Redemptor

  Then amidst shouts and gasps, the scent of violets and freshly cut savannah grass filled the hall. Like a falling star, a tall, pole-like figure descended through one of the lofty arched windows, sprites dancing at his dark temples. Hair burst from his scalp in dense, shimmering coils, and long wings blurred around him in an azure haze.

  Courtiers scattered in different directions as the alagbato floated over them. He was at least three times larger than when I’d last seen him. Perhaps even this size was a courtesy—in his truest form, I had no doubt he was as giant as Malaki, hovering over Swana in enormous, terrifying glory. The alagbato’s long, narrow feet came to rest at last on the marble hall tiles. Wings folded neatly on his back, he waited, amused, as Imperial Guard warriors rushed to block the dais.

  “No.” I waved them away, rising from my throne. Tears pricked at my eyes. “It’s all right.” In an instant I launched down the dais steps, nearly tripping on my rustling purple train. The towering immortal knelt just in time to catch me as I launched myself at his shimmering torso.

  He laughed, wings stirring to lift us both before he set me, firmly, on my feet. “Well met, Behold-What-Is-Coming.”

  I regained the formality of an empress, though I shattered it with a childish smile. “You are welcome in our court . . . Great Melu, Guardian of Swana.”

  The packed hall erupted with gossip. Only my council siblings knew for certain that Melu was my father, though rumors of my unnatural blood had floated ever since the sprites appeared outside An-Ileyoba.

  I didn’t know why I was so happy to see him. He had never been much of a parent. Then again, neither had The Lady, and I had ached for her every moment she was gone. Perhaps no matter how many councils I joined, part of me would always crave a face like my own—would always search Melu’s wrinkled lines and shadows, hoping to find a sliver of myself there.

  “I thought you never left your homeland,” I babbled. “I mean, I know you can; you’re not an ehru anymore, but . . .”

  “I rarely do,” Melu confirmed, smiling mysteriously. “But I thought today’s events merited the journey. Alagbatos do not grant favors often. It goes against our nature—yet I am here to grant one. It is not every day that both Rays of Enoba are restored to their full power.”

  Melu reached into a woven pouch at his waist and produced a gold hinged bracelet.

  My breath caught in my throat. “No,” I said. “No. Melu, I’m not going anywhere near that thing.”

  “Do not worry, Behold-What-Is-Coming.” He laughed again, this time a little sadly, and gripped the jeweled bracelet with both hands. “I see you recognize ibaje—the Pale Arts your mother used to enslave me, as did Enoba before her. Thankfully, the idekun stone was embedded in this cuff and not in my skin. It amplified my powers, allowing me to grant wishes beyond human imagination.”

  White light pulsed between his palms and at once the cuff smoldered to ash. The powder slipped through his fingers, caught at once on a supernatural wind that scattered the dust through the windows. But when only a pinch of ash remained, Melu closed his hand, and said, “Even the palest of arts might be repurposed—for the right cause.”

  He held out his fist. Hesitantly, I cupped both my hands, and he dropped the remaining ash into my palms. “One wish,” he said. “And if it is within my abilities, I will grant it. But the ash will not retain its power long. You must decide now.”

  At once, the floor vibrated with voices, masses frenzied with excitement. I blocked them out, my mind racing.

  What do you want, Wuraola?

  I dismissed the obvious wishes. Love, power, riches . . . I had all those things, and more than I knew what to do with. So what did I want?

  Could I eradicate suffering? Disease? No—even pestilence was a living thing, and I remembered that killing was beyond an ehru’s power.

  My eyes fell on Zuri’s mask, glittering beneath his gold council crown.

  So often, I remembered the distant world he had described—that state of Aritsar before Enoba established his empire.

  We did not always have kings in the central kingdoms. Once, leaders were merely the hand of their people.

  I thought of Olugbade and The Lady, loving siblings doomed to bitter rivalry, playing a game with rules that had been decided long before they were born. I thought of the Unity Edict—inflicted on the empire by rulers so disconnected from the general populace, they thought they could force harmony. I thought of me and Dayo, wringing our hands at the thought of heirs—of passing on legacies to children unfit or unwilling to bear them.

  Again, Zuri’s words echoed in my head: Accepting the Raybearer has never been about loving a person—not really. It’s about loving an idea.

  I opened my eyes, taking in the sea of spectators. From jewel-encrusted queens to paupers in their festival finest, cheeks gaunt. I had only one burden left: the future of my people. Then I glanced back at Dayo, asking him a question through the Ray. His eyes widened with shock.

  Please, I told him. It’s the only way forward.

  Slowly, he nodded, solemnly gripping the arms of his throne.

  I pressed my lips together . . . and in that moment, I decided.

  “I wish,” I whispered, though my voice ricocheted from the echo-stones, “that the Rays of Enoba would no longer be bound to a man and woman from the house of Kunleo. That instead—from this day forward—the Rays and their power would belong to the people of Aritsar. That the next Raybearers could be anyone—from a queen to a pig farmer. So long as those two Raybearers are worthy—those best suited to bring peace to the empire.”

  Then I blew the ash up at Melu.

  He inclined his head, slanted eyes gleaming with fire. “It is done,” he intoned, and the hall erupted with shocked cries.

  Did she really say anyone? But what does that mean? She couldn’t have meant it.

  Melu cocked his head at me. “You do realize, daughter,” he said, “that in a world where the Ray chooses those most worthy, heirs do not exist. No bloodlines. No royal families.”

  “I know,” I murmured. And since Melu knew a great deal that no one ever told him, I wondered if he knew my stance on future motherhood. I picked at my nails. After my wish to Melu, a quiet, hazy corner of possibility twinkled in my mind. Without the Ray, a child wouldn’t be my legacy: the small, frightened receptacle of all my life’s ambitions. A child—should I ever choose to have one—would be just that.

  A child.

  For just a moment, I let the thought waft around me like a riddle, twisting this way and that, before I plucked it from the air, locking it away in the box of my heart. It would keep there just fine—whether I ever wished to open it again.

  Melu raised a sparkling eyebrow, then shrugged and went on. “The masks of oba and obabirin, of course, will retain their power. But due to the wording of your wish, even those will not necessarily choose a man and a woman. The next Raybearers truly could be . . . anyone.”

  I nodded, exchanging a smile with Dayo. “I know.”

  “But how will you find them?”

  I grinned up at Melu. “I seem to recall knowing an alagbato who is very good at finding things. And even if you weren’t . . .” I touched the rainbow lioness on my chest. “These masks tend to make their way to the people meant to have them.”

  Melu’s features shaded with gravity. “There is one more aspect of your wish you have not considered,” he said. “If the Ray is bound only to those best suited to lead the empire in peace, that could change at any moment. Suppose a ruler becomes unworthy? The Ray would leave them, entering into another host. The former Raybearer would lose all their power—including their immunities to death.”

  I inhaled sharply. “Then let the Ray leave.”

  More excited whispers.

  Melu raised an eyebrow. “And what if the old council cannot love the new Raybearer?”

  After a long pause, I replied, “They don’t need to love the Raybearer. They just need to love the story that the Raybearer repre
sents.” My heart twinged, thinking of Zuri. “The story of peace. Of justice at any price.”

  The hall plunged into echoing rumbles, voices raised in eager discussion. I chewed my lip, feeling vaguely as though I’d tossed a honeycomb onto a mound of ravenous ants. How long, I wondered, would it take me to sort this one out?

  But before the hall could descend into disorder, one voice rose over the others, chanting in her sharp strident voice: Min Ja of Songland. Danai joined her, followed by Uriyah, Kwasi, and all the rest of my vassal rulers, voices lifted in song.

  A sun for the morning, a sun for the evening,

  And moons for years to come.

  Then a hundred-voiced chant grew from the farthest standing tiers, doubling, then tripling into thousands. Before long, the hall was on its feet, rocking, dancing, crying out with passionate conviction.

  Tarisai for the morning.

  Ekundayo for the evening.

  And peace for moons to come.

  My legs trembled at the sound. It was different from when I first entered the hall, different even from the cheers after my First Ruling, which were heightened by gossip and scandal.

  This sound had kindness to it, like the third chord in a harmony, wrapping around the hall.

  Love. This sound, this new, chaotic ocean roaring my name—it was filled with love.

  “Prove it, little sister,” Min Ja yelled, pointing at the mask on my chest. “If the Ray could leave you anytime, we’d better check if you’re still worthy.”

  A nervous thrill chased up my spine. Still, I cried: “Obabirin!” The word ricocheted from the echo-stone, and the hall held its breath.

  I glanced up at the domed skylight, just in time to see a pelican soar across the clouds. Then eyes of the lioness flashed, filling the hall with golden light.

  I have three bells in my mouth, I do not tell a lie.

  Once, a girl tasted death and spat it out—pah, pah—for

  she did not like its story.

  Should I say her name? Aheh, but you know it already!

  Many moons ago, the Idajo walked the earth.

  Some say she never left. (Do not suck your teeth, I am not a liar.)

  Yes: Some say she visits in dreams, riding Iranti, her beast of many

  eyes. And if your soul is made of gold, and your mind filled with

  peace . . . she may visit you, child, and peek into your story.

  Who knows? Maybe she will find you worthy.

  Maybe you too will wear the mask of Wuraola.

  —From the songs of Adukeh: Master Griot, and akorin to Empress Redemptor

  AUTHOR’S NOTE AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Redemptor is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

  Raybearer took me twelve years. But I had to write Redemptor, the first sequel I’ve ever attempted, in nine months, during a period of brutal depression, a global pandemic that killed millions, the hastily rescheduled release of my first novel, and the largest Black civil rights movement to date in world history, abutted with violent state retaliation.

  There are pages and pages of this book I don’t remember writing. Some days I would write, collapse in exhaustion, and wake to lines in my own handwriting that hadn’t been there before. A yearlong whiplash between grief, anger, and white-knuckled fear does strange things to memory. Tarisai’s Hallow, in a way, mirrors the way our bodies have an instinct to carry difficult stories, but also to fade the ones we can’t quite handle—and least not yet.

  Tarisai has been my companion since I was thirteen years old. But I’ve never felt closer to her than I did while writing this book. Her confusion, headaches, and sense of isolation were my own. But so was her stubborn determination to complete what she had started, buoyed by the potent love that surrounded her.

  To cross the Underworld, she repeated the names of her loved ones, summoning each individual’s unique traits to power her journey. In no particular order, I’m honored to do the same here.

  Mom, my first griot.

  Dad, my tireless champion.

  Rachael Bug, my constant joy and sister-grown-dearest-friend.

  Auntie Lisa, my beacon of love and lifelong fairy godmother.

  Mama Marva, who adopted me.

  Tia Thee Therapist, who is to this day helping my brain function.

  Lisa-Marie, who helped me love my ailing writer’s body through dance and art.

  Miss Viv, my model for a stability and love that could only exist in a lifelong teacher.

  Melissa, one of my original “council members,” who never gave up on our friendship.

  Otana, the first non–blood relation I ever remember truly loving, which perhaps laid the foundation for what this book is all about.

  Jibiana, who will someday—benevolently and with cheerful enthusiasm—rule the entire free world.

  Clare, Latosha, Reed, Monica, Ian, Kristina, Rob, Robyn, #BobYourFriend, Wendy, Matt, Lauren, Michael, Ali, Will, Kim, and all the rest of my church family, for their endless, nurturing care.

  Grandma, for teaching me the meaning of unconditional love.

  Uncle Femi, for his enormous fatherly heart.

  Auntie Monica, for being the glue of every community she chooses.

  Auntie Ifueko, who adopted me as passionately as I adopted her.

  Auntie Tonia, who helped me connect to my roots in a way no one else has.

  Shaiah the Bee, for letting me be her honorary big sister.

  Kenzie, Naomi, and Imelda, for being their extraordinary selves, and Faith, for sharing them with me.

  Gail Carson Levine, for her kindness, and for inspiring me to make worlds of my own.

  Shannon Hale, for modeling a level of empathy in writing I hope to reach someday.

  Joniece Abbot-Pratt and Weruche Opia, for lending their voices to bring Tarisai to vivid life.

  Rosiee Thor, for going above and beyond as a sensitivity reader.

  Maggie Lehrman, my editor, for accepting my specific brand of weird and making it shine.

  Pastor Colleen, for being the mother’s heart of God I so desperately needed.

  Charles Chaisson and Hana Anouk Nakamura, for giving Tarisai a face and designing yet another a heart-stopping cover.

  Namina Forna, for being my fast friend and champion, but also simply for being her warrior-hearted, brilliant self.

  Ronni Davis, Dhonielle Clayton, Bethany C. Morrow, Rosie Brown, and Nic Stone, for being my guardian angels. I will never forget.

  Michael Prevett, my film agent, for being my tutor and champion in the world of television rights.

  Becca Seidler, for her love and constancy in the roller-coaster ride that was my life these past two years.

  Karisa Keasey Marsland, for being my kindred spirit and lionhearted friend, and for accepting my tear-soaked calls at all hours of the night.

  Maureen, Jessica, Isabel, Nikki, Maddi, and Pippi at Once Upon a Time Bookstore in Glendale, California, for adopting me as their author even before Raybearer came out.

  Kim-Mei, for being the kind of agent most writers can only dream of. Editor, advocate, accountability-prodder, at-times-emergency-therapist—I have no idea how I got lucky enough to go on this journey with you, but I sure am glad I did.

  Tara, the kind of friend who only comes once in a lifetime. I will never understand how so extraordinary and empathetic a person can keep reinventing herself, while her soul burns so faithfully the same.

  Reggie the schnauzer, my living emi-ehran. (Tell us—what good is an empty lap? Aheh, Reggie is worthy to fill it, yes, Reggie is worthy to fill it.)

  David, my Life Person, both Sanjeet and Zuri in one: rock and revolutionary. I love you. Thank you for choosing me.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Jordan Ifueko is an anxious afro dream girl who grew up under a blanket fort, warbling opera and staining her books with plantain grease. She lives in Los Angeles with her husband, David, and their three-legged trustafarian dog, Reggie.

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