Книга - Kingdom of Souls

Kingdom of Souls
Rena Barron


THERE’S MAGIC IN HER BLOOD.Explosive fantasy set in a West African world of magic and legend, where one girl must sacrifice her life, year by year, to gain the power necessary to fight the mother she has never been good enough for.Perfect for fans of Sarah J Maas, Tomi Adeyemi and Black PantherTHERE’S MAGIC IN HER BLOOD.Arrah is a young woman from a long line of the most powerful witch doctors in the land. But she fails at magic, fails to call upon the ancestors and can't even cast the simplest curse.Shame and disappointment dog her.When strange premonitions befall her family and children in the kingdom begin to disappear, Arrah undergoes the dangerous and scorned process of selling years of her life for magic. This borrowed power reveals a nightmarish betrayal and a danger beyond what she could have imagined. Now Arrah must find a way to master magic, or at least buy it, in order to save herself and everything she holds dear.An explosive fantasy set in a West African world of magic and legend with a twist you will never see coming.Perfect for fans of Sarah J Maas, Tomi Adeyemi and Black Panther.









KINGDOM OF SOULS

THE LAST WITCHDOCTOR

Rena Barron










Copyright (#ulink_294db311-d30f-5d6c-b2ac-4d5087739c51)


HarperVoyager

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019

Copyright © Rena Barron 2019

Jacket design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019

Jacket images © PeopleImages/Getty Images (woman)

Rena Barron asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008302238

Ebook Edition © September 2019 ISBN: 9780008302252

Version: 2019-07-26




Dedication (#ulink_5c6a754b-e399-5fd9-92ae-50e8ca8cc218)


To everyone who dares to dream,

dares to live their truths,

dares to stand against atrocities,

dares to say I am enough, this book is for you …

… and for my family.


Contents

Cover (#u0061cc0b-ebee-5916-a825-0e489aec86f2)

Title Page (#uceaad54e-4f4c-57df-b6c8-b4a73d06ae9c)

Copyright (#u9b2cfc51-8c7d-5a0d-b3ae-d90b459e71ea)

Dedication (#ueb892e73-651c-5630-8a44-eb9df714707d)

Part I (#u04e1a55f-7f9b-56dc-bb0e-18562837ab8a)

Prologue (#ue87e44c1-c87c-5c28-b037-08e937f5b39b)

Chapter 1 (#u83a73bc3-fb94-56b9-beed-e0ae03e7a853)

Chapter 2 (#u0de8b66d-721e-564c-972d-f58241188502)

Chapter 3 (#u934853a9-8a01-5689-83f9-f5f24b28d9ca)

Re’Mec, Orisha of Sun, Twin King (#u383e4850-35fe-5991-90fe-accf28a0c5aa)

Chapter 4 (#uc7117598-d714-5703-9d61-d1011331ff35)

Chapter 5 (#u36bfe469-b573-5389-8cdc-e731c63bac12)

Chapter 6 (#ud8a90377-9521-5072-bd97-30013a4d6b64)

Chapter 7 (#uff2f7e08-2039-5052-96d1-403b2421876c)

Chapter 8 (#u63f1c159-ec88-5d92-8d6f-30737dbcc6d3)

Chapter 9 (#u9c34ce0f-1d08-5ece-831e-3df2a0e1b7c5)

Chapter 10 (#u2f53a783-a20f-509c-b6b0-ce193f98a853)

Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)

Koré, Orisha of Moon, Twin King (#litres_trial_promo)

Part II (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)

Fram, Orisha of Life and Death (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)

Fram, Orisha of Life and Death (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)

Part III (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo)

Efia (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo)

Efia (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 32 (#litres_trial_promo)

Part IV (#litres_trial_promo)

Re’Mec, Orisha of Sun, Twin King (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 33 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 34 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 35 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 36 (#litres_trial_promo)

Re’Mec, Orisha of Sun, Twin King (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 37 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 38 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 39 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 40 (#litres_trial_promo)

Part V (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 41 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 42 (#litres_trial_promo)

The Demon King (#litres_trial_promo)

Acknowledgments (#litres_trial_promo)

An Interview With Rena Barron (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)




PART I (#ulink_fa6349d2-6c3e-55cb-b0b8-ce02afca17ee)


For she will rise from the ashes alit in flames.

For no water will ever quell her pain.

For no redemption will befall her.

For we will never speak her name.

—Song of the Unnamed




PROLOGUE (#ulink_1364448c-a277-5192-95a7-fdde1ff1d1de)


Be still, Little Priestess.

My father kneels before me with a string of teeth threaded between his fingers. They shine like polished pearls, and I square my shoulders and stand a little taller to make him proud. The distant echo of the djembe drums drowns out his words, but it doesn’t tame the twinkle in his eyes as he drapes the teeth around my neck. Tonight I become a true daughter of Tribe Aatiri.

Magic of all colours flutters in the air as gentle as wingbeats. I can’t be still when it dances on my father’s dark skin like lightning bugs. It flits along his jaw and leaps onto his nose. My hand shoots out to catch an ember of gold, but it slips through my fingers. I giggle, and he laughs too.

Girls gossip as their mothers fix their kaftans and bone charms. For every one the magic touches, it skips two, like the rest of us are invisible. My chest tightens, watching it go to others when it’s never come to me – not even once.

The few girls who speak Tamaran ask me what it’s like living so far away in the Almighty Kingdom. They say that I am not a true Aatiri because my mother is not of the tribe. Something twinges in my belly, for there is truth in their words.

I hold my head high as my father straightens my collar. He’s the only man in the tent, and the other girls whisper about that too. I don’t care what they say; I’m glad he’s here. ‘Why doesn’t magic come to me, Father?’

The question comes out too loud, and silence falls upon the tent. The other girls and their mothers stare at me as if I’ve said something bad. ‘Don’t worry, daughter,’ he says, folding the sleeves of my orange-and-blue kaftan, which matches his own. ‘It will come in due time.’

‘But when?’ I stomp.

It isn’t fair that many of the Aatiri children younger than me have magic already. In Tamar, I’m the only one among my friends who can see magic at all, but here, it flocks to the other children and they can make it do things. I can’t.

‘Maybe never, little ewaya,’ says the oldest girl in accented Tamaran. She glares at me and I wrinkle my nose at her. I’m not a baby, and she’s wrong. It will come.

The girl’s mother clucks her tongue and fusses at her in Aatiri. Her words slide over my ears without meaning, like all the strange and beautiful languages in the markets back home.

‘Even if the magic never comes,’ my father says, ‘you’ll still be my Little Priestess.’

I poke my tongue out at the girl. That’ll teach her not to be so mean.

Another girl asks why my mother isn’t here. ‘She has more important things to do,’ I answer, remembering how my father had begged her to come.

‘Why the sad face?’ my father asks, squeezing my cheeks. ‘Imebyé is a time of celebration. Tonight, you begin the long journey into adulthood.’

The djembe drums stop. I bite my lip, and the other girls startle. It’s time to go stand in front of the whole tribe so the chieftain can bless us. But for once, my legs still as the other girls hurry from the tent with their mothers.

‘I want to go home, Father,’ I whisper as the last girl leaves.

Some of the light fades from his eyes. ‘We’ll go home soon, okay?’

‘I want to go home now,’ I say, a little stronger.

He frowns. ‘Don’t you want to take part in Imebyé?’

I shake my head hard enough to make my bone charms rattle.

My father comes to his feet. ‘How about we just watch the ceremony together?’

The chieftain walks into the tent and I tuck myself against my father’s side. Her silver kaftan sweeps about her ankles and stands out against her midnight skin. Salt-and-pepper locs coil on top of her head. ‘Do my son and granddaughter plan to take part in a ceremony they travelled fourteen days to attend?’ she asks, her deep voice ringing in the tent.

My father wraps his arm around my shoulders. ‘Not this year.’

The chieftain nods as if satisfied. ‘May I speak to my granddaughter alone, Oshhe?’

My father exchanges a look with her that I don’t understand. ‘If it’s okay with Arrah.’

I swallow. ‘Okay.’

He squeezes my shoulder before leaving the tent. ‘I’ll save you a spot up front.’

The chieftain flashes me a gap-toothed grin as she squats on the floor. ‘Sit with me.’

The tent flap rustles in my father’s wake. My legs ache to follow, but the sight of the great Aatiri chieftain sitting on the floor roots me in place. I sit across from her as she raises one palm to the ceiling. Sparks of yellow and purple and pink magic drift to her hand.

‘How do you make the magic come to you, Great Chieftain?’

Her eyes go wide. ‘I’m your grandmother before all. Address me as such.’

I bite my lip. ‘How, Grandmother?’

‘Some people can pull magic from the fabric of the world.’ Grandmother watches the colours dancing on her fingertips. ‘Some can coax magic to come with rituals and spells. Many can’t call magic at all. It’s a gift from Heka to the people of the five tribes—a gift of himself—but it’s different for everyone.’

She offers me the magic, and I lean in closer. I hope this time it will come to me, but it disappears upon touching my hand. ‘I can see it,’ I say, my shoulders dropping, ‘but it doesn’t answer me.’

‘That is rare indeed,’ she says. ‘Not unheard of, but rare.’

The feather strokes of Grandmother’s magic press against my forehead. It itches, and I shove my hands between my knees to keep from scratching. ‘It seems you have an even rarer gift.’ Her eyebrows knit together as if she’s stumbled upon a puzzle. ‘I’ve never seen a mind I couldn’t touch.’

She’s only trying to make me feel better, but it doesn’t mean anything if I can’t call magic like real witchdoctors – like my parents, like her.

Grandmother reaches into her pocket and removes a handful of bones. ‘These belonged to my ancestors. I use them to draw more magic to me – more than I could ever catch on my fingertips. When I focus on what I want to see, they show me. Can you try?’

She drops the bones into my hand. They’re small and shiny in the light of the burning jars of oils set on stools beneath the canopy. ‘Close your eyes,’ Grandmother says. ‘Let the bones speak to you.’

Cold crawls up my arm and my heart pounds. Outside, the djembe drums start again, beating a slow, steady rhythm that snatches my breath away. The truth is written on Grandmother’s face, a truth I already know. The bones don’t speak.

Charlatan.

The word echoes in my mind. It’s the name my mother calls the street pedlars in the market, the ones who sell worthless good luck charms because their magic is weak. What if she thinks I’m a charlatan too?

My fingers ache from squeezing the bones so hard, and Grandmother whispers, ‘Let go.’

The bones fly from my hand and scatter on the floor between us. They land every which way, some close to others and some far apart. My eyes burn as I stare at them, straining to hear the ancestors’ message over the djembe drums.

‘Do you see or hear anything?’ Grandmother asks.

I blink and tears prick my eyes. ‘No.’

Grandmother smiles, collecting the bones. ‘Not everyone’s magic shows so early. For some, the magic doesn’t abide until they’re nearly grown. But when it comes so late, it’s very strong. Perhaps you will be a powerful witchdoctor one day.’

My hands tremble as the Aatiri girl’s words come back to me: Maybe never.

‘Come, child, the celebration awaits,’ Grandmother says, climbing to her feet.

Tears slip down my cheeks as I run out of the tent without waiting for Grandmother. I don’t want to be a powerful witchdoctor one day – I want magic to come now. The heat of the desert night hits me, and my bare feet slap against the hard clay. Sparks of magic drift from the sky into the other children’s outstretched arms, but some of it flits away. I dart through the crowd and follow the wayward magic, determined to catch some of my own.

It weaves through the mud-brick huts like a winged serpent, always staying two beats ahead of me. Beyond the tents, the drums become a distant murmur. I stop when the magic disappears. It’s darker here, colder, and the scent of blood medicine burns my nose. Someone’s performed a ritual in the shadows. I should turn back, run away. The wind howls a warning, but I move a little closer. Fingers like crooked tree roots latch on to my ankle.

I yank my leg back, and the hand falls away. My heart beats louder than the djembe drums as I remember all the scary stories about demons. During a lesson, a scribe once warned: Don’t get caught in the shadows, for a demon waits to steal your soul. The younger the soul, the sweeter the feast. A shiver cuts down my arms at the thought, but I remind myself that those are only tales to scare children. I’m too old to believe them.

It isn’t until the outline of a woman comes into focus that I breathe again. Magic lights on her skin, and she writhes and thrashes against the sand. Her mouth twists into an ugly scream. I don’t know what to make of her; she looks both young and old, both alive and dead, and in pain.

‘Give me a hand,’ says the woman, voice slurred.

‘I can get my father,’ I offer as I help her sit up.

Her brown skin is ashen and sweaty. ‘Don’t bother.’ She wipes dirt from her lips. ‘I only need to rest a spell.’

‘What are you doing out here?’ I ask, kneeling beside her.

‘I could ask the same, but I know the answer.’ A flicker of life returns to her vacant eyes. ‘There is only one reason a child does not take part in Imebyé.’

I glance away – she knows.

‘I don’t have magic either,’ she says, her words seething with bitterness. ‘Even so, it answers my call.’

I swallow hard to push back the chill creeping down my spine. ‘How?’

She smiles, revealing a mouth of rotten teeth. ‘Magic has a price if you’re willing to pay.’




CHAPTER 1 (#ulink_5e5905fa-0e27-5086-b9bf-c15c9dbb70fd)


Every year, the five tribes of Heka gather for the Blood Moon Festival, and I tell myself that this will be my year. The year that wipes the slate clean. The year that makes up for the waiting, the longing, the frustration. The year that magic lights on my skin, bestowing upon me the gift. When it happens, my failures will wash away and I’ll have magic of my own.

I’m sixteen, near grown by both Kingdom and tribal standards. My time is running out. No daughter or son of any tribe has come into their gifts beyond my age. If it doesn’t happen this year, it won’t happen at all.

I swallow hard and rub my sweaty palms against the grass as the djembe drums begin their slow and steady rhythm. With the tribes camped in the valley, there are some thirty thousand people here. We form rings around the sacred circle near the Temple of Heka, and the fire in the centre ebbs and flows to the beat. The drummers march around the edge of the circle, their steps in sync. The five tribes look as if they have nothing in common, but they move as one, to honour Heka, the god of their lands.

Magic clings to the air, so thick that it stings my skin. It dances in the night sky above endless rows of tents quilted in vibrant colours. My tunic sticks to my back from the heat of so many bodies in tight quarters. The sharp smell in the valley reminds me of the East Market on its busiest days. My feet tap a nervous beat while everyone else claps along with the music.

As Grandmother’s guests, Essnai, Sukar, and I sit on cushions in a place of honour close to the sacred circle. It isn’t because we’re special. We’re quite the opposite: ordinary and outsiders at that. Some people glare at us to make sure we don’t forget. I wish the looks didn’t bother me, but they only raise more doubts. They make me question if I belong here. If I deserve another chance after years of failing.

‘I suppose your gawking means the magic is coming,’ says Sukar, wrinkling his nose. The tattoos on his forearms and across his shaved head are glowing, so he knows as well as I that the magic is already here. ‘Either that, or you’re missing someone back home …’

A flush of warmth creeps up my neck. We both know who he means. I try to imagine Rudjek here, perched on a cushion in his fancy elara. He’d stand out worse than me and love every moment of it. The thought brings a smile to my face and eases my nerves a little.

Sukar, Essnai, and I made the journey from Tamar with the caravan, crossing the Barat Mountains at the western edge of the Almighty Kingdom to reach the tribal lands. Some two hundred people had come, but many more Tamarans of tribal blood hadn’t bothered. ‘We should’ve left you in the Kingdom too,’ I tell Sukar, casting him a scathing look. ‘Some of us are respectful enough to pay attention to the ceremony, so please stop distracting me.’

‘Well, if it’s a distraction you need …’ He winks at me.

‘Back me up, Essnai,’ I beg. ‘Tell him to pay attention.’

She sits cross-legged on the opposite side of Sukar, her face stony as always. My father brewed a blood medicine to colour her hair last night, and the shock of red looks good against her ebony skin. As usual, she’s caught eyes, although she never seems to notice. Instead Essnai looks like a lovesick puppy without her ama Kira at her side.

She shrugs, watching the drummers. ‘He won’t listen anyway.’

I sigh and turn back to the sacred circle. The moon has settled into a crimson hue, deeper red than only an hour before. In Tamar, we’re taught that the moon orisha, Koré, cries blood for her fallen brethren on this night. Five thousand years ago, she and her twin brother, Re’Mec, the sun orisha, led an army to end the Demon King’s insatiable thirst for souls. But the tribes believe the blood moon represents their connection to Heka. For it is only during this time that he returns to give his gift to future generations.

Even from this distance, the fire draws beads of sweat from my forehead. Or at least, I pretend it’s the fire that has me on edge. I wish I could be like Essnai and Sukar. They don’t care about not having magic, but it’s different for them. Neither of their parents have the gift. They don’t have to live up to the legacy of two prominent bloodlines.

When I think of the other reason I’m here – the tests – my belly twists in knots. The drums stop, the sound as sudden as the calm before a storm, and my muscles wind even tighter. The musicians stand almost as still as the statues in the scholars’ district in Tamar. Silence falls upon the crowd. The moment we’ve been waiting for has finally come, but it stretches a beat too long to spite me. In that space of time, the what-ifs run through my mind. What if it doesn’t happen? What if it does, but my magic isn’t strong like my parents’? What if I’m destined to become a charlatan peddling good luck charms?

Would that be so bad?

I draw my knees to my chest, remembering the woman at Imebyé writhing in the sand. Magic has a price if you’re willing to pay. Her words ring in my ears, the words of a charlatan, the words of someone desperate for magic. I push her out of my head. There’s still a chance for me – still time for Heka to give me his gift.

A hum rises from behind me and I crane my neck to see the witchdoctors weaving through the masses. They will perform the dance to start the month-long celebration. The blood moon casts them in eerie crimson shadows. Save for their voices, the entire valley quiets. No whispers, no children fooling around, only the whistle of wind and the rustle of feet in the grass. I want so badly to be in their ranks, to belong, to measure up to my family’s legacy. Instead, I’m stuck on the side watching – always watching.

For the ceremony, seven witchdoctors stand for each of the five tribes. Under their chieftains, the other six make up the edam, the tribal council. Although many of the tribal people have Heka’s grace – his magic – witchdoctors stand apart. The chieftains gifted them the title because they show a mastery of magic above others. Of all the tribal people, only a hundred or so have earned this prestigious appointment. They are the ones that the others revere and the ones I envy the most.

As the witchdoctors grow closer, their chants rattle in my bones. What would it be like to command magic with the ease of taking a breath? To reach into the air to collect it on one’s fingertips, or walk in the spirit world? To not only see magic, to tame it, to bend it, to be magical?

First come the Tribe Litho witchdoctors: four women and three men. Their tribe lies southwest of the Temple of Heka in the woodlands. White dust covers their bodies and vests of rawhide. Their intricate crowns, made of metal and bone and colourful beads, jangle in the breeze. The ground shifts beneath their feet, moving as gentle as ocean waves, gliding them to the sacred circle, which only the edam are allowed to enter.

As the procession draws closer, the djembe drummers start again, moving away from the circle to settle in an open spot on the grass. Their slow beat surges faster when the Litho chieftain enters the sacred circle.

Tribe Kes comes next – the smallest of the five tribes, whose lands border the valley to the northwest. Their diaphanous skin and near-colourless eyes remind me of the Northern people. Two are as white as alabaster and their bright clothes stand out in stark contrast. With each step they take, lightning cuts across the sky and sparks dance on their skin. They fan pouches of smoke that burns my nose. It smells of bloodroot, ginger, and eeru pepper: a cleansing remedy I’ve helped my father make in his shop at home.

The tribe from the mountains south of the Temple arrives next. The Zu witchdoctors leap above our heads, their feet supported by air. Tattoos cover their bodies and they wear crowns of antlers, some curved, some hooked, some large, some small. Some fashioned out of slick metal with edges sharp enough to sever a finger. With one misstep, an antler could fall upon the crowd, and it wouldn’t be pretty. I tuck my fingers between my knees just in case.

Sukar nudges me, a lopsided grin on his face. His family is Zu, and although he’s got at least two dozen tattoos, he doesn’t have nearly as many as the edam from his tribe. ‘As always, the most impressive of the five,’ he whispers.

I swat Sukar’s arm to shush him at the same time Essnai slaps the back of his head. He winces but knows better than to protest. It’s the Aatiri’s turn, which Essnai and I are anticipating the most. Even with her short-cropped hair, there’s no denying that her high cheekbones and wide-set eyes mark her as an Aatiri. We’d become friends after she’d found me in the desert at Imebyé with the charlatan.

Relief washes over me as Grandmother steps from the shadows, leading Tribe Aatiri. I hadn’t expected anyone else, but she’s the first familiar face among the edam. I sit up taller, trying to look like even a shadow of the great Aatiri chieftain.

The Aatiri do not walk or leap, for clouds of magic carry them. Grandmother’s silver locs coil on top of her head like a crown, and she wears a half-dozen necklaces of teeth. The Aatiri are tall and lean with prominent cheekbones and wiry hair braided like mine. Their skin is as beautiful as the hour of ösana.

My father is the last of them to enter the circle, and my heart soars. He’s tall and proud and magical, more so than any of the edam aside from Grandmother. He stands upon his cloud with his traditional staff in one hand and a knife carved of bone in the other.

He is an honorary Aatiri edam as he doesn’t live with his people, but they don’t deny that he’s one of the most powerful among them. I’m not foolish enough to think that if … when … my magic comes I’ll be as talented as he is. But seeing him fills me with pride.

The Mulani come last. They live the closest to the Temple of Heka.

It was a Mulani woman Heka revealed his presence to when he first descended from the stars a thousand years ago. Now the Mulani chieftain serves as his voice. The position would belong to my mother had she not left and never looked back. When she was only fourteen, the tribe named her their next chieftain and emissary to Heka because she’d shown such remarkable powers.

I could never live up to that legend either, but it doesn’t stop me from wanting to.

Unlike the witchdoctors of the other tribes, who vary in gender, Mulani witchdoctors are all women. I cover my eyes before the flashes of light that always come when they enter the sacred circle. Sukar curses under his breath because he’s too busy not paying attention to remember. From the groaning around me, he isn’t the only one. When their auras cool, the Mulani stand facing the crowd. They have broad shoulders, curvy bodies, and skin ranging from deep brown to alabaster. My amber eyes and some of my colour come from them, while my lean build favours the Aatiri.

‘I speak for Heka.’ The Mulani chieftain’s words echo in the valley, silencing all. ‘I speak for the mother and father of magic. I speak for the one who gave of himself when the orishas withheld magic from mortal kind. I speak for he who has no beginning and no end.’

The Mulani chieftain is my mother’s first cousin, and her voice rings with authority. Almost as much authority as my mother’s: Arti is soft-spoken, but she commands as much respect in the Almighty Kingdom as her cousin does in the tribal lands. I tell myself I don’t mind that she’s not here. It isn’t so different from how things are at home. There, she spends most of her time at the Almighty Temple, where she and the seers serve the orishas. When my mother left the tribal lands, she adopted the gods of the Kingdom too.

When I was younger, I begged my mother to spend more time with me, but she was so busy even then. Always busy or unavailable or unhappy – especially about my lack of magic. A pang of resentment settles in my chest. If I’m honest, a part of me still wishes things could be different between us.

‘For a thousand years Heka has come to us at the start of every blood moon,’ the Mulani chieftain says. ‘So it will be again. On this night we gather in worship so that he may show favour to our people. We shall share our kas with him so that he can look into our souls and judge us worthy.’

Anticipation quickens my heartbeat. Every year children from the very young to sixteen come into their powers after Heka’s visit. This year has to be my turn – before I’m too old and it’s too late. Magic will stop my cousins from looking at me like I don’t belong.

Magic will finally make my mother proud of me.

After the Mulani chieftain has delivered her speech, the dance begins. The witchdoctors move around the fire, all thirty-five of them, chanting in their native tongues. Their songs fit into an intricate pattern that’s at once odd and beautiful. The ceremony will go on for hours, and the drummers adjust their tempo to match the edam’s rhythm.

Farther back from the sacred circle, campfires crop up between the tents. The smells of brew and roasted meat fill the air. People pass wooden bowls through the crowd, and when one reaches me, I take a sniff that burns my nose. I recoil before I can stop myself.

‘You of all people should be used to a little blood medicine,’ says Sukar, his voice smug.

‘I’ll take the next pass,’ I say, shoving the bowl into his hands.

He laughs, then takes a dramatic gulp.

Someone thrusts another bowl into my hands, and I almost drop it when my gaze lands on Grandmother. She’s broken ranks and stepped out of the sacred circle. Now she towers above me, and my breath hitches in my throat. No edam has ever left the circle during the dance.

‘Drink, Little Priestess.’

Her voice carries on a secret wind, loud and clear despite the noise from the crowd, the curses, the dirty looks. It’s only a pet name when Oshhe calls me that, but there’s weight in Grandmother’s words. She looks down at me, hopeful and hesitant, as she studies my face.

I’m not a priestess. I’m only going to disappoint her.

Unable to refuse, I take a sip. Heat trails across my tongue and down my throat. It tastes herbal and metallic and rotten. I clench my stomach to keep from gagging. Grandmother nods, takes the bowl, and passes it to Sukar, who swallows hard. ‘Thank you, Honoured Chieftain,’ he says, bobbing his head to her. He looks surprised that she’s here too. None of the other edam have left the sacred circle.

‘Have you been practising?’ Grandmother asks me with a toothy grin.

This is the real reason that I’ve been on edge all night. Each year at the Blood Moon Festival, Grandmother tests whether I have magic, and each year I fail.

‘Yes,’ I stutter as the medicine starts to take hold.

I don’t tell her that for all my practising, with Oshhe and alone, nothing has come of it.

‘Tomorrow we will talk more,’ Grandmother says.

Next to me Sukar falls on his face in the grass as the blood medicine takes him first. Essnai rolls him onto his side with her foot. A rush of warmth spreads through my body and my tongue loosens. ‘I still don’t have magic,’ I blurt out without meaning to, but I’m too drowsy to feel embarrassed.

Grandmother starts to say something else but stops herself. A pang flutters in my stomach. I can’t read her expression and wonder what the ancestors have shown her in my future. In all these years, she’s never told me. ‘Our greatest power lies not in our magic, but in our hearts, Little Priestess.’

She talks in riddles like all the tribal people. Sometimes I don’t mind the way she and Oshhe try to soothe over my worries about not having magic. Sometimes it’s infuriating. They don’t know what it’s like to feel you don’t belong, to feel you’re not worthy. To not measure up to a mother who all the Kingdom admires.

Before I can think of something to say, the blood medicine lulls me into a state of peace. The burning in my throat cools into a smothering heat, and my heartbeat throbs in my ears. Behind Grandmother, the other edam move at an incredible speed. Their faces blur and their bodies leave trails of mist that connect them to one another. Their chants intensify. Before long, most people lie in trances – Essnai, the elders, almost the entirety of the five tribes. The djembe drums fall silent, and the witchdoctors’ song echoes in the valley.

Grandmother grabs my hand and pulls me into the sacred circle. ‘Let Heka see you.’

This is wrong. I don’t belong in the sacred circle. Only the edam, and honoured witchdoctors like my father. Never someone like me – without magic, an outsider.

I shouldn’t be here, but I can’t remember whether I mean in the circle, or in the tribal lands. My mind is too foggy to think straight, but I’m warm inside as I join the dance.

Magic swirls in the air. It’s purple and pink and yellow and black and blue. It’s all colours, tangling and curling around itself. It brushes against my skin, and then I am two places at once, as if the bonds that tether my ka to my body have loosened. No. I’m all places. Is this what it’s like to have magic, to feel it, to wield it? Please, Heka, bless me with this gift.

One by one, the witchdoctors fall into a trance and drop to the ground too. There is no sound save for the crackling of the fires set around camp. The Mulani chieftain – my cousin – sweeps past me, her steps as silent as starlight. She’s the only other person still awake.

‘Wait,’ I call after her. ‘What’s happening?’

She doesn’t answer me. Instead she climbs up the Temple steps and disappears inside. Something heavy pulls against my legs when I try to follow her.

I glance down and my breath catches at the sight of my body lying beneath me. I’m standing with my feet sunk to the ankles in my own belly. I gasp and my physical body mimics me, chest rising sharply, eyes wide. Is everyone else’s ka awake too? I can’t see them. Can they see me? I try to move again, but the same strong pull keeps me rooted in place.

My ka holds on to my body with an iron grip—a chain around my ankles. I wonder how I can let go—and if I want to. According to my father, untethering one’s ka is a tricky business. Only the most talented witchdoctors can leave their bodies. Even they rarely do it, for fear of wandering too far and not finding their way back. The blood medicine alone couldn’t make this happen. Grandmother must have performed some magic when she pulled me into the sacred circle, so I’d have a better chance at being seen by Heka. That has to be it.

My body calls me back. The call is a gentle beckoning at first, then grows in intensity. My eyelids flutter and I fight to stay aware as bright ribbons of light set the night sky on fire. I fall to my knees, the pull growing stronger, the source of the light drawing closer. It’s both warm and cold, both beautiful and frightening, both serene and violent. It knows me and something inside me knows it. It’s the mother and father of magic. It’s Heka.

He’s going to bestow his grace upon me.

I can’t believe it’s happening after all these years. My body lets out a sigh of relief.

My mother would be proud if I showed a sliver of magic. Just a sliver. I shut my eyes against the intense light and let his power wash over my skin, his touch as gentle as brushstrokes. It tastes sweet on my tongue, and I laugh as it pulses through my ka.

Then the light disappears, and I’m left empty as the magic flees my body.




CHAPTER 2 (#ulink_4615b700-c3af-56c7-9b91-f8f4698a46e4)


The morning after the opening ceremony, I’m in a foul mood as Oshhe and I deliver gifts to his countless cousins. He watches me like a hawk, but I don’t know why. I’m still the same magicless girl I was the night before. Nothing has changed. I want to believe that some magic rubbed off on me – that this year will be different.

My hands tremble and I keep them busy so he doesn’t notice. I have my tests with Grandmother at the hour of ösana. I can’t face her right now, not after entering the sacred circle. Not after feeling magic at my fingertips, feeling it in my blood, and then feeling it abandon me. That’s when the trembling started – as if the magic snatched away a piece of my ka when it left.

I catch the scent of cinnamon and clove and mint on the air and it reminds me of home. Every year my father brings me here so we can spend time with his family and I can get to know my mother’s tribe better. When older Mulani look at me, they see Arti: it’s only the rich brown of my skin that sets us apart. For my mother was not much older than I am now when she left her tribe for the Kingdom and never looked back. I can’t hide from my own reason for coming, the one fuelling my anticipation.

We only stay for half of the month-long celebration. Oshhe has his shop to run back in Tamar, and I have my studies with the scribes. A part of me is anxious to return home, where I’m not so much of an utter failure, especially after last night.

Our Aatiri cousins bombard Oshhe with questions about the Kingdom most of the morning. They ask if Tamarans are as ridiculous as they’ve heard. If the Almighty One is a bastard like his father before him. If Tamar smells of dead fish. If leaving his tribe for the lure of city life was worth the trouble.

While my father talks to old friends, I eavesdrop. I don’t understand everything they say in Aatiri, but I follow enough to stay abreast. They complain about the council that represents their interests with the Kingdom. They want more in return for the precious metals mined from the caves beneath their desert lands. Many times, friends have asked my father to help with trade negotiations, but he always refuses. He says that Arti is the politician in the family. To call my mother a politician is an understatement.

A witchdoctor asks after the health of the seer from Tribe Aatiri who serves in the Almighty Temple. He is very old and wants to return home. The tribe will meet in three days and Grandmother will ask for a volunteer to replace him. They say that only the very old will go because no one else wants to live in the Kingdom. Oshhe laughs with them, but his eyes are sad.

I thread my fingers together to keep them steady while my father hands out the last of the gifts. They’re still shaking from the ritual, but also because my great-aunt Zee has just asked me about Arti. When a simple shrug doesn’t deter her, I say, ‘She enjoys being Ka-Priestess of the Kingdom very much.’

With a nod and a laugh, Zee tells me that Arti could have married the Almighty One had she been clever enough. Joke or not, this is news to me, but it doesn’t come as a shock. My mother has done well for herself in Tamar. Having risen from nothing, she holds the third most powerful position in the Kingdom, behind the Vizier and the Almighty One himself. Not a day goes by that she lets anyone forget it.

‘If you were a princess,’ Zee says, ‘you wouldn’t need magic then.’

At her slight, I forget her comment about my mother.

You wouldn’t need magic then.

Everyone knows about my little problem. My younger cousins at least pretend they don’t, but some of the elders are blunt about it, their tongues sharp. Zee’s the sharpest of them all.

‘If I were a princess, Auntie,’ I say in a slippery sweet voice, ‘I wouldn’t have the pleasure of seeing you every year. That would be such a shame.’

‘Speaking of shame,’ Zee says, fanning a worrisome fly away, ‘I can’t for the life of me understand why my sister would risk angering the other edam by bringing you into the sacred circle.’ She draws her lips into a hard line. ‘What did she say to you last night?’

Grandmother had said surprisingly little, but I won’t tell Zee so she can spread rumours.

‘I see you still like to gossip,’ Oshhe cuts in, fixing his stony eyes on his aunt. ‘A wonder your tongue hasn’t fallen out from talking too much.’

Several people cluck at Zee and she rolls her eyes.

Late afternoon, my father is asked to step in to mediate a dispute between two friends from his youth. He fusses about leaving me until I tell him that I’m going back to my tent to rest before my tests with Grandmother tonight. I’m supposed to meet up with Essnai and Sukar, but I decide to take a walk to clear my mind first. I’m still seething at my great-aunt and seething at Heka too.

In Tamar, hardly anyone has magic, and no one cares that I don’t either. But here magic plays on the wind like dust bunnies, teasing and tantalizing, forever out of reach. Most tribal people have some magic, even if it’s not as strong as Grandmother’s and the other witchdoctors’.

As I move through the patchwork of bright Aatiri tents, a cousin or an old friend of my father greets me at every turn. They ask about last night, but I want to be alone, so I leave camp, hoping for some peace. I weave through the white Mulani tents nearest the Temple of Heka. The Temple stands on the north edge of the valley, the golden dome shimmering against the white walls. A group of Mulani decorate it with flowers and bright fabrics and infuse the stone with magic. I walk by as a procession of women, each with a basket of water balanced on her head, march across the stone. The art is so detailed that you can see the water sloshing around in the baskets.

I slip between the Zu tents covered in animal hide and pause to watch elders carving masks out of wood. It’s getting late by the time I roam into the maze of Litho tents, separated by sheets draped across wire. There isn’t much privacy in the valley, but the camp is quiet aside from the rustle of the cloth in the wind. Most of the tribe has gathered around the firepits to prepare for the second night of the blood moon.

My wandering doesn’t bring me much peace, not like it does when I lose myself in the East Market back home. There’s always a merchant selling something interesting to keep my mind busy there. Or I can listen to the stories of people who come from neighbouring countries. Meet people like the Estherian, who tosses salt over her shoulder to ward off spirits. Or the Yöome woman who makes shiny boots that patrons line up in the early morn to buy. But most of all, I wish I were lying on the grass along the Serpent River with Rudjek, away from everyone and everything.

If the Aatiri camp was orderly, the Litho tents are a mess of confusion. I become so turned around that I end up in a clearing. By the smell of blood and sweat, I can tell that it’s a makeshift arena. Had Rudjek come to the tribal lands, he’d spend every waking moment here.

I’m halfway across the clearing when two Litho boys around my age step into my path. When I try to move around them, they block me again, stopping me in my tracks. They’re up to no good. It’s written in their white ash-covered faces. Both stand a head taller than me and wear vests of animal hide dyed stark red. We stare at each other, but I don’t speak. I’m not the one sneaking around like a hungry hyena. Let them explain themselves.

‘We want to know why a ben’ik like you got to enter the sacred circle,’ demands the boy with a black dorek tied around his head. He looks down his nose at me. ‘You’re nothing special.’

The way he spits out ben’ik makes my skin crawl. I wander so much in Tamar without fear because of my mother’s reputation. No one would dare cross the Ka-Priestess. In the tribal lands, I should know better. I’m an outsider and people like me, ben’iks, are even less liked for our lack of magic. It can’t help that they’re angry Grandmother broke the rules for me.

My blood boils. I should’ve been more careful. I turn to go as two more boys appear out of the shadows. ‘Don’t make a mistake you’ll regret,’ I say, lacing my words with equal venom. ‘My grandmother is chieftain and won’t take kindly to any trouble.’ I immediately realize my mistake. People shrink upon hearing my mother’s name at home, but here my empty threat only makes things worse. The Litho boys cut me with glares that set my heart racing.

One of them waves his hand and the air shifts to encase the whole clearing in a shimmering bubble. Everything outside it seems to disappear. I suspect that the bubble will keep anyone from seeing or hearing what’s happening inside, too. ‘We know your grandmother and your owahyat mother too,’ the boy says, his face twisted in disgust.

‘We know you as well, Arrah,’ the dorek boy sniggers. ‘It’s rare to meet a ben’ik with a lineage so rich in magic. But then, the sins of the mother often fall on the daughter.’

My eyes land on a staff propped against a rack as sweat glides down my back. It may be useless against them, but at least it’s something. My chances would be better if I had a hint of magic, even a smidgeon. Enough to keep me safe. I clench my hands into fists, thinking of when Heka’s magic touched me last night. It drew my ka from my body, then left me like a fleeting wind. I can almost understand why some charlatans risk so much to lure magic to them.

I keep all four boys in my line of sight. ‘If you call me ben’ik one more time …’

‘We’re going to teach you a lesson,’ the dorek boy says. ‘Ben’ik.’

I run because they have magic and I’m outnumbered. Before I get far, I crash into the edge of the bubble and fall down. They’ve made sure I can’t leave.

My pulse drums in my ears as I climb to my feet and lunge for the staff. It feels balanced in my hands, offering me the faintest feeling of security. If I had a weapon of choice, this would be it. Any Aatiri worth a grain of sand knows their way around a staff, Oshhe would say.

The Litho boys laugh.

Let them.

I shift my stance. ‘Touch me and I will break every bone in your miserable bodies.’

‘The ben’ik can fight?’ The third boy cracks his knuckles. ‘I don’t believe it.’

‘Believe it when you eat dirt, you swine,’ I say.

My words sound braver than I feel, but I mean them. Even if they have magic, I won’t go down without a fight.

‘She’s bluffing,’ says the bubble boy.

Magic crackles in the air like a summer thunderstorm and I brace myself, the staff ready. They close in around me. The third boy pounds his fist in his other hand, and the ground trembles. I take several steps back, keeping the sides of the bubble at my rear.

‘Well, what do we have here?’ someone asks from behind me.

Sukar appears out of thin air. The three tattoos across his forehead sparkle like stars in the night. He runs his hand over his shaven head, looking as amused as ever. The Litho boys take one look at his slight physique and roll their eyes. Their mistake.

Essnai steps into the clearing behind him – statuesque and poised, a head taller than both of us. Purple powder covers her forehead down to her long lashes. The red beneath her midnight eyes and the gold dusted on her nose stand out against her umber skin. Her lips are two different shades of pink. She’s changed her hair back to black. Even the Litho boys are too caught up in her beauty to notice her grip on her staff.

I sigh in relief. My friends never fail to make an entrance.

Essnai clucks her tongue at me. ‘Always wandering off and getting into trouble.’

Heat creeps up my neck, but I answer her accusation with a shrug.

‘Someone forgot to invite us to this little party,’ Sukar says.

‘Your protection tattoos won’t save you, Zu.’ The dorek boy spits on the ground.

Sukar pulls a pair of sickles from scabbards across his chest. ‘They broke through your ward easily enough, but I have these just in case.’

Even his curved blades have magic symbols engraved in them – made by his uncle, the Zu seer in the Almighty Temple.

‘What’s two more ben’iks to beat up?’ the third Litho boy asks with a laugh.

Essnai says nothing as she lifts her staff into the same position as mine.

‘You should leave before you get hurt,’ I warn the Litho swine.

‘You’re bold for the daughter of an owahyat,’ says the bubble boy.

Before the words clear his lips, I hurl a rock, aimed for his face. It’s clear from the malice in his voice exactly what he thinks when he calls my mother a prostitute. He doesn’t know her and if anyone can talk crap about Arti, it’s me, not him. But the boy knocks the rock from its path with a gust of wind.

‘Nice try, ben’ik,’ he says.

I spit in the dirt.

So they’re talented in the elements. Dirty, arrogant swine. They think because we don’t have magic, we’re defenceless. Another mistake.

‘Are we going to talk all night or fight?’ Sukar yawns. ‘I vote fight.’

Even magic isn’t foolproof. I know that better than most from watching my father in his shop. The only way out is through the boy holding the bubble intact. He hasn’t moved a muscle since he conjured it, as if he needs to stand still to keep it steady. That’s my opening. I don’t second-guess as I charge at him. My fingers tighten against the staff, but the ground shifts and I land hard on my face. The fourth Litho boy’s outstretched arm trembles as the dirt under me groans and settles again.

Sukar and Essnai spring into action. My friends bat away the rocks two of the Litho boys hurtle at us with their magic, neither lifting a finger. I catch a rock and send it flying. It hits the boy who knocked me down square in the chest. He lets out a little squeak and I can’t hide my satisfaction. Serves him right.

I’m on my feet again, my eyes narrowed on the bubble boy. He calls for help, but Sukar and Essnai already have his friends battered and bruised on their knees. The bubble falters before I even reach the boy, and he runs away. I don’t bother going after him. He got the point. Once the bubble’s gone, the sounds of the night’s celebrations rush back into the clearing. The rest of the Litho boys run away too.

My hands shake as I clutch the staff. They weren’t even that powerful. Yet, if not for Sukar and Essnai’s help, things could’ve ended much worse. How could Heka bless scum like that with magic and skip me? At the first beats of the djembe drums, dread slips between my ribs like a sharp blade. It’s time to face the thing I’ve been dreading all day.

My tests with Grandmother – the great Aatiri chieftain.




CHAPTER 3 (#ulink_f5f04792-45fa-5e96-9185-0c30ce231506)


Grandmother’s dome pavilion looms over the smaller, squat tents in the Aatiri camp. Its patchwork of bright cloth billows in the gentle breeze in the valley. My legs ache as I weave through the throng of people preparing for the second night of the blood moon. I wish I could lose myself in them and find a place to hide from my tests. I don’t want to fail again.

I suck in a deep breath as I finally reach the tent. My cousin Nenii pins back the flap and ducks inside. She and Semma clear away teacups and wash down the long, low table. Magic strung in glass beads, draped along the walls, lights the room. I’m always amazed by Grandmother’s endless ways to bend magic to her will.

I press two fingers to my forehead and dip my head in a slight bow. ‘Blessed night, cousins,’ I say in Aatiri. The greeting twists on my tongue, but the girls don’t make fun of my accent. These cousins have always been kind and accepting, even if I’m an outsider. Still, it’s hard not to wonder if it’s only because of Grandmother. Plenty of people are polite to me in Tamar out of respect for my mother.

They chime back, ‘You honour us, granddaughter of our great chieftain.’

‘Join me, Little Priestess,’ Grandmother calls from another room.

Her voice brims with authority, but it’s not unkind.

Nenii and Semma give me encouraging smiles as they fluff pillows. Before I slip into my Grandmother’s private quarters, Nenii whispers, ‘Come by our tent later so we can help braid your hair.’ My cheeks warm, but I’m glad of the offer. It’s long overdue and would take me forever. I shake off my doubts about them. Not everyone cares that I don’t have magic.

I pull back the curtains that separate the salon from Grandmother’s private quarters. She sits cross-legged on a mat in the middle of the floor. She isn’t wearing her bone charms, only a yellow kaftan with coloured beads across her shoulders. Light flickers from the jars of burning oil in the corners and leaves the rest of the room in shadows. Her quarters smell of cloves, cinnamon, and cardamom – the spices of her favourite tea. ‘Grandmother,’ I say, bowing to her. ‘Honoured Chieftain of Tribe Aatiri, blessed night.’

‘Welcome, Granddaughter.’ She smiles. ‘Sit.’

Grandmother clutches her hands on her lap, and when I squat on the reed floor facing her, she flips her wrists and lets the bones fly. They land between us in the same position they did all those years ago when she first tried to teach me magic. As they do every year. Her whispers fill the room as she channels the ancestors’ spirits through the bones. Several voices come across at once. My belly twinges at the clipped, guttural words that are neither Aatiri nor Tamaran. The language doesn’t sound like that of any nation near the Kingdom or the tribal lands. In the corner, one of the candles flickers and goes out.

Grandmother has never told me what the message means. Whenever I ask, she answers, ‘The time is not yet right for me to say.’

Still the question burns on my lips. What does it mean? I almost beg for an answer but bite my tongue. It isn’t fair that she’s keeping it from me. Why would she? Unless it’s something bad, or if it means that I’ll never come into my magic. The blank expression on her face gives nothing away.

‘People are upset about me entering the sacred circle,’ I start, then my words catch in my throat. She had to know they would be. Grandmother stares at me with one eyebrow arched in anticipation. She bears the angular face, prominent cheeks, and proud nose common among the Aatiri. Her look, as always, is one of slight amusement – as if she’s privy to a secret that no one else knows.

The phantom of Heka’s magic still lingers on my skin. It was the first time that magic ever came to me. It didn’t just brush by on its way to answer someone else’s call. It sparked in my soul like a vital organ I hadn’t known was missing. I want to tell Grandmother this, but I’m afraid of what it means that the magic didn’t stay.

She risked angering the other edam and the entirety of the tribal people – for what reason? I bite my lip and drop my gaze to my hands. ‘Why did you do it?’

‘People should mind their own business,’ Grandmother says, her voice sharp. When I meet her eyes again, she smiles. ‘As for your question, let me try to explain.’ She waves her hand over the bones and they arrange themselves into a neat pile. ‘Our magic presents in different ways. It’s no small thing that you can see magic and your mind resists it. I’ve long wondered if, perhaps, your magic is simply asleep. I brought you into the sacred circle in an attempt to awaken it.’

A flush of heat creeps up my neck. ‘I guess there’s only one way to see if it worked.’

‘Take the bones,’ Grandmother says. ‘Tell me what you see.’

So begin my tests.

The bones feel smooth and polished, and slippery against my hands. They don’t hum with magic or speak to me. It’s no different from Imebyé all those years ago, or any blood moon since then. I clutch the bones with my eyes closed, my pulse pounding in my ears. I will them to tell me their secrets. Please let this work.

When I can’t stand waiting any longer, I throw them.

The bones scatter in a random pattern that means nothing to me. Grandmother studies them, her eyes lingering on each bone, then lets out a soft sigh. They don’t mean anything to her either.

Why do I keep failing at this? What am I doing wrong?

She allows me no time to lament, only snaps her fingers. Nenii enters the room carrying a mortar and pestle, a knife, and piles of herbs. Once she’s gone, Grandmother says, ‘Make a blood medicine of your choice.’

That I can do. I’ve learned how to make dozens while helping my father in his shop. But without magic, all blood medicine does is give a person a stomachache. Or a hangover.

I crush herbs, adding a bit at a time to get the right consistency. The medicine calls for white nightshade smoothed into a paste and a dozen other herbs. It isn’t long before I’m lost in the work, my mind at peace for the first time at the festival. I’ve always found making blood medicine calming, even if challenging. Juices stain my fingers green and a pungent odour stings my nose by the time it’s done.

To seal the spell, I need to add my blood, but I hesitate. I don’t want to disappoint Grandmother or myself again. After this, we’ll know if last night had been worth it, if my true magic was only asleep. I nick the tip of my finger, add blood, and whisper the incantation in one breath.

It’s done.

If my measurements were off by the smallest amount, the work would be for nothing. Without magic it is for nothing. I always go through the motions because of Grandmother, but after Heka’s touch, I hope a spark of magic will finally show. This year has to be different. It’s now or never.

Grandmother’s silver locs are loose and reach her waist. Even without her adornments, she still looks every bit the chieftain that she is. She raises an eyebrow. ‘You intend to turn your hair blue?’

‘It’s very popular in Tamar.’ I smile down at the bowl. If it works, I’ll make Essnai all the hair colour she could dream of. I’ll find a thousand frivolous, fun things to do with magic. I’ll be useful in my father’s shop, and one day open a magic shop of my own.

‘Indeed.’ Grandmother gestures at the bowl, a grin dancing on her lips. ‘After you.’

We both drink and nothing happens. Aside from the atrocious taste. Another failure.

On to the next.

We spend hours going through the tests.

I fail to read minds.

I fail to manipulate water.

I fail to see into the future.

I fail to call upon the ancestors.

I fail to heal the cuts on my fingers.

I fail to detect what ails a sick woman.

We work late into the night, people coming and going for various tests. My head throbs and my stomach twists in knots as the hour of ösana approaches. Magic is at its most potent in that space of time between night and sunrise. Grandmother never loses patience and encourages me to keep trying. I wish my mother would be that way instead of voicing her constant disapproval.

‘Are there any easier tests?’ I ask the moment we are alone.

Grandmother throws the bones again. ‘Those were the easier tests, Little Priestess.’

I wince. ‘Please don’t call me that. It only makes things worse.’

She frowns but doesn’t look up. Something in the bones has her full attention. She points to two bones that lie crossed together. This is new. They’ve never landed like that before.

The sacred circle did change something.

My heart races as I lean forward in anticipation. Could this finally be it?

Grandmother’s finger shakes as she speaks in two voices. One is a low hiss that comes from her throat, and the other sounds like glass shattering. Both are so terrible that they send chills down my spine. Her head snaps up. ‘Who are you?’

I shrink when her eyes land on me – only the whites visible. ‘What?’ I ask, not knowing what else to say. I’ve seen her in trances before but never anything like this. Something shifts in the air. ‘Grandmother, what’s wrong?’

‘Leave!’ she shouts, staring over my shoulder. I jump to my feet and whirl around. The tent flutters and the unlit jar of oil sparks to life. I back away. No one’s there, but a new, unfamiliar magic rushes into the room. Magic not coming from Grandmother and definitely not from me. Magic that I can’t see, only feel slithering on my skin. ‘You do not belong here, green-eyed serpent!’

Spittle shoots out of Grandmother’s mouth as she barks the last words. Sparks of magic – tribal magic – fill the room. It lights on her skin. Her whole body begins to glow. The bones rise from the ground and spin, caught in an impossible windstorm.

I clench my fists as her magic sweeps through the tent. It flits against my arms like moth wings. I want to flee, but I don’t move. It won’t hurt me.

Grandmother’s head snaps backwards so hard that her spine cracks. I gasp. Soon we’re both shaking. She leans to one side, sweat pouring down her face. For the first time, she looks old and fragile. I kneel next to her.

‘It will pass,’ she says, straightening herself up again, though she’s still panting.

‘What … what was that?’ I stutter.

‘Have you seen the green-eyed serpent in your dreams, child?’ she asks, her voice sharp.

‘What?’ My teeth chatter, and I hug my shoulders. The tent is cold in the aftermath of the strange magic. The space feels too small, the air too thin. Something bad was here – something powerful enough to challenge Grandmother. ‘I don’t understand.’

She clucks her tongue, then glances at the curtains separating us from the rest of the tent. They stand as stiff as sheets of metal until she draws a loop in the air with her finger and they become cloth again. ‘Enter, Oshhe.’

My father bursts through the curtains with so much force that he halfway rips them from the ceiling. His expression is panicked as he looks between us. Upon seeing that we’re all right, he lets out a deep sigh. ‘Honoured Chieftain,’ he says, bowing. Then his voice softens. ‘Mother, what happened?’

‘It’s hard to put into words,’ Grandmother says. ‘Please join us, son.’

Oshhe squats beside me, his eyebrows pinched together. ‘Are you okay?’

I nod and lean against his side. He wraps his arm around my shoulders. He’s warm and smells of grass and sunshine, and his embrace calms my nerves. ‘To answer your question, Grandmother,’ I say. ‘No, I haven’t seen a serpent, green-eyed or not, in my dreams.’

‘I think you’d better explain, Mother,’ Oshhe says, his voice calm – too calm. He only uses that voice when he’s not happy.

‘There was someone here … something.’ Grandmother shakes her head as if clearing away cobwebs. ‘Someone who does not belong. Perhaps a relic from the past, I do not know, or an omen of the future …’

Again Grandmother speaks in riddles, but her voice shakes a little. Whoever, or whatever, this thing is, it’s rattled the great Aatiri chieftain, and that scares me too.

‘She – the green-eyed serpent – possesses magic I do not know,’ Grandmother finishes. ‘Magic that feels very old and very powerful.’

‘Magic you don’t know?’ Oshhe questions, one brow raising. ‘Was it … an orisha?’

‘An orisha here?’ I blurt out. ‘In the tribal lands?’

I can’t imagine the orishas in the tribal lands any more than Heka in the Kingdom. Though the tribes acknowledge that the orishas exist, they hold Heka above all. In the Kingdom, the orishas take precedence, but the citizens come from all walks of life and so do their deities.

‘No, not an orisha,’ Grandmother says, her tone reluctant. ‘Something else.’

‘A rebirth, perhaps?’ Oshhe says. ‘A powerful witchdoctor who has cheated death.’

Grandmother massages her temples. ‘I can’t be certain. I need to talk to an old friend who will know more. It will take time to reach her, for she does not walk these lands.’

A chill runs down my spine. Grandmother is the Aatiri chieftain. I’ve never known her to not have an answer. She’s one of the most powerful witchdoctors in the tribal lands, in all the world.

‘You haven’t said what this green-eyed serpent – what she has to do with me,’ I say, unable to hold my question back any longer.

Grandmother regards me again, her eyes bloodshot. ‘In truth, I do not know, Arrah.’

Her words knock the taste from my mouth. The Litho boys would’ve beaten me if not for Essnai and Sukar’s help. The boys’ magic had been feeble and nothing special, yet still too much to handle on my own. Now this? My mind slips back to the sacred circle again. Why couldn’t Heka gift me with magic? ‘Am I in trouble?’

‘I will not lie to you,’ Grandmother says. ‘I do not think she means you well.’

‘But you have an idea of what she is,’ Oshhe says, his face blanching.

Grandmother’s voice drops low – the way one utters an unspeakable secret. ‘I don’t want to speculate.’ She scoops the bones into her lap, her hand shaking. ‘It’s best if I consult with the other edam first …’

‘Grandmother!’ I beg. ‘Please … you know, don’t you?’

She worries her fingers across the bones, still refusing to meet my eye.

‘Mother,’ Oshhe says, his jaw clenched, ‘speak your mind.’

‘The green-eyed serpent,’ Grandmother says after a weary breath, ‘is said to be a symbol of demon magic.’

Silence falls upon the room and Grandmother’s words hang like a noose between the three of us. Demons are myths, legends. Stories that parents tell to scare their children into behaving. The scribes teach us that the orishas saved mortal kind from them. Back home we call someone who sucks the joy out of life a soul eater. It’s meant as a harmless insult – one inspired by the tales that demons feasted upon kas. Everything I know about them comes from those half-forgotten stories. People fill in the gaps in the folklore with their imagination. The scribes say that the orishas erased the full memories of demons from our minds to protect us. Now Grandmother’s telling me that demons are real, and one is very much alive.

‘It’s impossible,’ my father whispers, the news stealing the strength from his voice. ‘There has to be another explanation. Demon magic has been gone for thousands of years.’

‘Yes, I know,’ Grandmother says, closing her fist around the bones.

I rub the back of my head, feeling the onslaught of a headache. The vision has Grandmother scared too. She’s trying to protect me, but I want the truth. I need to know if the green-eyed serpent is a demon … how could it be possible and what does it mean? Could this be the reason my magic is asleep, or why Heka’s grace had only touched me in passing in the sacred circle? I’m reaching for straws, but I ask anyway, ‘Does this demon have anything to do with my magic not showing?’

‘It’s possible,’ Grandmother says, her voice so very tired. ‘There’s much in this world that even I cannot perceive. As I said, I must consult with the other edam. Together, we may be able to find an answer.’

My father’s practised calm gives away to frustration. ‘How do I keep Arrah safe?’

Grandmother thinks long before answering, ‘I do not know, but we’ll find a way.’

I don’t miss the uncertainty between her words. I’m irritated that they need to protect me. If I had magic of my own, I could protect myself. My mind reels with the grim news. Not only has Heka forsaken me, but things are much worse. I once laughed at stories about demons, and now I know that one may walk in my shadow.

She does not mean me well.




RE’MEC, ORISHA OF SUN, TWIN KING (#ulink_0108d82d-2cc8-5bae-9681-faab281ee55e)


Tell me again, sister, why do we tolerate such disrespect from these tribal people? I have a mind to stomp out their lives like the ants they are. They think magic is a gift. A gift! How can they be so foolish? Magic is a curse for mortal kind, and in time they will use it to destroy themselves. Who knows that better than us? We saved their world once, and I’m not of the temperament to save it again. I should take another nap. Twenty years wasn’t enough. I grow tired.

Heka is to blame for our new troubles. Had we not lost so many of our brethren in the War, we could have stopped him from giving them magic. Now we find ourselves in this new predicament.

It’s not that I’m sentimental. This world can burn today and I will have forgotten it by tomorrow. It means nothing to me. It’s the principle of the matter. We gave everything to protect them from that bastard Demon King, everything. Now this is how we’re repaid for our sacrifice, our kindness?

I’m sorry, dear sister. I know that the blood moon is your time. It is your way of remembering our fallen brethren, as the Rite of Passage is mine. As he’s done for a thousand years, Heka has come back to ruin your bereavement. His very presence is an act of pissing on our siblings’ graves, if we had bodies to bury. Or do they burn bodies now? I forget what’s popular these days.

You don’t have to remind me of our failures, Koré. They haunt my every thought. I should’ve known that we’d only postponed the inevitable. After five thousand years, I hoped that it wouldn’t come to this, but the beast stirs even now. We must act before it’s too late.

Alas, sister, as always you’re right. I could not stand by and let this world come to an end. I couldn’t do it then, and I won’t do it now. I love it too much, and that is my greatest failing above all else.




CHAPTER 4 (#ulink_c30f40f7-f13c-5c1b-b101-920e28960715)


It’s never easy returning to Tamar after spending time in the tribal lands. I’m bone-tired and more than a little cranky from sleeping in a tent the entire time. The whole trip had taken a month. Eight days of travel each way with the caravan and two weeks at the festival. We arrive in the middle of the night, and I’m so relieved to be back home that I go straight to bed. Mere hours later, I wake buried in pillows and sheets that smell of lavender and coconut. They were fresh and cool last night, but now they’re ruffled and sweat-stained. The curtains around my bed keep out most of the sunlight, but some slips between the gaps and I can’t fall back asleep.

This was supposed to be my year – the year that I can finally say that I have magic too. The year that I hold a light in my mother’s shadow. Even an ember would’ve been enough for me. I tell myself for the one-hundredth time that there’s still a chance, that I can’t give up. But hope is a fleeting thing when met with repeated failure.

Since the first night of the blood moon, I’ve dreamed about magic. The good dreams always end with some version of me possessing Heka’s gift. I step out of the sacred circle so powerful that the edam name me a witchdoctor on the spot. I glide on a cloud like the Aatiri in the opening ceremony. I leave my body to wander the spirit world and find Heka waiting for me underneath a palm tree. I come back to Tamar and tell Rudjek, and for once he’s speechless. When I wake up, still on the edge of sleep, a sense of peace settles over me. But the moment never lasts.

In the bad dreams, I step into the sacred circle and the edam stop their dance. The valley falls silent and one by one they turn their backs to me. Or the Litho boys drag me out of the circle, kicking and screaming because I don’t belong. Or as punishment a witchdoctor turns me into a ndzumbi to live out the rest of my life doing their bidding.

I shake my head. Dreams aside, Heka’s magic rejected me. That was real. And that’s the hardest thing to wrap my mind around. Yes, I have gifts, but what good are they if I can’t use magic? What will these gifts do to protect me from the green-eyed serpent if she decides to show herself again? What if next time she can’t be sent away? Seeing how powerful she’d been against Grandmother – it’s possible that she’s the reason my magic hasn’t shown.

I pull the sheet up to my neck and screw my eyes shut. Terra is shuffling around my bedroom, so I pretend I’m still asleep. She usually hums to herself while she prepares my bath, but this morning she’s quiet. Ty, our matron, along with Nezi, our porter, have been with our household all my life. Nezi bought Terra’s indenture contract two years ago, after her father’s debtors caught up with him. Terra told me that they would’ve cut off his hands had she not agreed to work off his debt.

Before I can bury my face in a pillow, she pulls the curtains back and the full brunt of the sun blinds me. In Tamar, the sun is also called the eye of Re’Mec, but right now more colourful names cross my mind.

‘Twenty-gods,’ I curse, shielding my eyes. ‘Is it eighth morning bells already?’

Someone clears her throat and I sit bolt upright – it’s not Terra. A short, stout woman with grey cornrows stands at the foot of my bed with her fists on her hips. She purses her lips in that way that leaves no doubt that she means business.

‘Ty!’ I slip out of bed in an instant. ‘Pardon my language. I thought you were Terra.’

She stares at me and blinks twice, and I brush the wrinkles out of my nightgown and stand a little straighter. Ty never comes herself. This isn’t her domain. She does all the cooking, and Terra takes care of the rest of the chores.

She shakes her head and taps her foot, a sign that she wants me to hurry up.

My cheeks warm as I rush into the washroom where my bath is waiting. I don’t linger long. Then I slip into a fresh cotton robe that smells like home. I inhale deeper, taking it in, trying to push the tribal lands out of my mind. When I return to my room, it’s pristine. The white sheets are as smooth as stretched papyrus, the pillows stacked in a neat row. Cold stabs through my slippers as I pad across the stone floor to my vanity in search of my favourite balm.

Ty sorts through the shelves of clothes in the armoire next to the window. When she doesn’t find what she’s looking for, she crosses the room to the closet by the door. On the way, she fluffs one of the velvet pillows on the settee in the centre of the room. She’s not the most cheerful person, but today she’s more somber than usual. It isn’t one of her bad days, but definitely not one of her good days either.

While she’s searching through my clothes, I go to the shrine next to the bed. Dust coats my collection: my very first bone charm, the one that my father gave me at Imebyé. The Kes necklace made of crystal beads to bring good luck. Two clay dolls, which Oshhe and I made to honour two of his favourite aunts, long since passed. In the right hands, these things amplify magic and our connection to the ancestors. But in my hands, they are only trinkets. No one touches my shrine, as is the Aatiri custom, so the whole lot of it needs cleaning after weeks away. I reach for a rag, but Ty clears her throat behind me again.

‘Yes, you’re right.’ I sigh. ‘I can do that after my lessons with the scribes.’

I mean after I see Rudjek. I wrote him a letter before we reached the city and gave it to Terra to deliver. If all goes well, he’ll meet me after my lessons in our secret place by the river.

When I turn to face Ty, she holds up a flowing teal sheath. It’s breathtaking, the way the sun catches on the beads and gathers on the fine silk. Essnai and her mother gave it to me on my last birth day. Ty may not usually help with my clothes, but she should know the sheath is too formal for lessons with the scribes.

‘I don’t think that’s quite appropriate,’ I say, heading to the armoire. I dig through piles of folded clothes and pull out my sea-blue tunic and matching trousers. Ty shakes her head and lays the sheath on the bed alongside a beaded belt and jewelled slippers.

Before I can protest again, my mother sweeps into my room, her gold Ka-Priestess’s kaftan rustling in her wake. The space between us feels too small and I cringe, as if caught doing something wrong. The morning light glows against her honey-golden skin, and her amber eyes shine like rare gemstones. When Oshhe and I got back last night, Arti was at the Almighty Temple. The seers sometimes hold vigils for days, so it’s never a surprise if she’s not home. I’ve always counted myself lucky then. It’s easier to avoid her.

My mother is the definition of beauty. Her ebony hair flows down her back in loose curls, threaded through with pale crystals. She bears Tribe Mulani’s softness and curves and small stature compared to the Aatiri. I am somewhere in the middle, taller than my mother, but much shorter than my very tall cousins. Although the resemblance between us is unmistakable, next to her, I might as well be a squat mule.

She never comes to visit me here. I can’t guess the meaning of this – unless she’s talked to my father already, and she knows.

Arti peers around the room, examining its condition, before her eyes land on Ty. The two women exchange a look – one of understanding that I’ve seen shared between them many times before.

Ty has never spoken to me, nor to anyone for that matter. I’ve heard her mumbling in the kitchen when she’s alone, but she stops as soon as someone else comes near. I don’t know why she doesn’t talk. My childhood questions about it always went unanswered. No different from Grandmother hesitating to answer my questions about the green-eyed serpent.

‘You may leave us, Ty,’ Arti says, tilting her head to show respect.

When Ty is gone, Arti’s sharp amber eyes fall upon me. ‘I trust that you’re well.’

‘I am, Mother,’ I say, resisting the urge to glance away. ‘Thank you for asking.’

‘Your father told me what happened at the Blood Moon Festival.’ Her attention shifts to the altar, and she wrinkles her nose. I can’t tell if she disapproves of the mix of tribal trinkets or the dust. ‘It’s time to let go of this foolish dream of having magic. Mulani show their gifts at a very young age. If it hasn’t happened by now, it won’t happen at all.’

My mother speaks in a matter-of-fact tone that sets my teeth on edge. She might as well be talking to a stranger on the street. Her words sting in my chest and leave me speechless.

She brushes her hand across the sheath. The luminous pearl of her Ka-Priestess’s ring shimmers in the sunlight. As her hand glides over the fabric, the colour of the pearl changes from onyx to slate to cyan. ‘It’s a shame to come from two powerful bloodlines and have no magic at all. No Mulani in my family has ever been without. But there is nothing to be done about it.’

‘There’s still a chance.’ My words come out feeble and desperate.

‘What makes you think so?’ Arti says in a voice devoid of any emotion. ‘This year the Aatiri chieftain positioned you directly in Heka’s path, and he didn’t see fit to give you magic. It was a bold gesture, and commendable, but has anything changed?’

Warmth creeps up my neck at the slight. She very well knows the answer, but she wants me to say it. ‘Grandmother had a vision,’ I say, rallying my nerves. ‘A demon could be blocking my magic.’ That wasn’t exactly what Grandmother saw, but it’s the most plausible reason for my magic not showing.

‘I do wish your grandmother would stop giving you false hope,’ Arti says after a deep sigh. ‘And this talk about demons?’ She laughs. ‘That’s the stuff of old wives’ tales, Arrah. They’ve been gone for five thousand years, and if they were back, what would one want with you? A girl without magic.’

Her words are a well-honed slap to the face – yet another reminder how much of a disappointment I am to her. What can I say? How can I fight back, when she’ll have an answer for everything? I believe Grandmother, but it’s not worth arguing. There’s no winning with my mother – no convincing her of anything other than what she chooses to believe.

‘I know that magic is important to you, daughter,’ Arti says, her words softer. ‘But don’t be so obsessed that you’d do something foolish for a taste of it.’

I bite my tongue as fire spreads through my belly. She’s eyeing the bone charm on the altar now. Does my mother think I would stoop so low, that I would consider trading my years for magic? Yes, I want it, but I’m not a fool. I’m not that desperate either. My mind falls on the night of Imebyé and the woman writhing in the sand. That was her choice. There are moments in your life that leave lasting impressions. The woman’s sallow skin and rotten teeth, the way magic came to her, the way it was destroying her – every detail has stayed with me over the years.

I didn’t know at the time what she’d done, but my father explained it to me after we returned home. In his shop one day, I asked if the charlatans in the market were like the woman in the desert. The ones who looked like they had one foot in life and the other in death. He said that some tribal people without magic had learned how to trade years of their lives to possess it. Upon finding this out, I bounced on the balls of my feet with excitement, because it meant I could have magic too. Oshhe squeezed my cheeks between his big hands. ‘No magic is worth your life, Little Priestess. That is not our way.’

He stared into my eyes, his expression so serious and grave that the excitement fled as fast as it had come. ‘Promise me you’ll never do anything like that, no matter what.’ His deep voice echoed in his shop. ‘Promise me, daughter.’

‘But why, Father?’ I said, jutting out my bottom lip.

My father sighed, his patience waning. ‘When you barter your years for magic, it takes of you what it will. It does not matter the complexity of the ritual, spell, or charm. There’s no way to tell until it’s too late. Even I cannot reverse the damage that comes from such foolishness.’

Magic has a price if you’re willing to pay.

I, in fact, am not willing to pay. If I can’t have magic gifted to me, I’ll do without. I still have my pride, and that means something. I lift my chin and face Arti.

‘Is there a reason you’ve come to see me this fine morning, Mother?’ I say, my jaw set. ‘I need to get ready for my lessons.’

Arti glances up at that, her face impassive. It’s a wonder my parents ended up together. Oshhe is full of stories and laughter while my mother is sharp-tongued and efficient. I have to believe that once she was warmer, long before she became the third-most powerful person in the Kingdom.

‘Suran plans to name his youngest son his heir at the assembly today.’ Arti folds her arms behind her back and begins to pace. ‘Not that he has much choice, since the other two are an embarrassment to the so-called Omari legacy.’

I clutch the tunic against my chest as if it can protect me from the animosity in her voice. It’s no secret that the Vizier and my mother hate each other. ‘Is that so?’ I say, forcing my voice to sound bored and uninterested.

The Vizier is the right hand of the Almighty One. He governs the Kingdom. As head of the Almighty Temple, my mother is the voice of the orishas. It’s said that Re’Mec himself visits the seers on occasion – when the mood strikes – but Arti never speaks of it. Because the seers come from the tribes, she also oversees trade with the tribal lands. Relations with all other countries, such as Estheria, Yöom, and the North, fall under the Vizier’s domain.

‘Two can play Suran’s game,’ Arti says. ‘You will attend the assembly with me.’

‘But why?’ I swallow the bitter taste on my tongue. It goes without saying that I have no place or reason to be there. I’ve never dreamed of being Ka-Priestess one day. Even so, it hurts knowing that without magic I’d never even be considered.

The Almighty One hand-picks the Vizier and Ka-Priestess. The title of Vizier always falls to an Omari, close cousins of the royal family. As for the Ka-Priest or Ka-Priestess, the Almighty One chooses the most powerful of the seers. It’s a small mercy that my mother’s position isn’t a birthright, or I’d be an embarrassing end to our family legacy. ‘We will make a statement of our own,’ Arti says on her way out. ‘Be ready at half bell to ten.’

‘But …’ I protest.

My mother pauses in the doorway with her back to me. ‘Did you say something, Arrah?’

What’s one more slight to add to a treasure trove of them? ‘No, Mother.’

Once a month, the leaders of the Kingdom meet to debate taxes and tariffs and new decrees. The Almighty One and his two sons, Crown Prince Darnek and his younger brother, Tyrek, the Vizier and his four guildmasters, and my mother with the four other seers from the Temple. When I go to the assembly with Essnai and Sukar, it’s fun, but I dread attending with my mother.

With Arti gone, I slip into the sheath, admiring the splash of bright beads that run from the neckline to the hem. It’s fitted through the hips, flaring just below my knees. I loop the belt low around my waist and toe on the sandals. Although it’s quite pretty, I prefer my trousers. They have pockets.

While I’m adjusting the sheath in the mirror, Terra strolls into my room with a jewelled box tucked under her arm. She smiles, her freckles standing out against her tan skin. She looks regal with her golden hair done up in braids. It’s nice to have someone my age in the villa. There’s never a dull moment with her. She collects gossip like some people collect figurines.

‘I bet Ty gave you a scare,’ Terra says, her voice bright and musical.

‘You could’ve warned me,’ I grumble. ‘She was in a mood this morning.’

At that, Terra descends upon me with a little too much gleam in her eyes, like I’m a plaything to mould to her wishes. She massages oil into my scalp before twisting my braids into an elaborate crown with strings of pearls woven between the strands. While I can’t deny it’s beautiful, it’s also very heavy. Terra spends what feels like forever powdering my face in shades of golds and silvers. When she’s done, she grins at her handiwork and rushes me outside. Nezi has already opened the gate, and the litter waits in front of it. Eight men stand with their eyes downcast, the sun glistening off their brown skin.

The red curtains are half-drawn, and my mother waits inside. I swallow hard and join her. The compartment is cool and smells of wood polish laced with her sweet perfume. We sit facing each other, but Arti doesn’t see me. Her eyes are vacant as she stares into a corner. She’s so lost in thought that she doesn’t stir when Nezi commands the labourers to proceed.

‘Get going now,’ our porter yells, ‘and take care with them.’ There’s a subtle ‘or else’ in Nezi’s voice, a warning. I wouldn’t put it past her, if an accident were to befall us, to personally seek retribution.

The men lift on three, and we’re on our way. Our villa sits on the north edge of the district, among other fine estates owned by families of import in Tamar. I steal glimpses of the city between the curtains, soaking in the bright colours. We travel down back roads to avoid the crowds of the West Market. Most people will go about their regular business today. It’s only those with influence that attend the assembly. My father never comes, citing his allergy to politics.

After a long silence between us, Arti says, voice low and calculating, ‘When we arrive, follow my lead. Do not speak, do not smile, do not sit until after I’ve taken my place on the first tier. Do you understand?’

I startle at the sudden fire in her words.

‘Yes,’ I say, knitting my fingers together.

Long before we reach the coliseum, we hear the roar of the crowd. Towering orisha statues stand in a row guarding the most prominent families of the city. Soon the crowd is as thick as bees, as scholars, scribes, and heads of families clamber into the coliseum. The building is a honeycomb-shaped mammoth with doors large enough to accommodate giants. When people see our litter, they slink to the side, the labourers never slowing.

Tenth morning bells strike when we are mere moments from entering the dome, which means we’re late. There’s no mistaking that my mother’s up to something.

She’s got a scheme brewing in her eyes.




CHAPTER 5 (#ulink_54eec290-e0e3-59aa-90bc-b45125946a4d)


A gong echoes in the West Market, marking the start of the assembly. If my mother’s even a bit mad about being late, she hides it well. The look of disinterest never slips from her face.

The crowd on the streets hushes and the Vizier’s words fill the silence.

‘You honour us with your presence, Almighty One, Crown Prince Darnek, and Second Son Tyrek.’ His voice blasts in the West Market. ‘May your wisdom guide our hearts and minds. May our orisha lords look upon the Kingdom favourably for as long as your great family reigns.’

The Vizier pauses a heartbeat. ‘If the public will allow me a small indulgence, I would like my son, Rudjek Omari, to join me on the first tier.’

My stomach sinks. I hope Rudjek isn’t as caught off guard as I was this morning. In the new silence, I imagine him weaving through people and climbing the steps to reach his father.

I hold my breath as we draw closer to the coliseum. I expect the labourers to stop at the giant doors, but they rush us straight into the heart of the assembly. The crowd gasps, drowning out the Vizier’s next words. When the labourers set the litter down, Arti gives me a meaningful glance. Follow my lead, or else.

As she descends from the litter, her head held high, triumph flashes in her amber eyes. The pieces fall into place. She wanted to be late so that she could interrupt the Vizier as he introduced Rudjek as his heir.

The voices fall silent upon seeing the Ka-Priestess. I follow my mother, resisting the urge to shrink beneath hundreds of stares. The Vizier stands on the first tier of the raised platform, shiny shotels sheathed on either side of his waist. His swords look like they belong in a museum, not like they’ve ever seen a day of battle.

My eyes find Rudjek, and when his dark gaze meets mine, my stomach flutters. I hold back a smile. He stands beside his father, clad in a purple elara to the Vizier’s white and gold. The handles of his half-moon swords are dull and well-worn. His face is angular and lean, and recently met with a sharp razor. There’s a shadow of a bruise under his right eye, no doubt from a fight in the arena. I should’ve known he couldn’t stay out of trouble while I was gone.

He doesn’t have his father’s rich brown skin, but they share the same lush eyebrows and chiselled jawline. His colouring is between his father’s shade and his Northern mother’s paler, diaphanous skin. His hair is a mess of tangled black curls. I soak up everything about his face, as if we haven’t seen each other in ages when it’s been mere weeks.

He and his father both wear a craven-bone crest pinned to their collar, a mark of their family’s importance. It signals their rank above all others in the Kingdom, except for the royal family. While the Omaris’ crest is a lion’s head, the royal family’s – the Sukkaras’ – ram is a symbol of their blood connection to the sun orisha, Re’Mec. There are others in the audience with crests that show their rank or position. And many more royal cousins proudly displaying their crests too.

‘Don’t let me interrupt,’ Arti says, her sweet voice echoing in the coliseum. Behind us the labourers take away the empty litter with practised stealth. ‘By all means continue.’

‘Ka-Priestess,’ the Vizier spits out her title. ‘I’m glad you were gracious enough to join us. Although the assembly starts at tenth morning bells, in case you’ve forgotten.’

Arti looks up to the second tier, which sits high above the first. The Almighty One and his sons lounge in velvety thrones with an attendant at each of their sides.

‘My apologies, Almighty One, for my tardiness,’ Arti says, casting her glance to the floor. ‘I am late for reasons that will become apparent during the assembly.’

The Almighty One leans forward on his throne, his eyes combing the length of her body, then says, ‘Begin.’

While the Vizier’s attention is on the Almighty One, Rudjek seizes his opportunity. He’s halfway down the stairs before his father even notices. He returns to his empty seat, while I’m stuck counting down the moments until I can do the same.

The crowd perches on benches facing each other that stretch up around the curved rotunda. Some sit so high that shadows shroud their faces. There’s two thousand of the most influential people in Tamar here. People with an interest in the outcome of political decisions. They’re as polished as the quarry stone that makes up the round building. And they glow too, for the mosaic ceiling casts a prism of colours upon them. My sheath pales in comparison to the beaded kabas and jewelled headwraps worn by some of the women. Not to be outdone, the men dress in fancy agbadas, elaras, or the latest imported fashion.

The platform where the assembly meets is a two-tiered crescent moon. On the right of the first tier is a curved table and high-backed chairs for the Vizier and his four guildmasters. On the left, Arti and her seers sit in an identical arrangement. A spiral staircase leads up to the second tier. It’s more for show than anything else. There’s a pulley concealed behind a curtain that lifts each of the royals up to their private booth.

When Arti finally takes her place, I look for a seat. Sukar waves to get my attention. He and Essnai are sitting across from Rudjek, on the opposite side of the coliseum. Two blue-robed scribes look put out when I squeeze between my friends, forcing them to move over.

‘Uncle said the Ka-Priestess was up to something,’ Sukar whispers, a gleam of excitement in his eyes. ‘I didn’t think it was this. Interrupting the Vizier in his moment of glory … well played.’

‘Bring forth the first order of business.’ The Vizier barks the command to the courtier standing at the edge of the first tier. The man steps forward and clears his throat as he unties a scroll that reaches to his knees. He begins reading a summary of today’s agenda. Taxes, tithes, plans for a new public building, and another million mundane things that buzz in my ears. I’m starting to think that like my father, I’m allergic to politics.

‘Does he have to stare like that?’ Sukar whispers. ‘He looks like a lost puppy.’

I don’t ask who. I know who. Instead of listening to his father and my mother bickering, Rudjek is fanning himself with my letter. There’s an expertly drawn donkey on the front – he knows the reason why. He grins at me and starts flourishing his hand in bolder strokes. I have a sudden urge to poke my tongue out at him but think better of it.

High above us, the Almighty One carries on a hushed conversation with Crown Prince Darnek. The only royal who seems interested in the proceedings is Second Son Tyrek. He’s the same age as me, two years younger than his brother. He leans forward on his throne and follows the debate. But the Almighty One is never called upon to vote unless there is a tie, and today there are none.

I spend the entire assembly counting down the time to freedom. After two solid hours of debating and voting, the Vizier turns to the audience. ‘Does the public have any concerns to bring forth today?’

In the few times I’ve been in attendance, no one in the audience has brought an issue for debate. People seem content to sit and listen to the squabbles between the Guild and the Temple instead. I sit up straight, itching for him to adjourn the assembly. From the bored looks around me, I’m not the only one.

‘With no further concerns,’ the Vizier says, ‘I hereby close—’

‘I’d like to raise a concern that we have overlooked,’ Arti says from her perch among the seers. Her kaftan shines the richest gold while the other seers’ kaftans are pale yellow. The striking contrast leaves no doubt that she, and she alone, is the voice of the Almighty Temple. Much the same as Rudjek’s father in his pristine white and gold elara. In all the Kingdom, only the Vizier wears white silks. His guildmasters wear a variety of colours. The Master of Arms, Rudjek’s aunt. The Master of Scribes, the Master of Scholars, the Master of Labourers. Half of whom look utterly disinterested in the proceedings.

‘By all means, speak,’ the Vizier says. ‘We hope it’s not to ask for yet another increase in tithes for the Temple. Please have mercy on our pocketbooks.’

Nervous laughter rumbles through the coliseum, and people cast curious glances at each other. Even the guildmasters crack smiles.

The seers do not. Each of them wears a grim expression.

‘There is a matter of grave importance.’ Arti rises from her chair. Her face is even grimmer than the other seers’, and my pulse quickens. Nothing ever gets under my mother’s skin. If she’s worried, then it must be something bad. The room quietens as she glides to the centre of the tier, and the Vizier huffs before yielding the floor to her. He whisks back to his seat, irritation etched on his face. ‘It pains me to say that a number of children have disappeared under the City Guard’ watch.’ Arti pauses, her voice breaking. ‘Some from the orphanage, some not.’

The audience turns to one another in collective whispers. I glance at Sukar, who shakes his head, and then at Essnai, who mouths, her voice low, ‘Did you know about this?’

‘No,’ I say under my breath. I’m as shocked as everyone else, and don’t understand why my mother waited this long to share such important news. It should’ve been first on the agenda.

‘I’ve heard of no such report,’ the Vizier says, his brows creasing into a deep frown.

‘While praying to the orishas on our recent vigil,’ Arti says, addressing the audience, ‘I saw something very disturbing. When I commune with the orishas, my ka wanders our great city, and our lords reveal things to me in strange ways.’

I glance up at the Almighty One’s booth again. Second Son Tyrek leans over to get his father’s attention, but the Almighty One waves him off. He’s busy laughing at something Crown Prince Darnek just whispered in his other ear.

‘There’s a vile person stalking the city and stealing children in the night,’ Arti says, her voice quiet. ‘A person I can only glimpse but not see clearly, because something protects them against my sight.’

The Vizier’s elara ruffles as he whirls around to face the Master of Arms, his twin sister, who sits to his right. ‘Is there any truth to this news?’

General Solar and the Vizier share the same sharp features and dark eyes. She leads the military forces of the Kingdom: the gendars, the guardsmen, and the shotani.

‘I received a report this morning.’ General Solar’s voice is as cold as her brother’s. ‘I am confident that the head of the City Guards will discover and arrest the culprit with speed.’

‘I wish I shared your confidence,’ Arti says, ‘but this is no ordinary child snatcher, to hide from our magic.’

Barasa, the Zu seer, adds, ‘It must be the work of anti-magic.’

The audience gasps, and my eyes land on the crest on the Vizier’s elara. Anti-magic comes from craven bones. No one possesses it outside of the Omaris and the royal family. It isn’t something you can buy. No one has seen a craven in centuries. Not since they slaughtered a legion of the Kingdom’s army in one night.

It isn’t hard to figure out what Arti and the seers are insinuating. Everyone knows the story of the Vizier’s – and Rudjek’s – ancestor who fought the cravens in the Aloo Valley. He’d slain a craven and later made trinkets of its bone to protect against the influence of magic. The bone could be the only thing to hide its wearer from the seers.

The Almighty One leans forward, his shaved head glistening with a dusting of gold. ‘Are you accusing the Omaris?’

I notice how he doesn’t include his family – the Sukkaras.

‘That is a bold accusation,’ Arti says, neither confirming nor denying it. ‘I’m only saying that the fiend must be wearing craven bone. That much I know from my vision.’ She casts a sidelong glance in the Vizier’s general direction. ‘No one would question the Omaris’ good name … but have we forgotten the incident in the market so soon?’

As Arti lets her words settle, everyone in the coliseum holds their breath. She means after the Rite of Passage. Re’Mec mandated the Rite to remind us of the orishas’ sacrifice to save mortal kind. A hundred and twenty of them fell in their struggle to stop the Demon King and his insatiable thirst for souls. There’s script on the Temple walls with instructions for the Rite, but there’s no telling when Re’Mec will demand another one. Until the last Rite of Passage, there hadn’t been one in twenty years.

For the Rite, the seers designed deadly obstacles for volunteers to undergo to test their mental and physical fortitude. Last time, they faced a hostile desert with nothing but the clothes on their backs. Looking to make their mark, the Vizier’s older sons, Uran and Jemi, volunteered together. In the end, the Rite broke their minds just as it had done to so many before them.

The last Rite was five years ago – the only one in my lifetime. Fewer than a third of those who attempted it came back. Very few returned whole.

I wasn’t in the market the day Jemi killed a merchant. Witnesses say he became enraged over a perceived slight. He was haggling with an Estherian over the price of a gossamer veil he wanted to buy for his mother. The argument went too far, and he cut the merchant’s throat. After that, the Vizier sent him and his squadron on an assignment far from the Kingdom. He’s been there ever since. The Vizier made his other son, Uran, an ambassador to the North. Rudjek says that he spends most of his time locked away in his rooms, refusing to see anyone, even his wife. He flies into sudden rages, and his attendants must restrain him.

A chill crawls down my back at how blank Rudjek’s face has gone. I ache to go to him, but I know that would only make matters worse. We’ve come this far without our parents guessing how close we are.

‘Where are your sons, Vizier?’ Arti says, her voice bright. ‘I’m sure they’d want to clear their names.’

My mother has wielded the news of the kidnappings at the assembly to strike at the Vizier, and doesn’t care who else she’ll hurt. She never does. Even so, the question of the missing children hits a nerve. From the whispers in the coliseum, I’m not alone in wondering who would do something so vile. My gaze finds Rudjek again, and my stomach sinks when he refuses to look at me.




CHAPTER 6 (#ulink_b9b37766-85e2-5015-9137-509a808e68c0)


According to my father, everyone has a little magic in them – only our family has more than most. He says that to the patrons who come to his shop to make them feel special. He knows it’s not true, but people need something to believe. The crowd filing out of the coliseum certainly has no magic, and it would seem, no heart or conscience either.

They talk about the missing children like they’re the latest scandal, and it annoys me no end. To attend the assembly you must have property and standing. No one here will worry about their children, for none are without attendants day or night. I push through the throng of people, losing a few beads from my sheath along the way. There are so many of us that the grey-washed West Market feels alive for once. Alive and teeming with petty gossip.

‘She’d better watch herself, lest she ends up like the former Ka-Priest,’ a man leans towards his friend to say. He’s loud enough that some people mumble their soft agreements. Others rally to my mother’s defence.

I only glare at him. It isn’t the first time someone has flung that particular threat at my mother. It still stings. I don’t like that Arti and the Vizier are always bickering. Sometimes it turns nasty. That said, she’s done good for the Kingdom. When the Vizier joked about raising tithes again, he left out why the Temple asks for money. My mother and the seers run all public services in the Kingdom. Free education for those who can’t afford private scribes, meals, shelter for orphans. Programmes that my mother created when she became Ka-Priestess.

The former Ka-Priest, Ren Eké was before my time, but people still sing his praises. He was beloved for his wise and quiet nature, and he and the Vizier got along well. People say there was better collaboration between the Guild and Temple back then. As an Eké, he bore the honoured position in Tribe Litho that marked him as the head of his extended family. Yet, one foggy morning, a fisherman found the Ka-Priest impaled on a hook in the bay. Naked, his body mutilated.

So even if my mother and I don’t always see eye to eye, I worry about her. It’s no small feat to kill any public figure, but to attack a witchdoctor would be even harder. Still, his death remains as mysterious as this child snatcher on the loose, one who can hide from magic.

Witchdoctors, real witchdoctors, can mend a broken bone with a word or ward off a storm with a ritual. Powerful ones like Grandmother can see across time. Arti can too, even if she doesn’t bear the title witchdoctor since leaving the tribal lands. My father can reverse ageing and extend a person’s life beyond their natural years. I’ve always thought my family safe because of their magic, but now I’m not so sure.

A shiver creeps across my shoulders as I duck down alleyways chock-full of bins of rotting food to avoid the crowd. Grandmother had seen a green-eyed serpent while reading the bones and believed it to be a demon. Now Arti had only got a glimpse of the child snatcher. She and the seers think it’s the work of anti-magic. What if it’s something else?

A demon and missing children. It doesn’t seem to make sense, but the timing is too close, the circumstances too strange. Why would a demon be in a vision about me? I’m nothing special. Yet, as impossible as it sounds, even I could feel the wrongness of the magic in Grandmother’s tent. It was nothing like the feather touch of tribal magic. The magic had been invasive and curious, hostile. The situation with the children is far worse. The biggest question is why; what reason would anyone have to take children?

I slip out of the alley and into a different crowd in the East Market – my nerves on edge. I keep remembering the way Rudjek refused to look at me after my mother all but accused one of his brothers of being the child snatcher. If he doesn’t want to see me, I can’t blame him. Not after this morning. As I brace myself for the possibility that he won’t come, dread sinks in my chest. I miss our routine – I miss him.

I pass people haggling over day-old bread, overripened fruits, cured meat, and charms. Donkeys laden with sacks of grain kick up a fury of red sand. The market writhes like the Serpent River after a rainstorm, and reeks of sweaty feet and dung.

As everyone goes about their business, hard faces stare at me. Soft faces. Kind faces. Faces of all colours. Faces leathered from too much sun. Faces so structured they look carved from stone. Jovial, round faces. The people in Tamar come from everywhere – across deserts, across seas, across mountains. The city is home to all who embrace it. Most noticeably so in the East Market, which is why I love coming here.

There’s comfort in knowing that, like me, no one in this crowd quite fits. It always fascinates me how a person can at once blend in and stand out here. That would be the greatest advantage for the child snatcher, becoming invisible. My pulse throbs in my ears as I glance around again – seeing the market with new eyes.

Barefoot boys in tattered trousers and girls in dirty shifts duck through the crowds. Their small hands are quick as they slide them into pockets, lifting a money pouch here, a bracelet there. When a woman catches a little boy trying to steal her armlet, an unseen child on a rooftop strikes her with a pebble. Distracted and rubbing her head, the woman lets the little thief slip away with his prize. I don’t condone what the orphans do in the market, but I don’t judge them for it either. City life is hard for those who don’t come from a family of status. Unlike in the tribal lands, where magic is all that matters, money and influence rule here.

The sun beats down on my back as I cross a street dense with food merchants. A plume of smoke from their firepits chokes the air and waters my eyes, but it smells wonderful. Roasting chestnuts, spicy stews, plantains fried in peanut oil. My stomach growls a reminder that I haven’t eaten today. But I can’t stop for food; I’m too focused on getting to the Serpent River to see Rudjek, too anxious that he won’t be there.

He’d slipped out of the assembly before his father adjourned the proceedings. I’d watched as he’d tried to hide his anguish behind a blank, bored stare, but his is a mask that I can see straight through. I know him too well. My mother had dealt him a nasty wound. He’d already hated the way his father treated his brothers after the Rite and blamed himself for not being in the market that day to calm Jemi down.

I startle at a faint rustling at my side and catch one of the little thieves trying to lift my bracelet. I grab his arm – not too tight but firm enough to stop him from wiggling his way loose. The boy looks up at me with sad eyes, his lips trembling. Little con artist.

Before he drops a tear, someone slaps the back of his head. ‘Scat, or I’ll call the Guard.’

‘Ouch,’ the boy protests, and whirls around, holding his head. ‘You’re one to talk, Kofi!’

The would-be thief must be new to the market – I’ve never seen him before. From the hidden pocket under my belt, I dig out a silver coin and pass it to him. ‘You could’ve asked first, you know?’

He smiles sheepishly. ‘Next time I will.’

When the boy runs off, Kofi steps into his place. At twelve, he isn’t much older than the would-be thief. Fish scales cover the apron he’s wearing, and he smells fresh from the docks, which is to say like rotting entrails. His eyes go wide as he takes in what I’m wearing. ‘Why are you dressed like that?’ he asks me.

I purse my lips and glare at him, even though he’s right, of course: my sheath is impractical and too conspicuous. Wearing something like this in the East Market proclaims me an easy mark to any thief. At least my family doesn’t wear a crest like Rudjek’s. ‘The better question is, why do you have a silver coin behind your ear?’ I retort.

He grins as he reaches for one ear and finds nothing.

‘The other ear.’ I tap my foot.

His hand moves quicker this time as if the money will disappear in the blink of an eye. When he retrieves the silver coin, he tucks it inside his apron, a blush of joy warming his tan skin. I’ve snuck him enough coins lately that he no longer protests that he must work to earn its value. Our family has more money than we need, and like Oshhe always says, a coin hoarded is a blessing missed.

Kofi’s father is among the many fish merchants in the market. I came across their booth a year ago, drawn to where Kofi stood on top of a crate, selling outlandish tales to a crowd. ‘Desperate to flee a river of ice,’ he said, ‘the fish swam all the way from the North.’ When I shouted to him that this was unlikely, he changed his story, quick as a whip. ‘You’re right! This batch swam from the Great Sea seeking refuge from a giant serpent. Only they didn’t know that we eat fish too!’

Days after, I saw him with a woman who I later learned was his father’s new wife. She grabbed Kofi by his shoulders, her teeth gritted. ‘You’re so useless, boy,’ she spat. ‘Can’t you do anything right?’ Without provocation, she slapped him. The strike cut through me. I stepped in to stop her, but the next day Kofi came to the market covered in welts.

When I saw the woman again, I introduced myself as the Ka-Priestess’s daughter. I told her if any more harm came to Kofi, there would be serious consequences. That was the first time I relied upon my mother’s position to gain an advantage. It worked: Kofi’s stepmother stopped hitting him after that. Instead of beatings, she now ignores him. I know what that feels like, so I decided to be his pretend-sister from that moment on.

‘Did you hear about the giant sea turtle that rolled in with the tide this morning?’ Kofi starts to say, but my attention lands on Rudjek. He’s wading through the thicket of people, making a direct line towards me. The effect he has on the market is immediate. Girls flash him smiles and some try to catch his eye by stepping into his path. People stare at the craven-bone crest pinned to his collar.

Whenever anyone from a family of status comes to the East Market, there’s always a ruckus. But he loves the market as much as I do: it’s our second-favourite place to meet, aside from our secret spot by the river.

Merchants clamour for his attention, but Rudjek’s gaze doesn’t leave my face. He sidesteps a man selling the tiny bells favoured by followers of Oma, the god of dreams. He’s grinning from ear to ear, his pale brown skin flushed. I let out a breath and the tension in my belly eases.

‘This morning was interesting,’ he says, interrupting Kofi. Up close, the shadow of purple bruising on his right cheek matches his fancy silk elara. His obsidian eyes sparkle in the sun beneath long dark lashes.

I shift onto my heels. ‘Are you okay?’

Rudjek waves off the question, though his body tenses. ‘You missed my glorious match yesterday. I came in second.’ He glances to his right, where his attendant and best friend, Majka, stands clad in a red gendar uniform. I didn’t notice him until now. ‘Only because he cheated.’

‘By “cheated” I think you mean “wiped the arena with your ugly face,”’ Majka says. He presses two fingers to his forehead and flourishes a slight bow to me in the way of my father’s tribe. The perfect Tamaran diplomat’s son. More so than Rudjek, Majka has the look of a typical high-bred Tamaran – rich brown skin, hair as thick and black as night, and deep-set dark eyes. I return the greeting with a smile.

Kira – to Rudjek’s left – clears her throat. She’s also clothed in a red uniform, a single black braid across her shoulder, her face as pale as a Northern winter. Unlike Majka and Rudjek with their double shotels, she has a dozen daggers strapped to her body. A merchant tries to shove a crossbow into her hands and another one waves tobachi knives to get her attention.

Families of import rarely set foot in either of the markets, not if they have attendants to send in their stead. Some families either can’t afford attendants, or choose not to have them. We have Nezi, Ty, and Terra, but to my relief, none with the sole purpose of following me around everywhere. Rudjek isn’t so lucky.

‘I see you’re enjoying your new post, Kira,’ I say as she shoos off the merchants.

Her face contorts into a frown. ‘I wouldn’t call guarding him a real post.’

Rudjek grabs his chest in mock offence, his eyes wide. ‘You wound me.’

I shake my head, still not used to Majka and Kira in their new gendar roles. At seventeen, they’re only a few months older than us, but old enough to begin careers. Majka’s mother is a commando under the Master of Arms, Rudjek’s aunt; his father is the Kingdom’s ambassador to Estheria. Kira’s father is the Master of Scribes. Both of them grew up competing in the arena with Rudjek for fun. After they joined the gendars, he petitioned to have them replace his old attendants. It’s a high honour to serve the royal family and their closest cousins, the Omaris, and Kira and Majka hadn’t earned the rank to be considered. But Rudjek’s father agreed, if only to strengthen political alliances with their respective families.

‘Hey, I was talking to her first,’ Kofi says, crossing his arms. ‘Wait your turn.’

Rudjek laughs and pats Kofi’s head. ‘Hello to you too.’

I cast an apologetic glance at Kofi. ‘I’ll stop by to see you tomorrow, I promise.’

Kofi pokes his tongue out at Rudjek before darting off into the crowd.

‘That little runt.’ Rudjek feigns indignation. ‘I have half a mind …’

‘Shall we go?’ I ask.

Without waiting for an answer, I head for our spot along the river, taking one route while they take another. It wouldn’t be so secret if four people marched straight to it. Rudjek has had many attendants over the years, and he’s bribed them to keep our secret. When coins haven’t worked, he’s turned to subtle and sometimes not-so-subtle persuasions. He really can be charming when he wants. Not that I’d tell him, lest it go to his head.

As I push through the crowds, an ice-cold chill runs down my back. Familiars slink across the market like a pack of rabid cats ready to pounce. No longer than my arm, their shadowy bodies are shapeless and ever changing, as fluid as a breeze. As they flood the streets, their presence sucks the warmth from me. I take a deep breath, watching as dozens of them swarm around a young girl. They crawl across her face and cling to her limbs, and she’s none the wiser.

A few others in the market see them – the ones with tribal blood. Their faces have gone stark and they whisper to each other. But most people don’t see the Familiars at all.

One or two Familiars are a nuisance, with the way they slither over everything, but a horde means only one thing: something bad is coming. Thinking of the missing children, I realize that the bad thing is already here.

In a daze, I cut through the mud-brick houses on the bank of the Serpent River and travel upstream from the docks. There are no Familiars here, but cold gnaws at my bones. The tribes believe that Familiars are the relics of a people destroyed by the demons long ago. In the demons’ lust for kas, they ravaged a whole realm before Koré and Re’Mec, the Twin Kings, waged war to stop them. Familiars are the only things left of that time. Restless ghosts with no souls, seeking what they cannot have again – life.

When I reach our well-worn spot amidst the tall reeds, I see Majka and Kira standing guard on the riverbank – far enough away to give us privacy. Rudjek sits on a yellow blanket spread across the grass. ‘Father’s putting on a big fight to celebrate the end of the blood moon,’ he says after a yawn. ‘You must come. I’m undefeated in the swords competition three years straight. I’m only the best swordsman in Tamar. Well, outside of the gendars, I suppose.’

‘I don’t think that’s a good idea after this morning,’ I say, my throat parched.

His eyes, darker than the hour of ösana, widen in question. With his full attention on me, the space feels smaller, the air warmer. ‘What’s wrong, Arrah?’

His voice cracks when he says my name and his boasting fades away. As I sit beside him, his scent of lilac and wood smoke sends a tinge of heat up my neck. I should say something to distract him or pretend that I don’t like the way my name rolls off his tongue, but I don’t. Not immediately. I let this strange, wonderful thing linger between us. He’s my best friend, and insufferable half the time. But lately I imagine something else – I imagine something more.

Guilt settles in like an old friend, and I glance away. Even if our parents didn’t hate each other, a wrongness edges into the back of my mind. Yes, I want more, but I don’t want to ruin what we have now if it goes wrong. One moment I’m on the verge of confessing to him and the next I bury my feelings under a rock.

‘Nothing,’ I say quickly, before our conversation veers off course. So many thoughts tangle in my head. The Familiars, the child snatcher, the green-eyed serpent. On the surface they’re unrelated, but together they remind me of moves in a game of jackals and hounds. A game built upon strategy, evasion, and misdirection. I could be drawing connections where none exist, but I don’t believe in coincidences. I shake my head and smile at him. ‘Why the fancy blanket today?’

I smooth my hand across the quilt, feeling the intricate patterns of the stitches. He knows me so well that he doesn’t protest when I change the subject.

‘I didn’t want you to ruin your fancy dress on the grass.’ He rearranges his scabbards, which lie next to him on the ground. ‘It’s very pretty.’

‘Thank you,’ I say, staring at the boats ambling down the river. It’s so wide that the water seems to stretch on for ever.

After a long and awkward pause, we both try to speak at the same time. We laugh and some of the tension eases. ‘You go first,’ I say.

‘About this morning,’ he says, his voice catching in his throat. ‘My brothers would never do something so vile. Jemi and Uran haven’t been themselves since the Rite of Passage, but my father … my father keeps them in check. He has a gendar who sends regular reports on Jemi’s squadron, and Uran is never without his attendants. When I say never, I mean never.’

I reach out for the family crest affixed to his collar, but I stop myself. ‘May I?’

Rudjek scratches his head, looking sheepish. ‘Of course.’

I run my fingers across the smooth craven bone carved into the shape of a lion’s head. It’s cold even in the heart of a much-too-warm day. Had I any magic, it would repel me. But nothing happens. Its yielding touch is a reminder that I should listen to my mother. Maybe it’s time to give up my dream.

‘What does it feel like when someone with magic is near you?’ I’ve never asked before, avoiding anything that could lead back to my lack of magic. What would it be like if I had magic and we were close … closer than we are now? That’s the true question burning on my lips.

Rudjek shrugs. ‘I don’t know … It vibrates a little if the magic is directed at me; otherwise, I don’t feel anything.’

I move from the crest on his elara to the pendant that hangs around his neck. My fingers brush his throat and we both tense. He leans a little closer to me, his voice dropping to a whisper. ‘I missed you.’

Majka clears his throat and we jump apart. ‘Am I interrupting anything?’

‘No!’ we both yell in unison.

‘Nothing at all,’ I add, piqued.

‘Of course not.’ Rudjek frowns at him. ‘What do you want?’

Majka glances over his shoulder at Kira, who is still on watch. ‘I am to remind you that your father expects you at the council meeting at fourth afternoon bells.’

Rudjek grimaces at his trousers legs, dusty from the market. ‘Give us a moment, will you!’

Majka nods with a crooked grin and pads off to where Kira is waiting.

‘I’m sorry, I do have to go.’ Rudjek sighs. ‘Father will be in a mood after this morning.’

‘It’s true, then,’ I say, my throat dry again. ‘He’s going to name you his heir?’

Rudjek winces and looks away. ‘It is. I … don’t know how I feel about it yet. I’m the youngest. I never thought the responsibility would fall to me. My father’s expectations – well, everyone’s expectations – of me have changed.’

I don’t want to think about what this will mean for our friendship. If he – no, when he becomes Vizier one day, he won’t be able to shun his duties to sneak off to meet me by the river.

‘What about the gendars? All you’ve ever talked about is joining their ranks.’ I regret my question when he glances longingly at his shotels. ‘How will you survive if you can’t fool around in the arena all day?’ I add to cheer him up.

‘I’ll make do.’ Then under his breath, he says, ‘I can be quite crafty.’

I pick at the beads on my sheath. ‘You can’t turn it down, can you?’

‘No.’ He scoops up a rock and flings it into the river. ‘My mother sent a message to her childhood matron in Delene asking her to come teach me proper etiquette.’ He forces a humourless laugh, sombre like both our moods. ‘What do the Aatiri say? “A man’s character lies not in his fine clothes, but in the purity of his soul.”’

‘The purity of his ka,’ I correct him.

‘I’m sorry,’ Rudjek says with a shy smile. ‘Here I am rambling on and on, and I haven’t asked you about the tribal lands. How did things go?’

I groan. ‘Not well.’

Rudjek arches an eyebrow. ‘You want to talk about it?’

‘Another time.’ I’m not ready to tell him about the Blood Moon Festival and Grandmother’s vision. It’s something I’m still trying to wrap my mind around, and he’ll only worry. I’ve done enough of that on my own.

‘One more thing before I go.’ Rudjek rubs the back of his neck. ‘Mother sent an invitation to my Coming of Age Ceremony to your father’s shop. I thought if your mother got her hands on it, that would be the end of it. But … you’re coming, right?’

I wrinkle my nose, reminding him what I think about his Coming of Age Ceremony – hence the donkey on my letter to him. Before I can answer, he adds, rushing his words, ‘True, it’s a bit archaic, but …’

‘You mean with the half-naked dancers?’ I cross my arms. ‘It’s a silly tradition.’

‘Pretty please.’ He bats his lashes at me and I can’t help but laugh.

It isn’t that our parents don’t know we’re friends. There’s only so many of the scholar, “district’s ceremonies one can go to, and not know everyone your age. I’ve seen Rudjek compete in the arena countless times. This should be no different, yet I hesitate to say yes.

‘I’ll think about it,’ I say, but I know what Arti’s answer will be if I ask her.

I utter a goodbye as Majka and Kira drag him off. Staring at the river again, I can’t stop thinking about the Familiars swarming the East Market. Enough people can see them that the scribes have come up with an official explanation. They call them harmless, wayward shadows, but I’ve never believed that. Even without real magic, I can’t deny the signs.

Wherever the Familiars go, death soon follows.




CHAPTER 7 (#ulink_f93714b9-152a-5471-acf2-ae7cd0c454b0)


After another restless night I crawl out of bed before dawn. So many dreams spin in my head. One about a real green-eyed serpent slithering through the East Market. No bigger than a river snake, it moved through the throng of shuffling feet with ease. In another, the child snatcher stalked the tribal lands with a string of children bound by rope in trailing in their wake. Then I saw Rudjek standing on the edge of a forest as dark as night, with the eye of Re’Mec at his back. Some connection between the three had been clear in the dreams, but now sleep fog clouds my mind.

If I hurry I won’t miss my father before he leaves for his shop. I slip into the sea-blue tunic and trousers I wanted to wear yesterday and carry my sandals to not wake the others. Terra will be put out when she finds me gone at eighth morning bells.

The sun peeks over the horizon as I pad down the long hallway. Our villa curves around a courtyard where my father grows herbs for his blood medicines. My parents’ twin rooms are at the opposite end of the villa. Ty and Nezi have their own rooms, and Terra’s is next to mine.

Mosaic figurines dance along the wall, twisting, twirling, and leaping to keep pace with me. The magic is Mulani, one among many traditions of my mother’s tribe. From the dancers to the white curtains to the silk pillows in the salon, Mulani staples decorate our home. Even if Arti never visits the tribal lands, she must miss something about her life there, to keep these small mementos. I pause to stare at one of the dancers, and he stops too. When I was little, I used to press my hand against the wall to feel the hum of magic. Arti tried to teach me how to make the dancers move, but I couldn’t. She knew what it meant even then. Years later, the unreadable look on my mother’s face in that moment still haunts me.

Oshhe squats over the roots of a kenkiliba bush in the courtyard, running his fingers through the soil. ‘You’re up early, Little Priestess,’ he says, his back to me. ‘Can’t sleep?’

After I inhale a deep breath, I say, ‘I have a lot on my mind.’

‘Help me collect herbs.’ He offers up a pair of shears. ‘It will put your mind at ease.’

My father cuts leaves from the bush while I settle in front of a thicket of tangled matay vines. I snip at the small red buds, careful not to prick my fingers on their thorns. He doesn’t press me to talk; instead he quietly fills a small sachet with leaves. The courtyard is his sanctuary. Nezi manages the gardens surrounding the villa, but my father cares for his medicinals.

‘I received an invitation at my shop yesterday – one I know you were expecting.’ Oshhe moves on from the kenkiliba bush and begins collecting seeds from a neem tree. ‘You have my blessing to attend, but we’ll need to convince your mother.’

I do want to go to Rudjek’s ceremony, but with all the things that kept me up last night, it’s the least of my concerns. ‘What she did yesterday was awful.’

My father’s face pinches. He says he wants nothing to do with politics, so it’s a subject rarely discussed in our household. I figured out long ago that it’s not politics he doesn’t want to hear about: it’s my mother’s schemes.

‘It was cruel,’ I say, unable to hold back my words. ‘She made a spectacle of the missing children just to strike at the Vizier. What kind of person does that?’

‘Still your tongue, daughter,’ Oshhe says, ‘before you say something you may regret.’

I snatch another vine so fast that a thorn pricks my finger. I bring my thumb up to my lips but think better of it. Matay causes sleepiness in small doses and hallucinations if one ingests too much of it. My father nods his approval when he sees that I remember.

‘I don’t agree with your mother’s ways,’ Oshhe says, ‘but her animosity towards the Vizier is not unwarranted. He is not a kind man, daughter. I need you to understand that. I know that you and his son are close. I was hesitant all those years ago when you asked if you could go play with him by the riverbank. I only allowed it because one cannot judge the son by the father. Children are innocent.’

Rudjek has always wanted to keep our friendship from his father. I assumed his reason was the same as mine, since our parents hate each other, but I’m no fool either. The rumours about the Vizier are even worse than the ones about my mother. People say the Kingdom has no enemies because he orders the assassination of anyone seen as a threat. ‘Father, I didn’t come to talk about the ceremony.’

He gives me a sheepish grin. ‘Sometimes it’s better to ease into difficult conversations.’

It’s hard to know where to start or what to say. Everything that’s happened since the Blood Moon Festival tangles in my mind. Disappointment, fear, and disbelief eat at me, but I refuse to let them win. I have too much pride for that. I’m too stubborn.

‘Do you think the green-eyed serpent is a demon?’ I finally work up the nerve to ask. ‘Could one have survived the War with the orishas and hidden herself this long? What would a demon want with me?’

My last question strikes a nerve, and my father flinches. It pains me to admit that my mother has a point. There’s no reason a demon would have anything to do with me. I dig my fingernails into my palms. I’m grasping for connections, a reason, but nothing makes sense. Before my father can answer, another, more desperate question rolls off my tongue. ‘Do you know when the first child went missing?’

Oshhe cocks an eyebrow, waiting to see if I’m done. When I don’t speak again, he inhales deeply. ‘It’s hard for a parent to not have the answers their child seeks … but I sense that there may be a link between the Aatiri chieftain and Arti’s visions. Whether this is the work of craven anti-magic or demon magic, I cannot say. We must hope it’s anti-magic. If demons are back, then there will be much trouble ahead.’

My father pauses, studying the tangled matay vines on my lap. His eyes brim with the shine of fresh tears held back. He wants to be strong for me and I want to be strong for him too. ‘To answer your other question: the first child went missing at the start of the blood moon. You are right to make that connection,’ he says, his voice strung tight. ‘I need you to be very careful, Arrah. I know you like to visit the markets and go to the river, but these are not safe times.’

I tuck my hands between my knees, trying to push back the sinking feeling in my chest. There’s no mistaking the fear in my father’s eyes. A look so foreign on him that it tears out a piece of my heart. He can’t bring himself to say the rest, so I do it for him. ‘You think Grandmother’s vision means the child snatcher or demon, whatever it is, will come after me.’

My father’s posture straightens – his jaw clenches. ‘I won’t let that happen.’

‘You wouldn’t need to protect me if I had magic of my own,’ I say, bitter. ‘When my magic comes, I –’ My words trail off at his pained expression.

‘Arrah.’ My father’s voice is gentler, almost placating. ‘It doesn’t matter if you ever have magic. You’ll still be my favourite daughter, and I’ll protect you until my very last breath.’

I’m your only daughter, I almost say to be spiteful, but I can’t bring myself to hurt my father even in anger.

That’s it, then.

Even my father has given up on me ever having magic. The news is too much to bear.

Every day at eighth morning bells, the Almighty Temple opens to the public. Most people climb the precipice to the Temple on their own, but some take litters. The Almighty Palace gleams against the westward sky, overlooking the city proper and the ambling Serpent River to the east. The Vizier’s estate sits on a cliff opposite the Temple at the southern edge of the city. It’s a palace in its own right with tan walls that glow in the morning sunlight. But my mind is far from the magnificent views of Tamar right now.

Dread crawls through my belly as I remember my father’s words. It may not matter to him that I never have magic, but I’m not going to sit around and do nothing. If I want to know more about demons, the Temple’s the best place to start.

Robed scholars and scribes sweep up the path beside street merchants wearing their very best. No matter their social status or family name or religion, everyone comes to the Temple. For the morning lessons are also the time to pay tithes.

Attendants in earth-toned robes direct people through the gates. Along the edge of the cliff, five stone buildings curve around a half-moon ingress. Several scholars veer towards the gardens and ponds to confer in private. While most people funnel into the central buildings for lessons, I head for the Hall of Orishas.

A tang of blood lingers in the air as I cross the courtyard, where the shotani practise in the dead of night. The elite assassins train with the seers from a young age. Over the generations, their families moved from the tribal lands to the Kingdom. They have magic, not enough to gain status in the tribal lands, but much more than the street charlatans. Most of what we know about them is speculation since they always move in shadows.

Magic clings to the Temple walls. More even than at the sacred Gaer tree where the first Ka-Priest’s body was buried. In the day, it only looks like specks of dust out of the corner of your eye. It’s at night, especially during the hour of ösana, that it comes to life.

Sukar and another attendant stand outside the Hall of Orishas on the northeast edge of the cliff. He waves me over. ‘So many people confessing their wrongdoings.’ He rolls his eyes when I reach them. ‘They tithe to rid themselves of their guilt. It never gets old.’

Sweat glistens against Sukar’s shaved head, and his tattoos glow. They only do that when he’s near someone with the gift. I glance at the other attendant as she waves people along. The echo of her magic dances across my skin, taunting me. Sukar excuses himself from his duties, and we duck into the long ingress and enter the Hall of Orishas. Shifting torchlight along the walls casts nefarious shadows across the chamber. It’s the perfect place to talk—and to brush up on my history.

The hall is home to the statues of the orishas who survived the War with the Demon King. They moulded their own images out of stardust darker than the darkest night. It’s hard to look straight at them, or stare too long, for their figures begin to blur around the edges.

When I was younger, Sukar, Essnai, and I used to make a game of it. Who could stare the longest? I won once, if you can call it winning. I stared so long that the darkness around Essi’s – the sky god’s – statue bled into my eyes and left me blind for half a bell. Sukar ran to get my mother, who sent his uncle in her stead. I wasn’t the first child to tempt fate and pay the price. I don’t repeat my mistake now.

On our way to a private spot, we pass a few patrons prostrated in meditation at the feet of their favourite orisha. As we go deeper into the hall, we see fewer people and it’s only the echo of our footfalls that disturbs the silence. The glowing script on the walls stands out in stark contrast against the dark. I’ve never had a reason to question the holy texts, nor the history I was taught about the tribal lands. But the scripts say that the orishas destroyed all of the demons. If the first scribes got that wrong, then what else don’t we know?

The sun orisha, Re’Mec, wears an elaborate headdress of ostrich feathers and pearls, his ram horns as thick as a man’s arm. His eyes glow with fire above a sharp beak that ends in a point. He’s naked, his shoulders broad, the chiselled lines of his muscles further asserting his dominance. A glass sphere sits upon his lap. The grey mist inside it represents the souls of the orishas who sacrificed themselves to stop the Demon King.

Re’Mec’s twin sister, Koré, sits across from him on a dais beneath a glass dome that shrouds her in shadows. She has the sculptured face of an Aatiri woman, sharp angles and prominent cheeks. Her hands are talons, and long braids flow like rivers across her breasts. She holds a bronze box with a chain around it. Two women wearing the sheer white headwraps common among the twin King’s worshippers kneel at her feet. They each offer their patron god a small box of trinkets with moons carved inside the lids.

The wall next to Koré tells the story of the Demon King’s fall. She poured her magic into a box to trap his soul, yet it wasn’t enough. It took twenty of their most powerful generals to seal the box. They volunteered their own kas to bind it for ever. Other orishas had fallen in the War, but it took their sacrifice to end it.

I wrap my arms around my shoulders, unable to imagine what that would’ve been like. To give the part of yourself the tribal people considered the most sacred, the most pure. I have more questions about the demons than I started with. How were they as powerful as the orishas, if they weren’t gods themselves? Why did they eat souls? How did they do it? We only know fragments of stories about them, made whole by imagination.

Sukar clears his throat, encouraging me to hurry up. But I look at each orisha as we amble down the hall. We leave behind Koré and Re’Mec, passing by Essi, then Nana, the orisha who shaped the earth.

‘Have the seers had any more visions about the child snatcher?’ I whisper to not disturb the patrons lying at the feet of Mouran, the master of the sea. Across from him, two more patrons kneel before Sisi, the guardian of fire. I skim every holy script we pass, but nothing immediately jumps out at me. Much of it describes the War in bloody details.

‘If you mean have we heard of more visions from your mother: no,’ Sukar says. ‘Whoever the child snatcher is, they’re able to block my uncle and the others from seeing them at all. The Ka-Priestess is the only one powerful enough to get a glimpse. And even that hasn’t been much help.’

I wince at the news, and silence stretches between us as we walk past Yookulu, the weaver of seasons. His followers have sprinkled rain daisies at the base of his dais to celebrate Su’omi – the season of renewal, when all the flowers bloom after the cooler months of Osesé. We come upon Kiva, the protector of children and innocence. Oma, the orisha of dreams. Kekiyé, the orisha of gratitude. Ugeniou, the harvester. Fayouma, the mother of beast and fowl. Fram, the balancer of life and death. All of the orishas appear giant in stature.

The orishas always appear with both animal and human aspects. Always giant in size.

‘And you, my friend,’ Sukar asks, his usual playfulness gone. ‘Any news since the Aatiri chieftain’s strange vision?’

I shake my head, recalling the conversation between my father and me. Now is not the time to say, not until we know more. ‘Nothing yet.’

‘Be as patient as a lion stalking the night.’ He winks at me. ‘The edam will find an answer.’

At the end of the hall, we come upon the fourteenth orisha, called the Unnamed. Her face has no memorable features, so there’s little to recognize her by, save for the cobras around each of her arms. I pause to examine her, or rather the serpents with their heads poised to strike at her wrists. The other statues are majestic, intimidating, but this one feels wrong. Staring too long at her, darkness begins to seep into the corners of my eyes and my heartbeat quickens. The room seems to tilt, and panic unfolds in my mind. I force myself to look away.

I’m in the middle of reading another script when Tam, one of Rudjek’s sparring partners, ambles towards us. He has kinky golden hair paired with the sky blue eyes and bronze skin of a Yöomi set against Tamaran features. A face that’s lean and athletic, noble. His look is striking, one that draws eyes, and he knows it. He was recently named a first-year scribe and has been teaching at the Temple.

Tam clucks his tongue, a sly grin on his lips. ‘Is the Ka-Priestess’s daughter skipping lessons again?’ He casts a pointed look at me, then turns to Sukar. ‘… and the Zu seer’s nephew shunning his duties. Need I remind you that the orishas demand our fealty, and such disregard is frowned upon?’

Sukar rolls his eyes. ‘Get lost, Tam. Can’t you see we’re busy?’

‘Barasa is looking for you.’ Tam shrugs. ‘Something about misplaced scrolls.’

‘Twenty-gods,’ Sukar says after a deep sigh. ‘I swear my uncle is hopeless without me.’

‘A Temple attendant swearing in this sacred place.’ Tam cringes, his sly grin fading. ‘That doesn’t bode well.’

‘Shut it, will you, Tam,’ Sukar snaps, then excuses himself before rushing to answer his uncle’s summons.

When Sukar is gone, Tam leans against the throne upon which the orisha of life and death sits. Fram is duality and balance, depicted with two heads to represent their fluid nature.

‘They didn’t want any part in the War with the Demon King.’ Tam tilts his chin up at Fram. ‘For them, life and death are different sides of the same coin, so they refused when Re’Mec and Koré asked for their help. The whole duality thing is a double-edged sword … but they eventually came around.’

I cross my arms. ‘I never thought you’d end up a scribe; you love the arena too much.’

‘I considered the gendars’ – he grins again – ‘but my real talents lie in education.’

He says it with such sarcasm that I laugh. I’m about to write him off when I think again. Maybe he can help me find out more about demons.

‘So tell me something about the orishas that most people don’t know.’

‘The universe began with a bang.’ He whistles, drawing death stares from the other patrons in the hall. ‘You call it the Supreme Cataclysm, but it has many names. Think of it as a void of profound darkness that destroys and creates without beginning or end. Over the course of aeons, the first orishas crawled from its belly and cut their umbilical cords – so to speak. Each of them possesses some piece of the Supreme Cataclysm’s nature. Like the Cataclysm, the orishas love their creations.’ Tam adjusts his position, his focus turning to the Unnamed. ‘Unfortunately for us, a god’s love is both beautiful and terrifying.’

‘I’ve never heard the origin story told quite like that,’ I say, surprised.

‘I embellished it a little,’ he admits. ‘I became a scribe so I can tell lies once in a while.’

‘Tell me about her … the Unnamed.’ I point up. ‘The truth.’

‘We don’t speak of her.’ Tam shakes his head, his words clipped. ‘There’s nothing to tell.’

My eyes linger on the serpents again. There was someone here … something, Grandmother had said. Someone who does not belong. Perhaps a relic from the past, I do not know, or an omen of the future.

‘A green-eyed serpent.’ I swallow. ‘Is that a symbol of demons?’

Tam startles and stares at me with one eyebrow quirked. ‘That’s an interesting question.’

‘Why interesting?’ I say, catching the sombre note in his voice.

‘That’s the name the orishas gave to the demons, yes,’ Tam confirms. ‘For though they possessed many forms, they all had green eyes, a mark of their race.’

My dread from earlier comes back in full force. If my father is right about the connection between both visions, then I have my answer. I know what a demon would want with children … with me.

This can’t be possible. It can’t be. The demon race perished in the War with the orishas, but had one survived? Could there be more? If demons have an insatiable hunger for souls, there are none more sacred and pure than the kas of children.




CHAPTER 8 (#ulink_39b4d4db-2ca8-5dc1-a352-d2ae74b271f3)


Long after leaving the Temple, I struggle to catch my breath. I take a short cut near the sacred Gaer tree on my way to the East Market. The tree stands naked and alone in iridescent dark soil – its black branches, crooked and bare. The magic here is so thick that it’s palpable. I don’t linger, but as I pass, the branches shudder. Outside of the Almighty Temple, it’s the most magical place in Tamar. How powerful had the first Ka-Priest of the Kingdom been to cheat death by taking up roots and becoming a tree?

When I set foot in the East Market, I see Familiars swarming like a nest of agitated wasps. Hundreds slither among the crowd and crawl across every place imaginable. Dogs howl at them, while most people are none the wiser. They draw the heat from the air, and even though it’s midday, a cool draught settles over the market. The sun is behind the clouds – a rare thing in Tamar, which enjoys sunshine on more days than not. Does the sun orisha Re’Mec feel the disturbance too?

On the surface, everything looks normal. People haggle over prices, and merchants outbid each other to attract patrons. Some older children play an upbeat tempo on the bottom of wooden crates, and people drop copper coins in a bowl in front of them. But bad energy hums through the crowd like the charge in the air before lightning strikes. Several fights break out and the City Guard steps in. It hits me at once. All the amulets with the orisha Kiva in the market today – now that the news is out about the children. When I was little, his bulbous face and lopsided eyes scared me. But Kiva protects the innocent. People wear his likeness when disease sweeps through the city, or when crops are poor. It’s a sign of fear.

I spot Rudjek ahead, fending off a street charlatan trying to peddle him charms. The charlatan wears a dozen bone necklaces and another two dozen on each arm. He gapes at Rudjek, his cataract-laden eyes stretched wide. His cheeks are sunken, his skin ashen and weathered – his movements slow and lethargic. People might think he’s drunk, but his face bears the signs of someone who’s been trading years for magic. Not all the charlatans do it, but this man clearly has.

‘You need protection,’ he proclaims, his voice like cracked eggshells. ‘I have a necklace for you. All the way from the tribal lands. Blessed by a great witchdoctor.’

The charlatan’s words stop me cold in the thicket of the crowd before I reach Rudjek. Patrons divide around me, some yelling to get out of their way, but I can’t move. I’ve always thought the charlatans weak. In truth, some have more magic than me even without trading their years. They flood this corner of the market, offering charms, sacks of herbs, and potions promising to deliver your heart’s desire.

I know what it feels like to want magic so bad that it hurts. To watch your parents impose their will on magic with the snap of their fingers, but not be able to touch it yourself.

A bitter taste sours my mouth and I swallow hard. What I can’t understand is why someone would trade their years to make petty charms. If you’re going to do it, do it for a better reason. Do it because you have no other choice.

It isn’t fair to judge the charlatans, but when I look at them, I see my own reflection. I see a yearning to belong. I see my desire to protect myself when the demon comes after me – for it will. I have no doubts about that now. Grandmother’s vision had been a warning for me.

Rudjek frowns. ‘I don’t need trinkets made from chicken bones.’

The charlatan sweeps his arms wide, rattling the bones. ‘Trinkets? These are genuine charms.’

‘Which tribe are they from?’ Rudjek arches one eyebrow at the tiny bones strung together.

‘Tribe Kes,’ the man says with a lazy wave. ‘Only the best bone charms from them.’

Rudjek rubs his chin. ‘Aren’t the Aatiri the bone charmers?’

The man grimaces, his expression so exaggerated that he belongs on a stage. ‘Where did you hear such lies?’

‘He heard such truths from me,’ I say, stepping forward.

Rudjek greets me in the way of the Aatiri, touching his forehead and flourishing a little bow. His cheeks flush and he’s grinning like a fool again. I can’t stop myself from blushing too. I try not to stare into his obsidian eyes or at his lips that look as soft as velvet, or his broad shoulders. Instead, I make the mistake of shifting my attention to the smooth brown skin visible between the slit in his elara. I catch a glimpse of the curve of his throat, his collarbone, and a pang of warmth spreads to my belly. So much for less conspicuous places.

‘She’s the expert on all things tribal.’ Rudjek nods at me, his deep voice rings in my ears.

‘Waiting for someone?’

‘You, of course,’ he utters under his breath.

‘And who are you …’ The charlatan cuts off mid-question when his eyes land on me.

He looks decades older and his hair is whiter since I last saw him at market, months before the blood moon. ‘Many blessings, young priestess.’ He bows, glancing to the ground. He must see my mother in my features. Most people do. The amber eyes, the high set of my cheekbones, the proud nose.

‘I meant no disrespect. May I offer a silver coin to the Temple to show my penance?’

I shift from heel to heel, looking everywhere but the charlatan’s face. He makes a show of digging in his pocket and his hand trembles so much that he almost drops the coin. Some of the other charlatans watch with curiosity. What do they expect me to do? I’m not my mother, nor will I ever be like her.

‘Please don’t curse another one,’ Rudjek begs me. ‘Not after what happened to the last one who crossed you.’

My lips purse in protest, but as much as I cringe in embarrassment, the charlatan looks equally distressed. People always believe Rudjek when he lies about my purported magic, even if I’ve never shown a drop of talent.

Before they realize who I am, strangers don’t give me a second glance. I’m only another person in the market to swindle out of a few copper coins, or a silver one if I’m foolish enough. When they find out who I am – who she is – people look at me with a mix of horror, admiration, and longing. A little envy too. Like the charlatan staring at me right now. It’s the same way I gazed upon the witchdoctors at the Blood Moon Festival, and for a moment I pretend it’s true. I pretend that magic will obey my every whim. And the first thing I’ll make it do is shove a rag in Rudjek’s big mouth.

I glare at him as he pulls me away. A shock of warmth flows between our hands and crawls up my arm. His hand’s much larger than mine, his skin callused from handling shotels in his father’s arena. My heart flaps like a skyward bird. Rudjek looks down at our interlocked fingers and blushes again as he lets go. We’re both doing an awful lot of that lately.

I huff a frustrated breath. ‘I wish people wouldn’t act like I’m her.’

‘Your mother inspires a special kind of terror,’ Rudjek says. ‘She and my father both.’

What Tam said about Fram, the orisha of life and death, comes back to mind. They saw life and death as different sides of the same coin. Our parents could be described that way. Both ruthless in their own right. No wonder they hate each other.

Rudjek touches my arm and warmth pulses between us again. We’ve touched many times before, and this should be no different. Yet I’m not mistaking the spark in his midnight eyes. ‘Everything okay?’

Several people take notice of how we are together and another blush creeps up my neck. It’s hard not to notice him. The Vizier’s son in his fine purple elara with gold-plated shotels at his sides. His mess of black curls. He starts to say something but bites his lip. An awkward moment stretches between us, until finally I nod.

As we wade through the market, I tell Rudjek everything in a rush that leaves me breathless. I talk for a long time, the distraction of weaving through the crowd and having him near making it easier. I wasn’t ready to talk about Grandmother’s vision before, but it’s a relief to finally get it all out. With Rudjek, I can let myself be vulnerable, I can let my guard down. ‘How could any of this be possible?’ I wonder once I’m done. ‘Demons … after all this time?’

He stares at me, stunned. Whatever he’d expected, it isn’t this. Ask a friend what’s wrong, and they’ll say they had an argument with their partner or they have a toothache. Ask me what’s wrong, and I deliver news that a demon’s come to roost in Tamar. It sounds grim even to my ears.

‘What you’re suggesting …’ Rudjek clutches the hilts of his shotels and cranes his neck to peer into alleys. Even Majka and Kira linger closer than usual today. They’re on full alert, eyes sharp, hands on their weapons, too. ‘Demons can’t be back … It would mean …’ He can’t bring himself to finish.

I cross my arms. ‘Why are you so jumpy, then?’

Before Rudjek can answer, a Familiar flits between his feet and slides into a shaded area behind him. Dozens of them crawl up closed doors and walls and merchants’ stalls. They perch like birds on the rafters of an apothecary as two guardsmen push through the crowd. Four fishermen travel in their wake, carrying another man on a stretcher. The man has a whale hook clear through his shoulder, and both Rudjek and I stare at him in shock. There’s so much blood that it overpowers the air. I hold my throat to force the acid back down. The men file into the apothecary and the Familiars follow them. There are always accidents on the docks, but I haven’t seen one this bad in a long time. I remember the story about the former Ka-Priest, how someone impaled him on a hook in the bay.

‘I wish you could see all the Familiars in the market right now.’ I shake my head in disbelief. ‘It’s an omen.’

‘Familiars?’ Rudjek tugs at his tunic. ‘You mean the wayward shadows?’

I wince, not wanting to hear another lecture about what the science scribes say. The scribes want us to forget about the souls that walked the world long before humans. But some didn’t ascend into the afterlife. They’re still here, hiding in plain view. Their presence pricks against my skin like needle points. There’s no time to argue with Rudjek about this again. The trail of blood left in the fisherman’s wake is making me light-headed.

‘I don’t care what your science scribes say,’ I snap.

‘People have been talking about the wayward shadows – the Familiars – since …’ Rudjek’s gaze darts around, and his voice drops to a husky whisper. ‘… since the first child disappeared. My father keeps dismissing the reports as tribal superstition. I … I wish I could see them too.’ His hands fly to the hilts of his shotels at a sudden commotion behind us. When he sees it’s only an overturned cart, he turns to me again, his eyes full of dread. ‘Another child was taken last night. The count is at six now.’

‘Six missing?’ My voice shatters as a young girl slips under a patron’s arm and steals his money pouch. The man is unaware as he peruses a stall of tobachi knives. I seek out all the children in the market, as many of them as there are adults. My heart thunders in my chest. If I had magic I could do something, do anything. Am I supposed to sit around, let this demon take the most vulnerable among us, and then wait my turn? How easy it was, a year ago, to utter a single mention of Arti and stop Kofi’s stepmother from hitting him.

Kofi.

Without warning, I take a sharp turn, shifting our path in the direction of the fish merchants. I have to make sure my friend is okay.

‘The shotani have been combing the city,’ Rudjek says, keeping pace with me. ‘Now that a scholar boy’s missing, the Guild has grown a heart.’

Shotani magic wafts through the crowds even now. It’s heavy and oppressive, like sinking into a tar pit. Compared to them, the guard are little more than a nuisance. ‘Have they found …’ I swallow, unable to say bodies.

‘No.’ Rudjek snags his fingers in his mess of curls. He doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands, not even finding comfort resting them on his swords as he usually does. ‘There’ve been no leads at all. It doesn’t seem right. I mean, they’re the shotani, for gods’ sake. Blessed by the orishas themselves.’

‘If Arti can’t see the child snatcher in her visions,’ I shoot back, ‘then the shotani don’t stand a chance.’

Rudjek puts his hands on his hips. ‘Is she really trying?’

As his words sink in, the colour drains from his cheeks. His accusation punches me in the gut. He doesn’t have to say more. It’s written on his face. Our parents hate each other, and either would do almost anything to see the other fall. ‘I don’t know.’ I duck my head. There should be no doubt in my mind that my mother would do the right thing, yet …

‘I’m sorry,’ Rudjek says, glancing away. ‘I shouldn’t have suggested …’

I bite the inside of my lip. ‘Would your father help her if the situation were reversed?’

Pain flashes in Rudjek’s eyes. ‘I don’t think he would.’

We walk on quietly, passing crowds gathering in front of merchant stalls. A vein of pent-up frustration and fear underlies their low whispers. This will get a lot worse if someone doesn’t stop the child snatcher. The city will riot.

I ease out a sigh when we reach the fish merchants, and Rudjek gives me a reassuring smile. Kofi stands on his crate covered in scales. He smells atrocious, but he’s okay. He grins at me and then rolls his eyes at Rudjek. Same old Kofi.

‘How goes business?’ I force brightness in my voice. ‘Selling like hotcakes?’

‘Terra bought seven threadfish this morning.’ Kofi glances at his father, who’s haggling with a patron over the price of shrimp. ‘I gave her an eighth one for free since you’re good customers.’

Rudjek leans close to my ear. ‘Is that little runt flirting with you?’

Kofi crosses his arms and scowls at Rudjek, standing face to face from his vantage point on the crate. ‘You going to buy something or what?’

‘Should I challenge him to a match in the arena?’ Rudjek looks sideways at me. ‘I’ll do it with my eyes covered to make it fair.’

Time to go.

I flip Kofi a silver coin and he catches it mid-air. ‘Stay close to your father and be careful, okay?’

‘I will.’ Kofi looks at his father, who is keeping eyes on him and the two exchange a nod. ‘Promise.’

‘See you later, Kofi.’ I say before dragging Rudjek away.

‘I’ll get him a guard.’ Rudjek pitches his voice low so only I can hear him. ‘I know I can’t do much, but at least I can make sure he’s safe. I wish I could do it for the other children too.’ He scratches the back of his neck. ‘As future Vizier, I should be able to do something useful for once.’

I beam at Rudjek. He’ll be a better Vizier than his father one day. Now that I know Kofi will be okay, my fear eases a little. But then a Familiar slinks across my shoulder, and I stop cold. A tremble shoots down my spine, leaving my skin prickling with ice in the midday heat. More Familiars rush behind me – a horde of them. My breath catches in my throat as I whirl about. A dozen swarm around Kofi, slithering across his face, arms, legs, like a cloak of nightmares.

Their meaning is unmistakable. The child snatcher isn’t finished.

My friend is next.




CHAPTER 9 (#ulink_50b5b459-2786-51a7-9101-e51d1b3e6a8d)


Arti sits across from me at the low table in our salon, staring at a wall as she stirs her fish soup. She hasn’t said one word. Though she’s never one for small talk, she’s especially quiet tonight. Worry lines crease her face; she looks tired and worn, and it makes me worry too. For the first time I can recall, there are dark circles under her eyes, as if she’s not slept in days. It’s moments like these that I remind myself that although my mother can be cold, she isn’t unfeeling.

Her face shows signs that she’s been hard at work performing rituals. Trying to uncover the child snatcher. I shouldn’t have doubted my mother. Of course she would help.

We sat down to our evening meal only moments ago, but I can’t stop squeezing my hands between my knees. I tell myself that Kofi has a guard now. He’ll be okay. I’ve never been more thankful for Rudjek’s familial ties to the Vizier than today. He put the word out, and within half a bell, there was a guard at Kofi’s side. A gendar, one of the elite soldiers from the Almighty Army. Still, I can’t wait until morning so I can go check on him myself. I promised I would look out for him.

Oshhe clears his throat at the head of the table, interrupting my thoughts. ‘I take it things aren’t going well at the Temple.’

Arti blinks as if clearing the cobwebs from her mind, a weak smile crossing her lips. She reaches for his hand and he reaches for hers. A look of longing, of sadness, of something lost, passes between my parents. ‘I wish things could be different,’ she says, her voice quiet.

My father smiles, resignation in his words, a sense of defeat. ‘As do I.’

Ty bustles into the salon with Terra on her heels and my parents move apart. Our matron snatches up Oshhe’s bowl, and still-hot soup spills on her hands and apron. She doesn’t notice as she roughly puts the bowl on the empty tray in Terra’s arms and moves to take Arti’s. My father and I exchange a glance, and dread crawls through my belly. Ty’s eyes are blank. She might as well be leagues away when she’s like this. She’s retreated someplace deep in her mind, where the horror that haunts her has taken hold.

‘Ty, will you eat with us tonight?’ Oshhe offers, his deep voice gentle. ‘Terra can take care of the dishes.’

Families of status frown upon an attendant joining the household for meals. I didn’t know that for the longest time, since it’s commonplace for Nezi and Ty to eat with us. It came up in a conversation with Rudjek after my twelfth birth day. He was so excited upon hearing this that he asked his mother if his attendants could eat with them. He got a firm talking-to from his mother, and later a tongue-lashing from his father.

Ty doesn’t accept or decline my father’s invitation. She brushes away breadcrumbs from the table, her hands trembling. Terra puts the tray down and slips out to get Nezi. That used to be my job before she came. Whenever Ty had an episode, I’d run for Nezi, the only one who can calm her. The episodes always pass in time, but it’s hard to see her like this.

‘The soup was exceptional tonight,’ I comment, trying to bring her back. ‘It’s your best yet.’

She grunts, but her lips don’t move, and silence eats her words. I wonder if the news about the children disappearing has upset her. By the time she’s done clearing the table, her skin is grey. She stops cold and Arti goes rigid across from me too. Ty backs into a corner, shaking her head, her eyes as wide as two battered copper coins.

‘You’ve only to ask, Ty,’ Arti says, her voice wound tight. ‘And I can make it go away.’

I bite my lip and clench my fists between my knees. Like Grandmother, one of Arti’s gifts is to manipulate the mind, but there’s a limit to her powers. She can’t make memories go away forever, only bury them for a time. Ty doesn’t answer Arti either.

When Nezi hobbles into the salon with Terra on her heels, I ease out a breath. Her gaze rakes over us, a grimace painting her face. Ty is the oldest of our household and Nezi is next. Her black locs are streaked through with silver and stick up every which way. I stare at her scarred hands, gnarled and crooked like tree roots. She used to tell me that she burned them while plucking magic from the sky.

‘I’m here.’ Nezi’s husky voice echoes in the room. She doesn’t approach Ty; that’ll only make it worse. I learned that the hard way at a very young age. Nezi scratches at her old scars. She always does when she’s upset or agitated. ‘Do you want Arti to help you?’

Ty’s head snaps around, her eyes landing on her friend. There’s understanding between the two. Some secret language that the other women of my household speak, but I’m not privy to. Ty blinks her answer, her nails clawing into the stone wall, her breath coming out sharp and short. Soon the feather touch of my mother’s magic tingles against my skin. It sweeps through the room, and Ty squeezes her eyes shut and lets out a long groan before growing calm again.

While Ty’s recovering, my father tells Terra to take away the dishes. By the time she returns, Ty has already slipped from her corner, her strict matron mask back in place. She and Terra serve our next dish: pepper-crusted broiled fish and mint rice. Ty dips her head to Arti, who returns the gesture. There’s a shadow of peace on our matron’s face as she retreats back to the kitchen with Nezi and Terra. I can’t help but feel relieved too.

Arti looks so very tired. Magic takes from all – even the powerful. She sighs, her skin sallow, her eyes even more red-rimmed. But she’ll recover: unlike charlatans who borrow magic, it doesn’t take my mother’s years. It gladly answers her call. Oshhe looks tired too. He always does after a long day. We’re only halfway through our meal, and I’m still shaking from the episode with Ty, when Oshhe announces, ‘I must leave in the morning to hunt for a white ox.’

I don’t need to ask why. I’ve helped in his shop enough to know what he wants with the white ox. ‘I don’t need a protection charm.’ I poke at the threadfish on my plate. ‘I need my own magic.’

Arti’s jaw tightens, but she holds her tongue.

My father swallows hard, his throat bobbing as he does. ‘I don’t know if this is a demon, for we only know them in stories. I’ve tried to perform the ritual to see across time and space, but the magic will not obey me. I’m not talented in that particular gift.’

I graduate from poking at the threadfish to jabbing my knife between its ribs.

If only I’d inherited some of that gift from Arti and Grandmother, I could help. I could do something to stop the child snatcher and protect Kofi instead of doing nothing. ‘I will make you the strongest protection charm known in the five tribes.’ Oshhe dismisses my protest outright. ‘I shouldn’t be gone more than a few days; I must go to the Aloo Valley to seek out the beast.’

‘The Aloo Valley?’ I blurt out. ‘That’s near the Dark Forest. That’s craven territory.’

No one’s seen a craven since they attacked the Almighty Army in the Aloo Valley generations ago. It’s not a place that many in the Kingdom travel, for no one wants to tempt fate. The Aloo Valley is where the Omari family legacy began.

As the childhood fable goes, Rudjek’s distant ancestor, Oshin Omari, was the last to fight the cravens. Oshin led a crusade to push them back into the Dark Forest when they threatened the Kingdom’s borders. He set up his army in the Aloo Valley between the southernmost point of the Kingdom and the Dark Forest. The cravens, clever and illusive, killed half his men in one night.

Tired of losing, Oshin stalked into the forest alone, ordering his men not to follow. He hiked into the marshes, not seeing a craven until he came upon a clearing. There, they all surrounded him. He pulled his shotels, ready to die with honour, but they did not attack. His bravery impressed their leader, and she offered to fight him to the death in an even match. Swords against claws and teeth and tree-bark skin. The craven was fast and cunning, but Re’Mec honours the brave. Oshin won and the cravens conceded to his prowess in battle. As his reward, they promised not to invade the Kingdom, for they had gained respect for its people. He took the fallen craven back with him, and later discovered the anti-magic in their bones.

‘Near the Dark Forest,’ Oshhe repeats, ‘not in the Dark Forest, daughter. The Aloo Valley has been peaceful for generations. It’s where I have the greatest chance to find the ox. It isn’t only the child snatcher that we must worry about; it’s also people who let fear control their actions.’

My pleading eyes find my mother’s. If there’s one thing my parents have in common, it’s that they’re both stubborn. I don’t want my father to go, but I know there’s no point in begging him not to. With so much uncertainty, we should stick together. No one is safe. ‘You and the seers will be able to find the demon, won’t you?’ I ask my mother, my voice a whisper.

Arti’s Ka-Priestess ring clinks against her plate. It’s changed to the colour of an emerald tonight. ‘Demon or not’ – she sighs – ‘I’ve done everything in my power. Now let Suran clean up his own mess. The protection of the Kingdom is his domain.’

‘If he can’t, then what?’ I spit out. ‘More children will go missing.’

My mother meets my gaze, her sad eyes bloodshot. ‘I fear it will be so.’




CHAPTER 10 (#ulink_b1fc63eb-c86b-5f83-aa46-60885c1eb838)


Every morning, I say a blessing for the missing children over the ancestor shrine. It’s been three days since my father left and the routine calms me. I clutch my charm from Imebyé while reciting the words. If I followed the Mulani tradition, I would make a doll from well-worn clothes. The Kes require a doll too, but one made of clay. The Litho tradition asks for a sacrifice, usually a chicken. The Zu perform a dance under the moonlight. I add an amulet of Kiva, the orisha of children, for good measure. I can’t trouble myself worrying about mixing two faiths. The tribal people honour one god, Heka. The Kingdom worships the orishas. Right now, whoever decides to answer my prayers will have my eternal devotion.

But without magic, I know the ritual is meaningless. Whatever inkling I might have of Heka’s gift, it isn’t worth much. What good is it to see magic in the night sky if you can’t touch it? I guess I should be grateful that my mind resists the influence of it, but I’m not. It isn’t enough to make a difference. I can’t believe I’m meant to hide in our villa and do nothing. If my fate is somehow tied to the green-eyed serpent – the demon – our paths will cross sooner or later. I should be doing something to prepare, to protect myself.

I miss my father. I need him here with me. I need him to tell me everything will be okay. The entire time he waited to board the ship for the Aloo Valley, I pushed down tears.

‘Don’t worry, Little Priestess,’ he said with a big smile. ‘I will be back before long.’

‘I don’t want you to leave,’ I begged, my voice raw. ‘What if something happens while you’re gone?’ What if the demon comes after me.

‘Rely on your mother.’ Oshhe squeezed my shoulder. ‘I know that she is difficult, but she loves you no less.’

I turned away, a bitter taste in my mouth. Difficult was putting it kindly.

My father gently tugged my chin until I faced him again. ‘She is not as invincible as she pretends to be; she hurts too. More than you know.’

I startle from the memory as Terra sweeps into my room for morning ablutions. She chats about the latest gossip from the market but avoids the topic of the missing children.

I skip my morning lessons with the scribes again to check on Kofi—and meet up with Rudjek in the East Market. He’s been skipping his private lessons too. Even with his griping that Kofi is a little con artist, Rudjek doesn’t hesitate to help with the watch. And I know that underneath the teasing, Kofi likes him too. I once came upon him defending both Rudjek and me to a group of older children. He had tears in his eyes when they told him that we were only his friends because we pitied him.

After I shooed the children away, he asked me if it was true. It hurt that he didn’t know the answer, but I understood. I told him the truth: I was his friend because, like him, I knew what it felt like to not quite fit in at home. And Rudjek was his friend because he thought that Kofi was brave and liked to hear his stories. That was true too.

Even with fear and so much uncertainty in Tamar, the market is thick with people. Smoke from the firepits chokes the air and makes my eyes water. Citizens argue with the grey-clad city guards about the missing children. People say the child snatcher is hiding in the underbelly of the city. No one is quite sure where, so they argue about that too. I push through the throng. When I come upon the place where Kofi and his father usually stake their booth, another merchant is there.

‘Can I interest you in a reading?’ A slight woman in a dirty shift steps into my path and thrusts a bowl in my face. The woman has strange pale eyes, and long, loose braids frame her dark skin. ‘For only three copper coins, I’ll tell your future.’

I give her an apologetic look and turn back to the merchant who shouldn’t be here. ‘Excuse me.’ I push to the front of the merchant’s line. Her patrons grumble and curse under their breath at me. ‘Where’s the regular fish merchant who sets up here?’





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