by Tomi Adeyemi
“You’re shivering,” Tzain says when we sit. Goosebumps travel up and down my skin.
“There are hundreds of spirits,” I whisper. “So many died here.”
“Makes sense if laborers built this place. They probably died by the dozens.”
I nod and sip from my canteen, hoping to wash the taste of blood from my mouth. No matter what I eat or drink, the copper tang won’t go away. There are too many souls around me trapped in the hell of apâdi.
I was always taught that when Orïshans died, the blessed spirits rose to alâfia: peace. A release from the pain of our earth, a state of being that exists only in the gods’ love. One of our sacred duties as Reapers was to guide the lost spirits to alâfia, and in exchange, they would lend us their strength.
But spirits weighed down by sin or trauma can’t rise to alâfia; they can’t rise from this earth. Bound to their pain, they stay in apâdi, reliving the worst moments of their human memories again and again.
As a child, I suspected that apâdi was a myth, a convenient warning to keep children from misbehaving. But as an awakened Reaper, I can feel the spirits’ torture, their unyielding agony, their never-ending pain. I scan the arena, unable to believe all the spirits trapped in the hell of apâdi within these walls. I’ve never heard of anything like this. What in the gods’ names happened here?
“Should we be looking around?” Amari whispers. “Search the arena for clues?”
“Let’s wait for the competition to start,” Tzain says. “It’ll be easier when everyone’s distracted.”
As we wait, I look past the ornate silks of the nobles to inspect the arena’s deep metal floor. It’s a curious sight among the sand bricks filling the cracked arches and steps. I search for a sign of bloodshed in the iron: the strike of a sword, the cut of giant claws from wild ryders. But the metal is untouched and untarnished. What kind of competition is this—
A bell rings through the air.
My eyes snap up as it incites cheers of excitement. Everyone rises to their feet, forcing Amari and me to stand on the steps just to see. The cheers grow louder when a masked man shrouded in black ascends a metal staircase, rising to a platform high above the arena floor. There’s a strange aura about him, something commanding, something golden.…
The announcer removes his mask to reveal a smiling, light brown face tanned by the sun. He brings a metal cone to his lips.
“Are you ready?”
The crowd roars with a ferocity that makes my eardrums ring. A deep rumble thunders in the distance, growing louder and louder until—
Metal gates fly open on the sides of the arena floor, and an endless wave of water rushes in. This has to be a mirage. Yet liter after liter flows in. The water covers the metal ground, crashing with the expanse of a sea.
“How is this possible?” I hiss under my breath, remembering the laborers, no more than skin and bone. So many dying for water and they waste it on this?
“I can’t hear you,” the announcer jeers. “Are you ready for the battle of a lifetime?”
As the drunken crowd screams, metal gates open on the arena’s sides. One by one, ten wooden vessels float in, sailing through the waves of the makeshift sea. Each ship spans almost a dozen meters, masts high, sails unfurled. They float as their crews take position, manning the rows of wooden rudders and cannon lines.
On every ship, an elaborately dressed captain stands at the helm. But when I look at the crews, my heart stops.
The laborer in white sits among dozens of rowers with tears in her dark eyes, the girl who told us of the stone. Her chest heaves up and down. She grips a paddle for life.
“Tonight ten captains from all over Orïsha battle for wealth greater than a king’s. The captain and crew who win will bathe in a sea of glory, an ocean of endless gold!” The announcer raises his hands and two guards roll in a large chest of glittering gold pieces. An echo of awe and greed ripples through the stands. “The rules are simple—to win, you must kill the captain and crew of every other boat. Over the past two moons, no one has survived an arena fight. Will tonight finally be the night we crown a victor?”
The crowd’s cheers erupt again. The captains join in, eyes glittering at the announcer’s words. Unlike their helpless crews, they aren’t afraid.
They only want to win.
“If a captain wins tonight, a special prize awaits, a recent find greater than any prize we’ve offered before. I have no doubt rumors of its greatness are why many of you have come tonight.” The announcer saunters across his platform, building suspense. Dread gathers inside me as he raises the metal cone to his lips again.
“The captain who wins will walk away with more than just gold. He will receive the jewel of life, lost to time until this very moment. Babalúayé’s legendary relic. The gift of immortality!”
The announcer takes the glowing stone from his cloak. Words catch in my throat. More brilliant than the painting Lekan brought to life, the sunstone dazzles. The size of a coconut, the stone shines with oranges, yellows, and reds pulsing beneath its smooth crystal exterior. The very thing we need to complete the ritual.
The last thing we need to bring magic back.
“The stone grants immortality?” Amari cocks her head. “Lekan didn’t mention that.”
“No,” I reply, “but it looks like it could.”
“Who do you think will wi—”
Before Amari can finish, deafening blasts explode through the air.
The arena quakes as the first ship fires.
Two cannonballs shoot from the metal muzzles, merciless in their aim. They crash into the next boat’s rowers, obliterating lives on impact.
“Ah!” Vicious pain rips through my body, even though nothing strikes me. The thick taste of blood coats my tongue, stronger than it’s ever been.
“Zél!” Tzain shouts. At least, I think he shouts. It’s impossible to hear him over the screams. As the ship sinks, the crowd’s cheers blur with the shrieks of the dead overwhelming my mind.
“I feel it,” I say, gritting my teeth to avoid a mangled cry. “Each one, each death.”
A prison I can’t escape.
The blast of cannonballs shakes the walls. Shattered wood flies through the air as another ship goes down. Blood and corpses rain into the water, while injured survivors fight not to drown.
Each new death hits me as hard as Lekan’s spirit did at Chândomblé, flowing through my mind and body. My head surges with broken disparate memories. My body harbors all their pain. I black in and out of the agony, waiting for the horror to end. I get a flash of the girl in white, only now she’s drowned in red.
I don’t know how long it lasts—ten minutes, ten days.
When the bloodshed is finally over, I’m too weak to think, to breathe. Little remains of the ten ships or their captains, each blown apart at another’s hand.
“Looks like another night without a victor!” The announcer’s voice booms over the cries of the spectators. He brandishes the stone, making sure it catches the light.
It glimmers above the crimson sea, shining above the corpses floating among the shards of wood. The sight makes the crowd scream louder than they have all night. They want more blood.
They want another fight.
“We’ll just have to see if tomorrow’s captains can win this magnificent prize!”
I lean into Tzain and shut my eyes. At this rate, we’ll die before we ever touch that stone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
INAN
THE DISTANT SHOUTS of stockers ring over the faint clinks of construction. Kaea’s disgruntled barks reign over them. Though reluctant, she appears to be taking the assembly lead. After three days under her rule, the bridge is almost complete.
But as our path to the other side of the mountain grows, I’m no closer to finding any clues. No matter how far I get, the temple is an enigma, an endless mystery I can’t crack. Even loosening my hold on my magic isn’t enough to track down the girl. I’m running ou
t of time.
If I’m to have any chance at finding the girl, I have to let all my magic in.
The realization haunts me, challenging everything I believe. But the alternative is far worse. Duty before self. Orïsha first.
Taking a deep breath, I release every last restraint bit by bit. The ache in my chest decreases. With time, the sting of magic rises to my skin.
I hope the scent of the sea will hit me first, but like every day thus far, only the scent of timber and coal fills the narrow halls.
When I turn a new corner, the scent becomes overwhelming; a turquoise cloud hangs in the air. I pass my hand through it, allowing Lekan’s lingering consciousness to break in.
“Lekan, stop!”
Shrieks of laughter ring when I turn another corner. I press against the cool stone as the sêntaro’s memories overtake me. Phantom children pass, each squealing and painted and naked. Their joy bounces and echoes, sharp against the rock walls.
They’re not real, I remind myself, heart pounding against my chest. But even as I try to hold on to the lie, the mischievous glint in a child’s eyes champions the truth.
Torch in hand, I move on, rushing through the temple’s narrow halls. For a moment a whiff of sea salt hangs in the air, shrouded in the scent of coal. I turn the corner and another turquoise cloud appears. I race to it, teeth clenching as the new flash of Lekan’s consciousness takes hold. His timber scent becomes overwhelming. The air shifts. A soft voice sounds.
“But do you have a name?”
My body goes rigid. Amari’s timid form materializes before my eyes. My sister stares at me in apprehension, fear clouding her amber gaze. An acidic scent wafts into my nostrils. My nose wrinkles at the burn. “Everyone has a name, child.”
“Oh, I did not mean—”
“Lekan,” his voice booms in my head. “Olamilekan.”
I almost laugh when I see Amari; she looks ridiculous in commoner clothes. But even after all this, she’s the same girl I’ve always known: a web of emotions spinning behind a wall of silence.
My own memory breaks in—the brief look we shared across the broken bridge. I thought I’d be her savior; instead I was the cause of her pain.
“My wealth … is increased?”
Lekan’s memory of the maji girl emerges. She flickers to life in the burn of the torchlight.
“You remember our tongue?”
“Bits and pieces.” She nods. “My mother taught it to me when I was young.”
Finally. After all these days, the scent of the sea hits me like a gust of wind. Yet for the first time since our paths collided, the girl’s image doesn’t make me reach for my sword. Through Lekan’s gaze she is soft yet striking. Her dark skin seems to glow in the torchlight, highlighting the ghosts behind her silver eyes.
She is the one. Lekan’s thoughts ring in my mind. Whatever happens, she must survive.
“The one for what?” I wonder out loud. Only silence answers.
The images of the girl and Amari fade away, leaving me staring after where they used to be. Her scent disappears. Though I try to reach for the flash again, nothing happens. I’m forced to move on.
As my footsteps echo through the temple’s nooks and crannies, I feel the change in my body. Suppressing my curse has become a constant drain. A draw on every breath. Though the buzz of magic in my head still makes my stomach clench, my body revels in its new freedom. It’s as if I’ve spent years drowning underwater.
For a moment, I get to suck in air.
With deep breaths, I press on through the temple, traversing the halls with a new vigor. I chase after the ghosts of Lekan, searching for answers, hoping to find the girl again. When I turn another corner, the scent of his soul overwhelms me. I enter the domed room. Remnants of Lekan’s consciousness pulse stronger than they have all week. A turquoise cloud seems to encompass the entire space. Before I can brace myself, the room flashes in white.
Though I stand in the shadows, Lekan’s consciousness bathes the jagged walls in light. My jaw drops as I study the stunning mural of the gods. Each portrait floods with brilliant color.
“What is this?” I breathe, in awe of the magnificent sight. The paintings are so expressive they appear to come to life.
I lift my torch to the gods and goddesses, to the maji who dance at their feet. It’s imposing. Invading. It unravels everything I’ve been taught to think.
Growing up, Father led me to believe that those who clung to the myth of the gods were weak. They relied on beings they could never see, dedicating their lives to faceless entities.
I chose to place my faith in the throne. In Father. Orïsha. But now, staring at the gods, I can’t even bring myself to speak.
I marvel at the oceans and forests that spring from their touch, at the world of Orïsha created by their hand. A strange joy seems to breathe within the layers of paint, filling Orïsha with a light I didn’t know it could hold.
Seeing the mural forces me to see the truth, confirming everything Father told me in the throne room. The gods are real. Alive. Connecting the threads of the maji’s lives. But if all that is true, why in the skies’ name has one forged a connection with me?
I scan each portrait again, observing the different types of magic that seem to spring from the gods’ hands. When I come to a god dressed in rich, cobalt robes, I pause. My cursed magic flares at the sight of him.
The god stands tall, imposing with chiseled muscles. A dark blue ipélè stretches across his broad chest like a shawl, vibrant against his dark brown skin. Turquoise smoke twists in his hands, just like the wispy clouds that appear with my curse. When I move my torchlight, a pulse of energy travels under my scalp. Lekan’s voice booms in my head as another blue cloud appears.
“Orí took the peace from Sky Mother’s head to become the God of Mind, Spirit, and Dreams. On earth, he shared this unique gift with his worshippers, allowing them to connect with all human beings.”
“God of Mind, Spirit, and Dreams…,” I whisper to myself, putting all the pieces together. The voices. The flickers of others’ emotions. The strange dreamscape I found myself trapped in. This is it.
The god of my origin.
Anger thrashes inside me with the realization. What right do you have? A few days ago I didn’t even know this god existed, yet he took it upon himself to poison me?
“Why?” I shout, voice echoing inside the dome. I almost expect the god to shout back, yet only silence answers me.
“You’ll regret this,” I mutter to myself, not knowing if that makes me insane or if somewhere, despite all the noise of the world, he can hear me. The bastard should rue this day. The magic he’s cursed me with will be magic’s undoing.
My insides twist and I whip around, stomach clenching as I call on my curse even more. There’s no fighting it. To find the answers I need, there’s only one place I can go.
I slide to the ground and close my eyes, letting the world fade as magic slithers through my veins. If I’m going to kill this curse, I need it all.
I need to dream.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
ZÉLIE
“IS IT CLEAR?”
Amari peeks through the stone halls leading away from the arena floor. Crumbling arches curve over our heads, cracked stones under our feet. After footsteps pass, Amari nods and we dash. We weave in and out of the weathered pillars, rushing to make it through before we’re seen.
Hours after the last man died and the spectators had left their seats, the guards drained the arena’s red sea. I thought the horrors of the games would end there, but now the cracks of canes echo through the empty stands. Guards command a new batch of laborers to clean up the blood and gore that weren’t washed away when they drained the stadium. I can’t fathom their torture. Cleaning up tonight’s mess only to become tomorrow’s carnage.
I’ll come back, I decide. I’ll save them. After I perform the ritual and bring magic back, after Baba is safe and sound. I’ll rally a group of Grounders to sink thi
s monstrosity into the sand. That announcer will pay for every wasted divîner life. Every noble will answer for their crimes.
I let thoughts of vengeance soothe me as we press against a jagged wall. I close my eyes, concentrating as hard as I can. The sunstone stirs the ashê in my blood. When I open my eyes, its glow is faint, like a firefly fading into the night. But with time it grows until the sunstone’s aura heats the bottom of my feet.
“Below us,” I whisper. We move through empty halls and descend the stairs. The closer we get to the arena’s rot-stained floor, the more men we have to dodge. By the time we reach the bottom, we’re practically a finger’s breadth from the crooked guards and broken laborers. Their canes crack over our footsteps. We slip beneath a stone archway.
“It’s here,” I hiss, pointing to a large iron door. Bright light shines through the slits, filling the archway with the heat of the sunstone. I run my fingers over the metal door’s handle, a rusted turnwheel caught by a giant padlock.
I whip out the dagger Tzain had given me and jam it into the lock’s narrow keyhole. Though I try to push forward, I’m blocked by an intricate pattern of teeth.
“Can you pick it?” he whispers.
“I’m trying.” It’s more complex than the typical lock. To get through, I need something sharper, something with a hook.
I grab a thin rusted nail on the ground and press it into the wall, curving its point. When it’s bent, I close my eyes and concentrate on the delicate touch of the lock’s teeth. Be patient. Mama Agba’s old lesson echoes through my mind. Let feeling become your eyes.
My heartbeat spikes as I listen for the sound of any footsteps approaching, but when I push my knife, the teeth yield. One more shimmy to the left and …
A small click sounds. The padlock breaks free, and I’m so relieved I almost cry. I grab the wheel and pull to the left, but the metal won’t give.
