Children of Virtue and Vengeance

by Tomi Adeyemi

  Harun? I crouch down, peeking around the ledge. The stocky mercenary stands with five other members of Roën’s crew, all clad in black.

  “You heard me.”

  When Roën speaks, my hand flies to my heart. He sits on a ledge behind them, exhaustion curving his body toward the ground.

  The sight of him releases a pressure I didn’t realize I still held in my chest. His cheeks are sunken and his voice is weak. But he’s alive.

  He’s here.

  “That’s not going to work,” Harun snarls, revealing his yellowed teeth. “Payment’s already been sent. You can’t stop what you’ve started.”

  Though the other mercenaries close in, Roën doesn’t acknowledge them. He takes a flint from Harun’s pocket, struggling to light it with his left hand. His metal arm hangs limp, the stillness only broken by the occasional finger twitch.

  “You seem to have forgotten that I don’t like to repeat myself,” Roën says. “I don’t care what’s in motion. Put an end to it. Now.” Roën reaches over to pull a cigarette from another mercenary’s pocket. He sticks it between his teeth, but before he can strike the match, Harun smacks the cigarette to the ground.

  “Did she neuter you before or after she cut off your arm?”

  His words make my skin hot, but Roën only blinks. His muscles stay taut, like a puppet’s whose strings have been pulled too tight.

  “Serves you right.” Harun shakes his head. “I shouldn’t have to feed you lies for you to get the job done.”

  Roën blinks, a wave of understanding washing over his face. “You knew Nehanda was lying?” He lowers his voice. “You fed me wrong information on purpose?”

  “You’ve gone soft,” Harun says. “You’re not fit to run this crew.” He lights a cigar and sticks it in Roën’s mouth. “Consider this a parting gift. You’re out.”

  Harun tenses when Roën raises his hand, but Roën doesn’t strike. He takes a long drag of the cigar, eyes falling closed as he exhales. After a long silence, he gives Harun a nod. Victory shines behind his enforcer’s yellowed smile.

  Then Roën strikes.

  He moves like the wind, a viper snapping its prey. In one swift motion, Harun is facedown on the ground, Roën’s metal hand pressed to his neck.

  “Get off me!”

  As Harun squirms, Roën smiles, taking another puff of his cigar. Then he removes it from his lips.

  I flinch when he presses the burning tip to Harun’s neck.

  Harun thrashes like a fish washed ashore, but the more he flails, the harder Roën pushes. The other mercenaries stand frozen, unsure of what to do. In an instant, I understand the leader Roën’s always been. The reason it took this long for his crew to attempt a rebellion.

  “You’ve grown confident in my absence, Harun.” He smiles over his enforcer’s screams. “I like it. A few more years and I might even buy it.”

  He removes the cigar and takes another long puff, tipping his head back to savor the smoke. Harun’s body falls limp with relief.

  Then Roën presses the lit end to Harun’s skin again.

  “Now, I’m not asking you, because I never ask,” Roën speaks through his teeth. “I said stand down. You hear me?”

  “Yes!” Harun gasps between his screams.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch that.”

  “We’ll stand down!” Harun writhes. “We’ll stand down!”

  Roën flicks the cigar to the ground and rises back to his feet. Harun rolls on the mountain stone. Smoke rises from his neck.

  “Take the crew,” Roën spits. “I’m done rotting away in that cave. But if I catch so much as a whiff of you going against my orders, I’ll hang you by your own intestines.”

  The ice in his voice makes my stomach clench. There’s no bluff in his stormy eyes. No sign of the tender man connected to my heart.

  The mercenaries drag their wounded leader down the mountain path. As they retreat, Roën clenches his teeth in pain. His mask of power falls and he doubles over, grabbing his wounded shoulder.

  “You don’t have to hide,” he calls out.

  “How did you know?” I ask as I step out.

  He puts two fingers to his heart and taps. “It always beat faster when you came near. Now it beats harder, too.”

  I know the pull he speaks of. This close to him, it’s like a caged hummingbird beats within my chest.

  He sits back on his ledge and all I want to do is embrace him. But the cigar still smokes on the ground. The scent of burning flesh stains the air.

  “What was that about?” I ask.

  “Nothing.” Roën removes the cigar from the ground and inhales. “Nothing now.”

  “You’re really going to give up your crew?”

  “I couldn’t run it even if I wanted to.” His eyes close when he exhales. “Compromised myself and my men the moment I fell in love with you.”

  He speaks the words as if it were a simple fact. As ordinary as the mountains around us.

  “Don’t worry,” he says. “I don’t expect you to feel the same after that display.”

  “I know you’re a mercenary,” I whisper.

  “But you’ve never had to see what that means.”

  I step closer to him, considering what he says. On the warship, we stayed on his boat. During the ritual, it was an all-out war. In everything he’s done to help me, I’ve been shielded from the truth we both know. There’s no more hiding now.

  The monster is out in the open.

  “Back in the mountains, you told me about your mother,” I say. “You said she used to sing. You hummed her song to me.”

  Roën lowers his head, but he extends his hand. I lace my fingers with his.

  “Why then?” I ask.

  “It was worth remembering.” He shrugs. “She was worth remembering.”

  He looks up at me and I see the heart he pretends not to have. I can’t hold myself back. Every objection quiets when I bring my lips to his.

  His embrace sends a shiver through my skin as I dig my hands into his hair. His metal fingers are cold to the touch. He has a way of holding me that makes time stand still.

  “Zïtsōl…” He pulls away, touching the tear on his face. I look down and wipe my eyes. I don’t even know when I started crying.

  He rubs the spot behind my ear and I lean my forehead against his. One hand drops from his neck, stopping where his shoulder meets his metal limb.

  “Does it hurt?” I ask.

  “Only when I breathe.”

  “Always with the jokes.” I shake my head.

  “If you wanted the jokes to end, you should’ve let me drown.”

  I smile at him again, kissing his pink lips. “Next time I’ll think twice before saving your life.”

  “As long as you’re taking feedback, you should know I have my limits. If it’s ever a choice between life and a certain appendage, I am requesting now that you let me die.”

  “My gods!” I push him back.

  “What’s that saying you have in your lands?” Roën tilts his head. “‘Don’t chop it till you try it’?”

  “Next time I’ll let you drown.”

  He laughs as he pulls me in, resting his hand on the small of my back. The smile falls away as the end of this war looms between us.

  “I heard about your plan to save the world,” he says. “When do you leave?”

  “In a few hours.”

  “Okay.” He nods. “I’ll be ready.”

  “No.” I pull away. “You need to heal!”

  Roën clenches his teeth, grabbing his shoulder as he rises to his feet.

  “Roën—”

  “I’m going.” His metal fingers twitch, still out of line with his intent. “Zïtsōl, you are my home. You don’t get to leave me behind.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE

  AMARI

  I WILL BE a better queen.

  My last words to Father return. A vow for the person I once was. A mockery of everything I’ve become.

  I do
n’t know if Father would be horrified by the actions I’ve taken, or if the depths of my descent would make him proud. I am no better than him.

  If anything, we are one and the same.

  Strike, Amari.

  I pull at my hair, wishing I could pull his claws out of me as well. His whispers are like the bars Kâmarū crafted from stone, a prison I can’t escape. For so long he was the scar on my back. The tyrant I had to vanquish.

  How in the skies did I allow his ghost to become my guiding force?

  I grit my teeth against the sting of bile that shoots up my throat. Though nothing sits in my stomach, it all comes up at once. I feel every ounce of pain. Every shriveled-up corpse. Despite everything I want, I’m just another monarch terrorizing this kingdom.

  I’m the very monster I hunt.

  “At least you finally look sorry.”

  I snap my head up; Zélie stands on the other side of the stone bars. The mountain ledges cast half her face in shadow, but a light seems to shine from within.

  “You’re alright…” I prop my hands up, but she’s so much more than that. It’s like a new fire burns in her heart. My skin almost prickles from the heat of its blaze.

  “If you had known I was alive in the village, would you still have launched that attack?” she asks.

  I shrink into myself. The truth carves out the last pieces of dignity I have.

  “To win this war?” I close my eyes. “Yes.”

  I put my hand to my mouth, not knowing if vomit or screams will come out. “There’s no excuse for what I did. I know you could never forgive me.” Facing her now is like a sledgehammer to the heart. It forces me to face the reality I’ve fought so hard to hide.

  I am the child of King Saran. The daughter of Queen Nehanda.

  I was raised to win at all costs, no matter who gets hurt in the process.

  “We brought them back.” Zélie crosses her arms. “You don’t deserve to know, but every person you killed breathes again.”

  “What?” I shake my head, unsure if I actually heard her. “They’re alive?”

  “Each and every one.”

  I stumble as the world falls out from under me again. Relief rips through the last parts of me that were still whole. I can’t believe my ears. I can’t stop the tears that fall.

  “How?”

  “We used the magic of the moonstone to connect. With our combined power, Khani healed their bodies. I brought them back to life again.” She looks at the golden tattoos on her skin, seeing something I can’t. “We’re going to use it to attack Lagos and bring down the crown.”

  I rise, though my legs feel like water. “You’ll be slaughtered.”

  “Not after we all connect. We’re going to end this war and destroy the monarchy once and for all. Even Nehanda won’t be able to stop us.”

  Strike, Amari.

  Father’s words shrivel in my chest. I don’t know what to say. What I should feel. The throne is where this all started. Perhaps it’s where this all ends. But the thought of the crown becoming nothing …

  “You’ll throw Orïsha into chaos.” I shake my head. “The agony you’ll cause—”

  “Anguish and anarchy are far better than the tyranny we’ve known,” Zélie says. “The future of Orïsha will no longer be corrupted by a crown.”

  She frowns and I see the pity in her gaze.

  She thinks that’s what happened to me.

  I will be a better queen …

  I release the vow I can never fulfill. I’ve gone beyond losing this war.

  I’ve completely lost the right to lead.

  “When do you leave?” I ask.

  “Tonight.”

  “After you connect?”

  Zélie’s mouth falls open, but no words escape. The purpose of her visit becomes clear.

  “You need a sacrifice.”

  She rubs her arms and looks away, staring over the mountain’s edge. The wind whistles in her silence, giving me the answer I seek.

  It feels like the entire mountain comes down on me at once. Terror grips my chest. I struggle to draw breath.

  But in my punishment lies a certain release. A chance I thought I wouldn’t have. If I do this, I can make things right.

  I can give them the power they need to save the kingdom.

  “Alright.”

  Zélie whips around, shock in her silver gaze. “I haven’t made a decision.”

  “You don’t need to. I’ll do it.”

  Speaking the words makes my heart lurch. My hands start to shake. But how else can I make up for all the pain I’ve caused?

  “No.” Zélie shakes her head.

  “What other choice do you have?” I ask. “It has to be someone. Someone you love.”

  Though she keeps her face hard, her lips twitch with the emotion she fights back. It almost hurts more to know there’s a part of her that still cares about me after everything I’ve done.

  “Zélie, please.” I grab the bars. “Let me make one thing right.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “You should not have to.” A second voice speaks.

  We look up as a distant thud comes near, the steady rhythm of wood hitting stone. My jaw drops when a cloaked figure emerges from the shadows, resting both hands on her cane.

  “Mama Agba?”

  The Seer looks between the two of us, sadness radiating from her heart.

  “It is not your time, my child. Take me instead.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR

  ZÉLIE

  ANY RELIEF THE SIGHT of Mama Agba could bring quickly turns to despair.

  “No.”

  “This is not up for debate.” Mama Agba shakes her head. “Far too many children have perished in this fight.”

  “I said no!” I turn around. “I’ll find a way. I just need time.”

  “You do not have time.” Mama Agba grabs my shoulder, forcing me to face her. “Nehanda’s already declared the end of the war. The maji she captured have mere days before execution.”

  “Mama Agba—”

  “Tí o ò bá pa enu ù rẹ mọ!” She raises her cane above my head. “Shut up and listen!”

  I flinch out of instinct, waiting for the smack of her staff. Mama Agba’s nostrils flare as she sets it back down, using it to walk toward me. But when she nears, I can’t meet her eyes. My throat burns with everything I wish I hadn’t said.

  “Look at me.” She lays her wrinkled hand on my cheek. “Zélie, look at me. You are my heart. There is nothing you could do in this world that I would not forgive.”

  She wraps her arms around me, enveloping me in the smell of sweetened tea. More tears fall as I breathe it in, savoring the scent of her love.

  “I won’t let you do this.”

  “You have no choice,” she says. “Our people need you.”

  “They need you more.” I squeeze the folds of her robes, thinking of all she built. All she saved. The maji would’ve died ten times over if it weren’t for every effort she made. My entire family would’ve perished.

  Mama Agba takes my hand in her own, quieting my objections with her touch. She doesn’t speak as she leads me down the winding path away from Amari’s cell. She stares at the clouds that pass over the mountain’s ledge.

  “Do you remember when I told you about my ìsípayá?” she asks. “When I ascended years ago, I saw myself kneeling on a mountaintop. Sky Mother welcomed me with open arms.” She turns to me, mahogany eyes shining. “At the time, I thought I was peeking into the beyond. Now I see my vision was of you all along.”

  She kisses my forehead, using her robes to wipe my tears. She holds me as I sob, fighting the sacrifice she tries to make.

  “I can’t.” My voice cracks. “I can’t do this alone.”

  “You do not have to do this by yourself. You carry all of us in your heart.” She takes my hand and lays it over my chest, lacing our fingers together. “We shall live in every breath you take. Every incantation you speak.”

  A smi
le spreads across her dark skin, crinkling the skin around her eyes.

  “You are the children of the gods. You shall never be alone.”

  * * *

  WHEN I REACH the mountaintop, it’s so quiet my footsteps echo like thunder. The ten maji stand in a circle. Amari watches from behind Tzain, her arms still bound in metal restraints.

  The elders bow as they step back, creating a single path. Their bodies align to form a perfect circle.

  All that’s missing is its center.

  You can do this. I dig my nails into my palms as I walk forward. Pointed pillars close around us like a fence, circling the flat mountaintop. Beyond the red stone, the setting sun paints the sky in vibrant reds and burning oranges. It brings me back to the days when Mama walked this very path, preparing to lead the Reapers of Ibadan.

  You carry all of us in your heart. We shall live in every breath you take. Every incantation you speak.

  Mama Agba’s promise swells inside me as I remember how the sunlight would shine through my mother’s coils. Today it runs through my own, bathing my white hair in gold. I hold my breath as I step into the center of the circle.

  Ahead of me, Dakarai moves to bring Mama Agba in, his round face somber. Pressure builds in my chest as her cane smacks against the hard stone. But every wall I have falls the moment I face her. It’s impossible to fight my tears.

  Mama Agba glides forward in a shining suit of armor, silver collar gleaming around her neck. Her silk cloak moves like clouds in the wind. Kâmarū has even fashioned her a glistening cane. Her white coils sit like a crown on her head.

  She’s never looked more beautiful.

  “Nana—” Na’imah sings under her breath, starting Sky Mother’s song. Her voice rings in our silence, a melody to accompany our grief. When the others join in, Mama Agba closes her eyes and rests her hands over her heart. She takes everything in before turning to Dakarai.

  “My elder,” Mama Agba addresses him, wiping the tears that streak his russet-toned skin. “You are the dream of our people. Never doubt what you can achieve. Trust the things you see.”

  Dakarai nods and wipes the snot from his nose. Mama Agba kisses his forehead and holds him tight before letting go. I expect her to make her way forward, but she walks to Kâmarū. She stops in front of each person in the circle, passing on words of wisdom. Even in her final moments, she guides us forward.