Children of Blood and Bone

by Tomi Adeyemi

  We raised our swords against each other because neither of us had the courage to raise one against him.

  Now, as I lift my blade to his rage-fueled eyes, I see Mother and Tzain. I see my dear Binta. I find everyone who ever tried to fight back, every innocent soul cut down by his blade.

  “You raised me to fight monsters,” I mutter, stepping forward with my sword. “It took far too long to understand that the real monster was you.”

  I lunge forward and catch him by surprise. I cannot hold back with him; if I do, I know how this battle ends.

  Though he raises his sword to parry, I overpower him, slicing dangerously close to his neck. He arches, but I rush him again. Strike, Amari. Fight!

  I swing my sword in a swift arc, cutting into his thigh. He stumbles back in pain, unprepared for a lethal blow from my sword. I am not the little girl he knows. I am a princess. A queen.

  I am the Lionaire.

  I push forward, blocking one of Father’s jabs at my heart. His strikes are merciless now that he’s no longer caught off guard by my attacks.

  The clinks and clashes of our blades ring above the madness as more guards filter down the stairs. Having slain the men on the ritual ground, Roën’s men fend off the new wave. But as they fight, Tzain runs toward me from across the room, only moments away.

  “Amari—”

  “Go!” I urge him, striking back against Father’s blade. Tzain cannot help me here, not in the fight I have trained for all my life. It is only the king and me now. Only one of us shall live.

  Father trips. This is my moment, a chance to end our endless dance.

  Do it now!

  Blood pounds against my ears as I lunge forward, raising my blade. I can rid Orïsha of its greatest monster. Abolish the source of its pain.

  But at the last moment, I hesitate, angling my blade up. Our swords collide head-on.

  Curse the skies.

  I cannot end it like this. If I do that, I’m no better than him.

  Orïsha will not survive by employing his tactics. Father must be taken down, but it is too much to drive my sword through his heart—

  Father pulls back his blade. Momentum carries me forward.

  Before I can pivot, Father swings his sword around and the blade rips across my back.

  “Amari!”

  Tzain’s scream sounds distant as I stumble into a sacred pillar. My skin burns red-hot, searing with the same agony Inan inflicted upon me as a child.

  Veins bulge from Father’s neck as he charges forward, no hesitation as he angles for a killing blow.

  He does not cringe at the thought of slaughtering his own daughter, his own flesh and blood. He’s made his decision.

  Now it’s time for mine.

  I whip out of harm’s way as his sword strikes the pillar, chipping into the stone. Before he can rally, I plunge my sword forward without hesitation.

  Father’s eyes bulge.

  Hot blood leaks from his heart onto my hands. He wheezes, crimson spurting from his lips as the rest spills across the stone.

  Though my hand shakes, I plunge the blade in deeper. Tears blur my vision.

  “Do not worry,” I whisper as he takes his last breath. “I will make a far better queen.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR

  ZÉLIE

  “COME ON.” I channel all my energy into the dust of the destroyed parchment. This can’t be happening. Not when we’re this close.

  Baba’s energy surges into my arms, bursting through my fingertips as twisting shadows. But no parchment rises from the ashes. It’s over.…

  We lost.

  The horror hits so hard I can hardly breathe.

  The one thing we need, destroyed by my hand.

  “No, no, no, no!” I close my eyes and try to remember the incantation. I read that scroll dozens of times. How did that damn ritual start?

  Ìya aẁọn 0run, àwa ọmọ képè 3 l3nì—No. I shake my head, combing through fragments of remembered words. It was àwa ọm3 ò re képè 0 lọni. And then …

  Oh gods.

  What came next?

  A sharp clap rings through the dome, rumbling like thunder. As it pounds, the entire temple shakes. Everyone freezes as stone and dust rain from the ceiling.

  Yemọja’s statue begins to glow, blinding in its shine. The light starts at her bare feet, travels up the curves and folds of her carved robes. When it reaches her eyes, her golden sockets glow bright blue, bathing the dome in its soft color.

  Ògún’s statue shimmers to life next, eyes glowing in dark greens; Sàngó’s comes in fiery reds; Ochumare’s in bright yellows.

  “A chain…,” I breathe, following the path to Sky Mother. “Oh my gods…”

  The solstice.

  It’s happening now!

  I paw at the ashes, looking for anything. Everything. The ancient ritual was painted on this scroll. Shouldn’t the spirits of the sêntaros who painted it be here as well?

  But as I wait for the chill of the dead to overcome me, I realize the number of corpses there are strung across the dome. I didn’t feel their deaths pass through me, I didn’t feel anything at all.

  All I felt was Baba.

  The magic in my blood.

  “A connection…” The realization hits me like ice. A connection I share with him because of blood. The scroll’s incantation was supposed to tether us to Sky Mother through magic, but what if there was another way to reach her instead?

  My mind spins, trying to calculate the possibilities. Could I draw on the connection with my ancestors through our blood? Could we reach back, forging a new connection to Sky Mother and her gifts through our spirits?

  Amari dives past, fending a soldier away from the ritual ground. Though blood drips from her back, her blows are ferocious, almost feral against the coming guards. And even as the entire army pours in, Roën and his men don’t relent.

  They fight against all odds.

  If they haven’t given up, neither can I.

  My heart slams against my chest as I scramble to my feet. The next statue illuminates, bathing the dome in blue light. Only a few dark gods stand in Sky Mother’s way. The end of the solstice is near.

  I grab the fallen sunstone, and it scalds under my touch. Instead of Sky Mother, I see blood. I see bone.

  I see Mama.

  It’s that image I hold on to as I drop the sunstone in the single golden column in the center of the dome. If her blood surges through my veins, why not the blood of other ancestors, too?

  I whip out the true bone dagger from the waistline of my pants and slice through both my palms. With bleeding hands, I press onto the sunstone, releasing the binding blood for the ultimate sacrifice.

  “Help!” I scream out loud, drawing on their strength. “Please! Lend me your hand!”

  Like an erupting volcano, the power of my ancestors flows through me, maji and kosidán alike. Each grips onto our connection, onto the very heart of our blood. Their spirits twirl with mine, with Mama’s, with Baba’s. We pour ourselves forward, our souls fighting into the stone.

  “More!” I scream to them, calling on all spirits linked by our blood. I dig through our lineage, clawing all the way back to those who first received Sky Mother’s gifts. As each new ancestor surges forward, my body screams. My skin tears like it’s being pulled apart. But I need it.

  I need them.

  Their voices begin to ring, a chorus of the living dead. I wait to hear the words inked onto the destroyed scroll, but they chant an incantation I’ve never read. Their strange words echo through my head, through my heart, through my soul. They fight their way onto my lips, though I don’t know what the incantation will do.

  “Àwa ni ọmọ rẹ nínú 1j1 àti egungun!”

  Spiritual pathways explode within me. I fight through my screams to get the words out as the sunstone buzzes beneath my hands. The light travels up Sky Mother’s chest, over the hand holding her horn. It’s almost over.

  The solstice is almost at
an end.

  “A ti dé! Ìkan ni wá! Dà wá p0 Mama! Kí ìtànná wa tàn p1lú 1bùn àìníye rẹ l21kan síi!”

  My throat closes up, making it hard to breathe, let alone speak. But I force myself to continue, channeling everything I have left.

  “J2 kí agbára idán wa tàn kárí,” I shout as the light zips up Sky Mother’s collarbone.

  The voices sing so loud in my mind that the whole world must be able to hear. They push for the last of the incantation, desperate as the glow crosses the bridge of Sky Mother’s nose. With their blood, I can finish this.

  With their blood, I am unstoppable.

  “Tan ìm3lè ayé l21kan sii!”

  The light reaches Sky Mother’s eyes and bursts with a white glow as the last of my incantation rings. The sunstone shatters in my hands. Its yellow light explodes through the room. I can’t tell what’s happening. I don’t know what I’ve done. But as the light invades every fiber of my being, the whole world shines.

  Creation swirls before my eyes, the birth of man, the origin of the gods. Their magic crashes into the room in waves, a rainbow of every vibrant hue.

  Magic shatters through every heart, every soul, every being. It connects us all, threading through the shell of humanity.

  The power sears into my skin. Its ecstasy and agony flow at once, indistinguishable from pleasure and pain.

  As it fades, I see the truth—in plain sight, yet hidden all along.

  We are all children of blood and bone.

  All instruments of vengeance and virtue.

  This truth holds me close, rocking me like a child in a mother’s arms. It binds me in its love as death swallows me into its grasp.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE

  ZÉLIE

  I ALWAYS PICTURED DEATH as a winter wind, but heat surrounds me like the oceans of Ilorin.

  A gift, I think into the peace and darkness of alâfia. Payment for my sacrifice.

  What other reward could there be but an end to an endless fight?

  “Mama, Òrìsà Mama, Òrìsà Mama, àwá ún dúp1 pé egb3 igbe wa—”

  Voices hum through my skin as the rich sound rings through the blackness. Silver shrouds of light swirl into the darkness, bathing me in their beautiful notes. As the song continues, a snowflake of light falls through the darkness with a voice that sings louder than the others. It leads them in worship and praise, ringing through the shrouds.

  “Mama, Mama, Mama—”

  The light’s voice is smooth like silk, soft like velvet. It wraps itself around my form, drawing me to its warmth. And though I can’t feel my body, I float through the blackness toward it.

  I’ve heard this sound before.

  I know this voice. This love.

  The song grows louder and louder, fueling the light. It evolves from a snowflake, taking shape before my eyes.

  Her feet emerge first, skin black as the night sky. It’s radiant against her red silk robes, rich and flowing on her unearthly form. Gold jewelry drips from her wrists, her ankles, her neck; all highlight the shimmering headdress hanging from her forehead.

  I bow as the chorus rings, unable to believe I lie at Oya’s feet. But when the goddess lifts the headdress embedded in her thick mane of white hair, her dark brown eyes make my heart stop.

  The last time I saw these eyes they were empty, void of the woman I loved. Now they dance, shimmering tears falling from their lids.

  “Mama?”

  It can’t be.

  Though my mother wore the face of the sun, she was human. She was a part of me.

  But when this spirit touches my face, the familiar love spreads through my body. Tears fall from her beautiful brown eyes as she whispers, “Hello, my little Zél.”

  Hot tears sting my eyes as I collapse into her spiritual embrace. Her warmth soaks into my being, making every crack whole. I feel all the tears I’ve cried, every prayer I’ve ever sent. I see every time I looked up in our ahéré and wished she sat there, looking back.

  “I thought you were gone,” I croak.

  “You are a sister of Oya, my love. You know our spirits never die.” She pulls me back and wipes my tears with her soft robes. “I have always been with you, always by your side.”

  I clutch at her, as if at any moment her spirit might slip through my fingers. If I’d known she waited for me in death, I would have embraced it, run toward it. With her is everything I ever wanted, the peace she took with her when she died. With her, I’m finally safe.

  After all this time, I’m home.

  She runs her hands over my braids before kissing my forehead. “You will never know how proud we are of everything you’ve done.”

  “We?”

  She smiles. “Baba’s here now.”

  “He’s okay?” I ask.

  “Yes, my love. He’s at peace.”

  I can’t blink away the new tears fast enough. I know few men who deserve peace more. Did he know his spirit would end in this grace, beside the woman he loved?

  “Mama, Mama, Mama—”

  The voices sing louder. Mama holds me again and I breathe in her scent. After all this time, she still smells of warm spices and sauces, the mixtures she brewed in her jollof rice.

  “What you did in the temple is unlike anything the spirits have ever seen.”

  “I didn’t recognize the incantation.” I shake my head. “I don’t know what I did.”

  Mama takes my face in her hands and kisses my forehead. “You will learn soon, my mighty Zél. And through it all, I will never leave your side. No matter what you feel, what you face when you think you’re alone—”

  “Tzain…,” I realize. First Mama, then Baba, now me? “We can’t leave him,” I gasp. “How do we bring him here?”

  “Mama, Òrìsà Mama, Òrìsà Mama—”

  Mama’s grip on me tightens as the voices grow louder, almost deafening now. Creases wrinkle across her smooth forehead.

  “He doesn’t belong here, my love. Not yet.”

  “But Mama—”

  “Neither do you.”

  The singing voices blare so loudly I can’t tell if they’re praises or screams. My insides twist as Mama’s words hit.

  “Mama, no … please!”

  “Zél—”

  I cling to her again, fear choking my throat. “I want this. I want to stay here with you and Baba!”

  I can’t go back to that world. I won’t survive that pain.

  “Zél, Orïsha still needs you.”

  “I don’t care. I need you!”

  Her words grow hurried as her light begins to fade with the chorus of heavenly voices. All around us the blackness brightens, drowning in a wave of light.

  “Mama, don’t leave me—Please, Mama! Not again!”

  Her dark eyes sparkle as tears fall, their warmth landing on my face.

  “It’s not over, little Zél. It’s only just begun.”

  EPILOGUE

  WHEN I OPEN my eyes, I want them to close. I want to see my mother. I want to be wrapped in the warm blackness of death, not gazing at the purple hues staining the open sky.

  The air above me seems to sway back and forth, gently rocking my form. It’s a glide I’d know anywhere. The ebb and flow of the sea.

  As realization takes hold, burns and aches sear into every cell of my body. The pain is stark. The pain that accompanies life.

  A moan escapes my lips and footsteps pound.

  “She’s alive!”

  In an instant, faces crowd my sight: Amari’s hope, Tzain’s relief. When they pull away, Roën and his smirk remain.

  “Kenyon?” I manage to speak. “Käto? Rehema—”

  “They’re alive,” Roën assures me. “They’re waiting on the ship.”

  With his help, I sit up against the cold wood of the rowboat we used to dock on the sacred island. The sun dips below the horizon, masking us in the shadow of night.

  A flash of the sacred temple surges through my mind, and I brace myself for the question I’m too
terrified to ask. I lock onto Tzain’s dark brown eyes; failure will sting the least from his lips.

  “Did we do it? Is magic back?”

  He stills. His silence sinks my heart in my chest. After all that. After Inan. After Baba.

  “It didn’t work?” I force out, but Amari shakes her head. She holds up a bleeding hand, and in the darkness it swirls with vibrant blue light. A white streak crackles like lightning in her black hair.

  For a moment, I don’t know what to make of the sight.

  Then my blood chills to ice.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  I SHED MANY TEARS before I wrote this book. Many tears as I revised it. And even as it sits in your hands now, I know that I will shed tears again.

  Although riding giant lionaires and performing sacred rituals might be in the realm of fantasy, all the pain, fear, sorrow, and loss in this book is real.

  Children of Blood and Bone was written during a time where I kept turning on the news and seeing stories of unarmed black men, women, and children being shot by the police. I felt afraid and angry and helpless, but this book was the one thing that made me feel like I could do something about it.

  I told myself that if just one person could read it and have their hearts or minds changed, then I would’ve done something meaningful against a problem that often feels so much bigger than myself.

  Now this book exists and you are reading it.

  From the bottom of my heart, thank you.

  But if this story affected you in any way, all I ask is that you don’t let it stop within the pages of this text.

  If you cried for Zulaikha and Salim, cry for innocent children like Jordan Edwards, Tamir Rice, and Aiyana Stanley-Jones. They were fifteen, twelve, and seven when they were shot and killed by police.1

  If your heart broke for Zélie’s grief over the death of her mother, then let it break for all the survivors of police brutality who’ve had to witness their loved ones taken firsthand. Survivors like Diamond Reynolds and her four-year-old daughter, who were in the car when Philando Castile was pulled over, shot, and killed.2