by Tomi Adeyemi
His fingers brush against my lips and I close my eyes, testing his restraint. His knuckles graze my chin and—
—Saran’s grip jerks my chin back to his face with violent force. My whole body flinches. The calm in his eyes explodes with rage as my breath withers in my throat. It takes everything in me not to cry out, to swallow my terror as his nails draw blood from my skin.
“You would do well to answer me, child—”
“Zél?”
My nails dig into Inan’s neck. I need the grip to stop my hands from shaking; I need it to keep from crying out.
“Zél, what’s wrong?”
Concern creeps back into his voice like a spider crawling across the grass. The look I need is falling apart.
Just.
Like.
Me.
“Zél—”
I kiss him with so much force it breaks through his hesitation, his contempt, his shame. Tears fall from my eyes as I press into his touch, desperate to feel the way we felt before. He pulls me close, fighting to be tender, yet holding me tight. It’s like he knows that if he lets go, it’s over. There’s no denying what awaits us on the other side.
A gasp catches in my throat as his hands clutch my back, grip the slope of my thighs. Each kiss takes me to a new place, each stroke pulls me from the pain.
His hands slide up my back and I wrap my legs around his waist, following his silent command. He lowers me onto a bed of reeds, laying me down with a gentle ease.
“Zél…” Inan breathes.
We’re moving fast, too fast, but we can’t slow down. Because when the dream ends, it’s over. Reality will hit, sharp and cruel and unforgiving.
I’ll never be able to look at Inan’s face without seeing Saran’s again.
So we kiss and we clutch each other until it all goes away. Everything fades; every scar, every ache. In this instant, I only exist in his arms. I live in the peace of his embrace.
Inan pulls away, pain and love swirling behind his amber eyes. Something else. Something harder. Maybe a good-bye.
It’s then I realize that I want this.
After everything, I need this.
“Keep going,” I whisper, making Inan’s breath hitch. His eyes drink in my body, yet I can still feel his restraint.
“Are you sure?”
I pull his lips to mine, silencing him with a slow kiss.
“I want this.” I nod. “I need you.”
I close my eyes as he draws me close, letting his touch drown out the pain. Even if it’s only for a moment.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
ZÉLIE
MY BODY WAKES before my mind. Though there’s an improvement from the searing agony, a throbbing ache still runs through my back. It stings as I rise; I flinch from the pain. What is this? Where am I?
I gaze at the canvas tent erected around my cot. Everything in my mind sits in a haze except the echo of Inan’s embrace. My heart flutters at the thought, taking me back to his arms. Parts of him still feel so close—the softness of his lips, the strong grip of his hands. But other parts already feel so far away, as if they happened a lifetime ago. Words he said, tears we wept. The way the reeds tickled my back, reeds I’ll never see again—
—Saran’s black eyes watch as the lieutenant carves into my back.
“I wouldn’t be doing my job as king if I didn’t remind you what you are—”
I grip the rough sheets. Pain ripples through my skin. I stifle a groan as someone enters the tent.
“You’re up!”
A large, freckled maji with light brown skin and a head full of white braids walks to my side. I flinch at her touch at first, but when heat travels through my cotton tunic, I breathe a sigh of relief.
“Khani,” she introduces herself. “It’s nice to see you awake.”
I glance at her again. The vague memory of watching two girls who looked like her compete in an agbön match surfaces. “You have a sister?”
She nods. “A twin, but I’m the cuter one.”
I try to smile at her joke, but the joy doesn’t come.
“How bad is it?”
My voice doesn’t sound like my own. Not anymore. It’s small. Empty. A well run dry.
“Oh, it’s … I’m sure with time…”
I close my eyes, bracing myself for the truth.
“I managed to stitch the wounds, but I … I think the scars are there to stay.”
I wouldn’t be doing my job as king if I didn’t remind you what you are.
And there are Saran’s eyes again. Cold.
Soulless.
“But I’m so new at this,” Khani rushes out. “I’m sure a better Healer can take them away.”
I nod, but it doesn’t matter. Even if they wipe away the MAGGOT, the pain will always stay. I rub my wrist, discolored and scaly, indented where the majacite cuffs burned through my skin.
More scars that will never heal.
The tent flaps open again and I turn. I’m not ready to face anyone else. But then I hear it.
“Zél?”
His voice is delicate. Not the voice of my brother. It’s the voice of someone who’s scared, someone who feels ashamed.
As I turn, he shrinks into the corner of the tent. I slip down from the cot. For Tzain, I can swallow my fears. I can hold back every tear.
“Hey,” he calls out.
Stings sear my back as I wrap my arms around Tzain’s chest. He pulls me close and the ache intensifies, but I let him squeeze as hard as he needs to see I’m okay.
“I left.” His voice shrinks. “I got angry and I left the celebration. I wasn’t thinking … I didn’t know—”
I pull back from Tzain and paste a smile on my face. “The wounds looked a lot worse than they were.”
“But your back—”
“It’s fine. After Khani’s done, there won’t even be a scar.”
Tzain glances at Khani; thankfully, she manages to smile back. He searches me, desperate to believe my lie.
“I promised Baba,” he whispers. “I promised Mama—”
“You’ve kept your promise. Every single day. Don’t blame yourself for this, Tzain. I don’t.”
His jaw clenches tight, but he hugs me again and I breathe as his muscles relax under my arms.
“You’re awake.”
It takes me a few seconds to place Amari; rid of her usual braid, her black hair cascades down her back. It swishes from side to side as she enters the tent with the sunstone in hand. The stone bathes her with its glorious light, but nothing inside me stirs.
The sight almost breaks me. What happened?
The last time I held the sunstone, the wrath of Oya lit every cell of my being on fire. I felt like a goddess. Now I hardly feel alive.
Though I don’t want to think about Saran, my mind takes me back to the cellar.
It’s like that bastard cut the magic out of my back.
“How are you feeling?”
Amari’s voice pulls me from my thoughts, amber eyes piercing. I sit on the cot again to buy time.
“I’m okay.”
“Zélie…” Amari tries to meet my gaze, but I look away. She’s not Inan or Tzain. If she pries, I won’t fool her.
The flap opens as Khani exits; the sun begins to set behind the mountains. It dips under a jagged peak, sliding off the orange horizon.
“What day is it?” I interrupt. “How long was I out?”
Amari and Tzain make eye contact. My stomach drops so hard it must lie at my feet. That’s why I can’t feel my magic.…
“We missed the solstice?”
Tzain looks to the ground as Amari chews on her lower lip. Her voice comes out in a whisper. “It’s tomorrow.”
My heart jumps in my throat and I hide my head in my hands. How are we going to get to the island? How am I going to do the ritual? Though I can’t feel the chill of the dead, I whisper the incantation in my mind. “4mí àwọn tí ó ti sùn, mo ké pè yín ní òní—”
—with a
lurch the soldier finishes the A. Bile spews from my lips. I scream. I scream. But the pain never ends—
My palms burn and I look down; my fingernails have cut red crescents into my own skin. I unclench my fists and wipe the blood on the cot, praying no one sees.
I try the incantation again, but no spirits rise from the dirt ground. My magic is gone.
And I don’t know how to get it back.
The realization reopens a gaping hole inside of me, a pit I haven’t felt since the Raid. Since the moment I saw Baba crumble in the streets of Ibadan and knew things would never be the same. I think back to my first incantation in the sand dunes of Ibeji, back to the ethereal rush of holding the sunstone and grazing Oya’s hand. The ache that cuts through me is sharper than the blade that cut through my back.
It’s like losing Mama all over again.
Amari sits on the corner of my bed and sets the sunstone down. I wish its golden waves would speak to me once more.
“What do we do?” If we’re this close to the Olasimbo Range, Zaria’s at least a three days’ ride away. Even if I had my magic, we wouldn’t get to Zaria in time, let alone be able to set sail for the sacred islands.
Tzain looks at me like I’ve slapped him in the face. “We run. We find Baba and get the hell out of Orïsha.”
“He’s right.” Amari nods. “I don’t want to retreat, but my father has to know you’re still alive. If we can’t make it to the island, we need to get to safety and regroup. Figure out another way to fight—”
“The hell are you talking about?”
I whip my head around as a boy nearly as big as Tzain charges through the tent flaps. Though it takes me a moment, I remember the white locs of a player who once faced Tzain on the agbön court.
“Kenyon?” I ask.
His eyes flick to me, but there’s no nostalgia in his glare. “Good to see you’ve decided to wake up.”
“Good to see you’re still an ass.”
He glares before turning back to Amari. “You said she was going to bring magic back. Now you’re trying to cut and run?”
“We’re out of time,” Tzain shouts. “It’d take three days to get to Zaria—”
“And only half a day to go through Jimeta!”
“Skies, not this again—”
“People died for this,” Kenyon yells. “For her. Now you want to run away because you’re afraid of the risk?”
Amari glowers with an intensity that could melt stone. “You have no idea what we have risked, so I advise you to keep your mouth shut!”
“You little—”
“He’s right,” I speak up, a new desperation bubbling to the surface. This can’t be it. After everything, I can’t lose my magic again. “We have a night. If we can get to Jimeta, find a boat—” If I can get my magic back … find some way to communicate with the gods …
“Zél, no.” Tzain bends to my eye level, the same way he does with Baba. Because Baba is delicate. Broken. And now so am I. “Jimeta’s too dangerous. We’re more likely to be killed than to find help. You need to rest.”
“She needs to get off her ass.”
Tzain gets in Kenyon’s face so quickly I’m surprised he doesn’t take the tent down with him.
“Stop it.” Amari wedges herself between them. “There’s no time for us to fight. If we cannot get through, we need to get out.”
As they erupt in arguments, I stare at the sunstone, within arm’s reach. If I could touch it … just a graze …
Please, Oya, I lift up the silent prayer, don’t let this be it.
I take a deep breath, preparing for the rush of Sky Mother’s soul, the fire of Oya’s spirit. My fingers brush the smooth stone—
Hope shrivels inside my chest.
Nothing.
Not even a spark.
The sunstone is cool to the touch.
It’s worse than before my awakening, before I ever touched the scroll. It’s like all the magic has bled out of my body, left on that cellar’s floor.
Only a maji tethered to Sky Mother’s spirit can perform the sacred act. Lekan’s words echo back into my mind. Without him, no other maji can be connected to Sky Mother before the ritual.
Without me, there’s no ritual at all.
“Zélie?”
I look up to find everyone staring at me, waiting for the final answer.
It’s over. I should tell them now.
But as I open my mouth to deliver the news, the right words don’t come out. This can’t be it. Not after everything we’ve lost.
Everything they did.
“Let’s go.” The words are weak. By the gods, I wish I could make them sound strong. This has to work. I won’t let this be the end.
Sky Mother chose me. Used me. Took me away from everything I loved. She can’t abandon me like this.
She can’t throw me away with nothing but scars.
“Zél—”
“They cut ‘maggot’ into my back,” I hiss. “We’re going. I don’t care what it takes. I won’t let them win.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
ZÉLIE
AFTER HOURS OF TRAVELING through the forest surrounding the Olasimbo Range, Jimeta makes its way onto the horizon. Sharp and jagged like its rumored inhabitants, its sand cliffs and rocky bluffs jut out over the Lokoja Sea. Waves crash against the base of its cliffs, creating a familiar song I know all too well. Though the crashing waves pound and rumble like thunder, just being near the water again sets me at ease.
“Remember when you wanted to live here?” Tzain whispers to me, and I nod, a half smile rising to my lips. It’s nice to feel something else, to think of something besides all the ways our plans could fail.
After the Raid, I insisted we go to Jimeta. I thought its lawless borders were the only place we’d be safe. Though I’d heard stories of the mercenaries and criminals who filled its streets, in my young eyes that danger paled in comparison to the joy of living in a city without guards. At least the people trying to kill us here wouldn’t wear the Orïshan seal.
As we pass by the small homes nestled within the towering cliffs, I wonder how different our lives would’ve been. Wooden doors and window frames stick out of the rock, protruding as if they were grown inside the stone. Bathed in the moonlight, the criminal city almost appears peaceful. I might even think it beautiful if not for the mercenaries lurking at every corner.
I keep my face hard as we pass a group of masked men, wondering where their specialties lie. From what I’ve heard of Jimeta, anyone we pass could run the gamut from common thievery to assassination requests. Rumor has it the only true way to get out of the stocks is to hire a mercenary to break you free; they’re the only ones strong and sneaky enough to defy the army and live.
Nailah growls as we pass another band of masked men, a mix of kosidán and divîners, men and women, Orïshans and foreigners. Their eyes comb over her mane, likely calculating her cost. I snarl as a man dares to step forward.
Try me, I threaten him with my eyes. I pity the poor soul who tries to mess with me tonight.
“Is this it?” I ask Kenyon when we stop before a large cave at the base of the cliffs. Its mouth is shrouded in darkness, making it impossible to peer inside.
He nods. “They call him the silver-eyed foxer. I heard he took out Gombe’s general with his bare hands.”
“And he’s got a boat?”
“The fastest. Wind-powered, last I heard.”
“Alright.” I grasp Nailah’s reins. “Let’s go.”
“Wait.” Kenyon puts a hand out, stopping us before we take another step. “You can’t just enter a clan’s dwelling with a crew of your own. Only one of us can go.”
We all hesitate for a moment. Dammit. I’m not ready for this.
Tzain reaches for his ax. “I’ll go.”
“Why?” Kenyon asks. “This whole plan revolves around Zélie. If anyone goes, it should be her.”
“Are you crazy? I’m not sending her in there alone.”
“It’s not like she’s defenseless,” Kenyon scoffs. “With her magic she’s more powerful than any of us.”
“He’s right.” Amari places her hand on Tzain’s arm. “They might be more likely to help if they see her magic at work.”
This is where I agree. Where I tell them I’m not scared. Convincing these fighters should be easy. My magic should be stronger than ever.
My stomach churns with the truth, guilt gnawing away at me. It would all feel so much better if just one person knew we’re not relying on me at all.
Whether or not we get magic back is completely up to the gods.
“No.” Tzain shakes his head. “It’s too much of a risk.”
“I can do it.” I hand Tzain Nailah’s reins. This has to work. Whatever’s going on, it has to be Sky Mother’s plan.
“Zél—”
“He’s right. I have the best chance of convincing them.”
Tzain steps forward. “I’m not letting you go in there alone.”
“Tzain, we need their fighters. We need their boat. And we have nothing to offer in return. If we want to get to the temple, it’s best not to start the conversation with breaking their rules.” I hand Amari my pack with the three sacred artifacts, keeping only my staff. I run my fingers along the etchings and force a deep breath into my chest.
“Don’t worry.” I send a silent prayer up to Oya with my thoughts. “If I need help, you’ll hear me scream.”
I walk through the mouth of the cave. The air hangs wet and cold. I move to the nearest wall and slide my hands along the slick ridges, using the stone as a guide. Each step is slow and tentative, but it feels good to move, good to do something besides reread that damn scroll with a ritual I might not be able to do.
As I travel, giant blue crystals drip from the ceiling like icicles, hanging so low they almost brush the cave floor. They provide a faint light, illuminating the two-tailed batters gathered around their glowing cores. The batters seem to watch me as I move through the cave. Their chorus of squeaks is the only sound I hear until it’s drowned beneath the chatter of men and women gathered around a fire.
I pause, taking in their surprisingly vast domain. The ground beneath them dips into a depression, coated with a light moss that the mercenaries fashion into cushions. Rays of light peek through cracks in the ceiling, illuminating hand-carved steps that travel farther down the cliff.
