent to touch her arm. “Do you remember the memories I once showed you of my childhood? Of Bhekina House and the Children’s Palace?”

  Adukeh looked offended. “Of course.” She tapped her temple. “A griot never forgets.”

  “Good.” I pressed my lips together. “Then when the emperor and I enter the Imperial Hall, I want you right at my side.”

  Her jaw dropped to the floor. “Lady Empress!”

  “On one condition,” I said, closing my eyes as the revelries began in the Imperial Hall below, vibrating the floor of my bedchamber with a raucous chant. Eleven moons around the throne, eleven moons in glory shone; they shone around the sun . . .

  “Sing to me, Addie.” I reached for Adukeh’s hand and squeezed. “Keep my story in your head. The waiting, the questions. The normal, boring parts. The parts that make me human. Can you do that? I . . .” I stared down at my missing finger. “I don’t want to forget.”

  Within an hour, Dayo and I stood hand in hand before the towering Imperial Hall doors, sun-and-moon patterns and glyphs in old Arit carved into the alagbato-hewn mahogany. Our council siblings—as well as Iranti, whose vast neck Ye Eun had draped with blooming flower wreaths—stood close behind us. Adukeh trembled at my shoulder.

  Are you ready for this? Dayo said into the Ray-bond, linking all twelve of our anointed minds. He could not have spoken aloud. Even behind thick doors, the rhythmic din from the Imperial Hall drowned out all sound.

  I guess we’d better be—Oh gods oh gods oh gods—why does it have to be so loud?—is my collar on straight?—please, I’ve been ready for this since the Children’s Palace . . .

  Voices poured into my mind, along with a din of emotions. Then Dayo sent a wave of calm, flooding our thoughts like a low, bubbling tide. Our breaths synced, as they had when we slept together in Yorua Keep. We smiled at each other like milk-sated babes—nothing calmed anointed blood like the Ray.

  Imperial Guard warriors prepared to haul the doors open, reaching for the thick cords of rope. But before they could heave at the tons of solid wood, I raised both my hands, calling out to the memory of the iron, drawn from the heart of Malaki the alagbato.

  I did it, I told her. I kept my promise . . . and I always will.

  I will protect this land’s stories.

  The doors burst open, and the sound of my own name reverberated through each of my limbs and invaded my eardrums.

  Tarisai for the morning. Ekundayo for the evening. Peace for years to come.

  Drumbeats echoed through the lofty dome, along with shaker gourds, a brassy child’s choir, and thousands of voices. Guests teemed on tiered benches from floor to ceiling—citizens from each region of every realm in Aritsar.

  Why, you ask? Why? The Pelican has spoken.

  Olugbade’s council waited for us on the great dais of echo-stones. Today was the last time they were allowed in the palace, and they occupied the ancient carved thrones. Previously, their seats had surrounded only one chair, its high back inlaid with ivory and chiseled with an Old Arit word: oba. But now, a second polished throne stood beside it, and though I could not read it from far away, I knew the word sculpted into its frame: obabirin.

  My legs threatened to buckle. I had held court as empress already, but I had done so from one of the minor thrones. Until now, a very small part of me had still felt like I was pretending. That I would wake up and find myself in Yorua Keep, poring over court cases with half my memory gone, the Ray safely dormant in my chest, the last two years vanished like a feverish dream.

  But there it was: a throne built for me. And a sea of voices, propelling me forward, filling every corner of my brain until every thought was obabirin, obabirin.

  Me, me, me.

  My heart pounded, drunk on the sound. The Ray crackled against my ribs like coals on a brazier. After a moment I realized I was laughing—or hyperventilating, it was hard to tell. Was this what it felt like to be a god? With thousands calling out in worship, as though my name were the only barrier between them and death? It was too strange for words, and yet . . .

  I liked it.

  I liked it a lot. And a manic thought passed through my mind: Why not believe them?

  It had happened to Olugbade. Only a man who felt equal with gods would feel so comfortable ordering the death of his own sister. But I wasn’t like him, surely. I could bask in this heady, inebriating praise, and be better. Stronger . . .

  Then a voice rose at my side, small and high and clear, audible only to me amidst the chaos.

  Do you see her?

  A girl in a mango tree, aheh—

  Waiting for her mother.

  I stared down at Adukeh, my manic self-obsession draining as she sang. Suddenly, I was small again. Not a glittering statue. Not a towering god. Dancers paraded before me, throwing fistfuls of petals in my path. A moment ago, they would have been faceless to me, mere ornaments in my parade. But now each person burned on my mind’s eye. Each was another life for which I was responsible. Another story entrusted to my protection.

  Do you see her?

  The girl on a castle floor.

  Asleep in a dozen arms.

  The loneliness of my childhood washed over me, a splash of cold water. I had been human once. Less so now, with every death I had conquered—but I was determined to remember. The feeling of being weak and voiceless. Of screaming, clawing at windows boarded shut. Not everyone was lucky enough to be a Kunleo, with privilege hidden away in their bloodline, waiting to whisk them away to palaces and Anointed Ones. My Ray may have empowered me, but I would not let it erase the past. The heat in my chest spread across my shoulders, a mantle as well as a burden.

  Thank you, I mouthed to Adukeh, and she beamed, continuing to compose verses. I lifted my chin—not with pride, this time, but to gaze at the ocean of worshipping strangers, and to strike a silent pact.

  I would not forget.

  Adukeh stopped singing when we reached the lofty dais. The old Council of Eleven rose from their thrones, and Mbali, resplendent in gold-hemmed priestess robes, raised her hands, quieting the massive hall to a rolling hiss.

  A lump formed in my throat. I hadn’t seen Mbali since the day of our failed heist, when an ojiji had murdered Thaddace. Mbali knew that I was not his killer. But I couldn’t be sure she’d forgiven me for his death until she stared down from the imperial dais, features lined with their signature blend of grief and compassion.

  Dayo and I ascended to the thrones. First, we knelt before the old council, and one by one they asked if we would defend Aritsar and uphold the legacy of Enoba the Perfect. We replied I will eleven times, though in my head I replaced Enoba with Aiyetoro. Dayo also swore to defend Oluwan, since he would be king as well as emperor.

  The former High Priestess produced the horn of an antelope, into which she poured a carafe of sharp-smelling pelican oil. Her fluting voice amplified by the ech
o-stone, Mbali announced, “As the antelope cuts through the savannah, and the grass may not hinder it, so the commands of Ekundayo and Tarisai Kunleo must come to pass.” The hall held its breath as she touched the tip of the horn to Dayo’s lips, then mine, invoking them with the ritual power of ase—divine authority. Then we rose as one, presented by Mbali to the masses.

  “Behold,” she said amidst wall-to-wall joyful roars that rattled my bones. “Your Emperor and Empress Redemptor.”

  The next part was my favorite: watching all my council siblings get crowned. I had not anointed them, so only Dayo placed the circlets of moonstone on their heads, but my heart swelled as Kirah, Sanjeet, Ai Ling, Umansa, and all the rest were presented to the hall, taking their places beside us on the eleven gleaming thrones. I crowned my council of vassal rulers next, though they did not take places on the dais—their thrones belonged in their home realms. On a stool beside my throne lay Zuri’s crocodile mask, on loan to me from the citizens of Djbanti. They had long since learned of their former king’s heroism, and sang his name with honor in the streets of their commonwealth.

  Strangely, his body was still yet to be found. I knew better than to hope. If he was alive, after all, I’d be able to feel him through my Ray, and when I reached out into the ether, searching for a thread of his vibrant soul . . . I found nothing. So he was dead. He had to be dead.

  Didn’t he?

  I smiled ruefully. Perhaps some puzzles could not be solved for a lifetime. When I came to the crown that would have been Zuri’s, I blinked back tears and placed the gold circlet on the spiked green mask.

  “May we dance together in Egungun’s Parade,” I murmured.

  The choir returned with more anthems and dancing. Then, as was custom, the vassal rulers of each realm showered us with gifts. Last to approach the dais was Queen Danai, her dark, elegant features shining with secrecy. “I am afraid,” she announced, “that Swana’s gift for your Imperial Majesties could not be wrapped.”