by Rena Barron
Dedication
To the storytellers and dreamers, this book is dedicated to you . . .
. . . and to my family
Map
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Map
Part I
Prologue: Dimma
One: Arrah
Two: Arrah
Three: Rudjek
Four: Arrah
The Unnamed Orisha: Dimma
Five: Arrah
Six: Arrah
Seven: Rudjek
Eight: Arrah
Part II
The Unnamed Orisha: Dimma
Nine: Arrah
Ten: Arrah
Eleven: Rudjek
Twelve: Arrah
The Unnamed Orisha: Dimma
Thirteen: Arrah
Fourteen: Arrah
Fifteen: Rudjek
Sixteen: Arrah
Part III
The Unnamed Orisha: Dimma
Seventeen: Arrah
Eighteen: Arrah
Nineteen: Rudjek
Twenty: Arrah
The Unnamed Orisha: Dimma
Twenty-One: Arrah
Twenty-Two: Arrah
Twenty-Three: Rudjek
Twenty-Four: Arrah
Part IV
The Unnamed Orisha: Dimma
Twenty-Five: Arrah
Twenty-Six: Arrah
Twenty-Seven: Rudjek
Twenty-Eight: Arrah
The Unnamed Orisha: Dimma
Twenty-Nine: Arrah
Thirty: Arrah
Thirty-One: Rudjek
Thirty-Two: Arrah
Part V
The Unnamed Orisha: Dimma
Thirty-Three: Arrah
Thirty-Four: Arrah
Thirty-Five: Rudjek
Thirty-Six: Arrah
The Unnamed Orisha: Dimma
Thirty-Seven: Arrah
Thirty-Eight: Arrah
Thirty-Nine: Rudjek
Forty: Arrah
Forty-One: Arrah
The Unnamed Orisha: Dimma
Epilogue: Daho
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Books by Rena Barron
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Copyright
About the Publisher
Part I
Prologue
Dimma
I will start my story at the beginning, the middle, and the end. For I have lived a thousand lives and died a thousand deaths, and every time I die, I relive the same memory. The last moments of my first life, when I was Dimma: god, girl, wife, mother, traitor, monster. The unspeakable act that set the end of the world into motion. The start of the war between the gods and my beloved Daho.
I sit upon a throne of polished bone inlaid with gold and jewels that is at once grotesque and beautiful. I am high above the floor, at the top of the stairs that Daho built for me to watch the heavens. At this hour, when my brother Re’Mec rules, I am bathed in his sunlight through the amethyst sky dome above.
I hold my child. He is a small spark vibrating against my palm, tiny and precious. He has his father’s heart and my stolen gift of immortality. He tells me that he loves me through our secret language. But my vessel betrays my intentions. I can’t stop crying. He is the flaw in the Supreme Cataclysm’s design, the part of me that my brethren want to destroy. I squeeze my eyes shut, shuddering.
A cloak of darkness bleeds into the chamber, swallowing the sunshine and the sounds of the battle. One of my siblings has slipped past Daho and his army and broken through my defenses. I let out a deep, tired sigh.
So many will die because of my decisions. My sister Koré once told me that a god’s love is a dangerous thing. I know that now. I don’t want to die, but I deserve my fate.
“Oh, Dimma.” Fram’s anguished dual voices cut through me. “What have you done?”
When I open my eyes, Fram stands before me in their two forms, twins of light and dark, life and death, chaos and calm. I realize almost immediately that I have lost a slice of time—there is a hole in my memories, a piece cut out. I look down at my clenched fist, the hand that only a moment ago held my child. My fingers tremble as they unfold, one by one, and reveal an empty palm.
The amethyst ceiling cracks with my rage and rains down in shards that tear into my flesh. The walls weep my tears. “Where is he?” I demand. “Where is my son?”
“I am sorry, sister,” Fram says as their shadows cup my face. They brush away my tears, and I am flooded with relief that it is Fram who came to steal my life, not Koré or Re’Mec. Of all my siblings, they understand me best. “You shouldn’t have been the one to do it. That is cruelty that I do not wish upon anyone.”
“I killed him?” I ask, drawing the only possible conclusion. I shrink against the throne, gutted and hollow. I’ve done something unforgivable. “I killed my son.”
I remember every single moment of my first life, except this one. I’d cradled my child in my hands and then . . . he was gone. Some acts are too horrible to remember—some deeds too painful to keep.
Tears spill from Fram’s eyes, too. “Re’Mec and Koré will end the war only when both you and the child are dead. They will spare Daho and his people if you agree to our terms.”
I stare down at my hands again. I can’t live with what I’ve done—I can’t face Daho. I cannot tell him that I’ve killed our son. “Do it,” I say. “Before I change my mind.”
Fram strikes me with ribbons of light. They cut into my chest and rip out the part of me connected to the Supreme Cataclysm—my immortality. My soul withers as their shadows brush away the last of the tears on my empty vessel’s face. Even I cannot free myself from the clutches of the god of life and death. But as I’ve said, this is not the end of my story.
It is also the beginning.
One
Arrah
Sparks of magic drift through the inn walls, chased by moonlight and shadows. It’s the hour of ösana, the sliver of time between night and day when magic is most potent. I clench my teeth as the sparks burrow underneath my skin, adding to my strength. Twenty-gods, they burn, but I can’t let go. I can’t fail again—I’ve already lost so much.
I clutch the arms of my chair, swallowing down the bile on my tongue as the last sparks melt. The chieftains’ kas stir inside me, spilling lifetimes of memories and wisdom. With their sacrifice and gift, I have more magic than I could ever dream of. It has to be enough to save Sukar.
“It will work,” Essnai says, giving me one of Sukar’s sickles. The steel flashes in the dim light of the bedchamber and Zu symbols vibrate against the blade. The worn wood of the hilt feels odd in my hand, like I’m taking something personal without permission.
Still, I find a smile for Essnai as she props her back against the wall to watch the ritual. I’m glad that she’s here with me. While we tend to Sukar, Rudjek and the others have gone ahead to the Kingdom to carry news of the battle at Heka’s Temple. Fadyi and Raëke, two of his craven guardians, stayed behind, though they’ve kept their distance as I prepared for the ritual. I don’t linger on Rudjek’s absence. I can’t let that distract me—not now, even if I want nothing more than to be with him. Essnai isn’t bemoaning Kira’s absence. Though I have caught her more than once staring longingly toward the east, in the direction of home.
Sukar’s ragged breathing and the crackle of the candle flames fill the silence in the chamber. He looks so small in the bed, tucked underneath the tavern’s dingy quilt. He hasn’t woken since the battle—since I almost killed him. Guilt gnaws at my belly, one of a tangle of emotions that cut deep whenever I let my guard down.
Koré attempted to heal Sukar before we left the tribal lands, but she di
dn’t wait to see if he was getting better. The moon orisha’s priority is the box that holds the Demon King’s soul, except she has no clue where she hid it. She erased her memories to keep it safe from my sister. It makes me uneasy that his soul is still out there somewhere, but he can’t escape now—not with the tribal people dead. With Heka, the god of the tribal lands, gone, there’s no one left with enough magic to free him. And my mother and sister can do no more harm. I snatch my mind back from those thoughts, too, for they cut the deepest of all.
The sun orisha, Re’Mec, had left before his twin. Not that he’s ever shown much concern for mortal life. He’s chasing the Demon King’s dagger, which Shezmu, my sister’s demon father, stole in the aftermath of the battle.
“The orishas got what they wanted out of us,” I say, my gaze pinned on Sukar’s gaunt face. Maybe I expected too much from them after all that we’ve sacrificed to help clean up their mess. “Now, they’ve gone back to playing gods.”
“Doing what they do best,” Essnai says, but with no malice in her voice.
Sukar hasn’t opened his eyes in seventeen days. I keep replaying the moment in my mind. How Efiya raised her sword over his head. How I flung his body through the air with my magic. How he crashed into the stone column at the Temple and didn’t get up. I only wanted to save my friend, but I almost killed him. I’m the reason he hasn’t awakened.
I suck in a deep breath as I lean closer to Sukar. I have the knowledge and magic of the five tribal chieftains inside me. Icarata of Tribe Mulani, U’metu of Tribe Kes, Beka of Tribe Zu, Töra Eké of Tribe Litho. And my grandmother Mnekka of Tribe Aatiri. The Litho chieftain is the most talented healer of the five, but his method requires that I merge my ka with Sukar’s. Dozens died before he perfected the practice. I can’t risk making a mistake. The Kes chieftain’s method requires three sacrifices over three days at the start of the new moon.
Sukar would want me to honor his traditions, so I have chosen a ritual relying on scrivener magic from Tribe Zu. For this, I need Beka. He stirs inside me like leaves rustling in the wind as his knowledge pours into my mind. I don’t even have to ask—his ka is waiting for me to call upon it. I once knew every ritual scroll in my father’s shop by heart, but they’d been useless when I had no way to conjure their power. Now I have magic’s secrets at my fingertips.
I come to my feet with Sukar’s sickle in my hand. “I’m ready.”
“After this, you will rest,” Essnai says, leaving no room to refuse. “You look tired.”
“Yes, Mama Essnai,” I relent.
She clucks her tongue at me, and it almost feels like old times.
I move to the table where the bowl of ink sits between three candles and a bone with one end sharpened to a needle point. The Zu chieftain’s shadow stretches against the wall. Beka was a bit taller than me, and his ado, the horned headpiece, gave him yet more height. His ka still wears a ruby mask with onyx trim around the eyes—the mask of his station as Zu chieftain.
It needs your blood, Beka whispers in a hoarse voice only I can hear, and it sends chills through me. The chieftains rarely speak, and when they do, I’m almost grateful it’s never more than a few words.
I slice the sickle across my palm and let the blood drip into the mixture of ink and herbs. Smoke curls up from the bowl. By the time I’ve put the blade aside, the cut has healed, leaving the smell of warm iron in the air. It isn’t something that I have to think about; my new magic acts on instinct. I hadn’t expected that. I still have so much to learn.
In the days since the battle, Sukar’s hair has grown in, and Essnai shaved some off for the ritual. I add a pinch of it to the ink. I take the bowl and needle and sit on the edge of the bed. Beads of sweat trickle down Sukar’s forehead as the smoke fills the room. Beka sends me images of the symbols for strength, healing, and fortification. My cheeks warm as a fourth symbol appears in my mind. Two bodies intertwined—the fertility symbol. It seems that Beka has a sense of humor.
“I bestow strength upon you in the name of the father and mother of the tribal lands.” I dip the needle into the ink. “Let Heka guide you through the dark.”
I push back the sheet from Sukar’s bare chest, revealing a dozen or so tattoos barren of magic. His skin is smooth and warm to the touch. If he were awake, he’d most definitely have a sharp remark. I miss his ability to make light of a dire situation.
Magic pulses in my blood as my palm brushes across his hip bone. I begin the long and tedious process of etching a reaper. It will become a twin to the one above his other hip to give him strength. Each prick of the needle against Sukar’s flesh draws a bead of blood. “Take courage, son of Tribe Zu.”
I tap out two more tattoos—matching antlers on his wrists imbued with healing magic. A yul with three branches in the crook of his elbow to reinforce his previous tattoos. When the yul is completed, his body pulses with light, and I smile.
“What’s happening?” Essnai asks from her perch against the wall.
“His tattoos are glowing again,” I explain, knowing that she can’t see the magic.
Essnai lets out a sigh of relief, but Sukar doesn’t move. We wait for a half bell while the light fades from his tattoos, bit by bit, stealing our hope with it. Essnai casts a desperate look at me to do something when I tell her that the tattoos have nearly gone dark. I reach toward the yul, intending to infuse it with more magic, but pain shoots through my fingers. The needle slips from my hand, and the shadow of the Zu chieftain disappears. My fingers twist and bend in impossible ways. I snatch my hand away and cradle it against my chest. I realize my mistake almost immediately. I cannot give the tattoo more magic than it can handle at once.
Essnai kneels in front of me. “Are you okay?”
The last of the light fades from Sukar’s tattoos.
“It should’ve worked,” I breathe. “I have to try something else.”
Essnai takes my hand between her palms as the pain subsides. “Try again at your father’s shop after you’ve gotten some rest. We’re less than a day’s journey from Tamar, and Sukar will hold on that long—he’s too stubborn to die.”
“I don’t need rest,” I say. “I’m fine.”
“You almost ascended into death mere weeks ago,” Essnai counters. “Give it time.” She lets go of my hand, her eyes betraying her disappointment. “I’ll see about getting us some food.”
When she opens the door, the noise from the tavern rushes into the chamber. We’re two levels up, but we might as well be on the ground floor with all the patrons filling their bellies with beer.
I put the bone needle and the blood medicine aside, and settle back in the chair. I close my eyes and massage my forehead. Did I miss something? Grandmother would make me recall the steps of a ritual in painstaking detail. I remember her sitting cross-legged with her white locs in a crown. She was always patient with me. Thinking of her adds to my resolve—maybe Essnai is right, and I just need more rest before I try a second time.
A sharp, burning smell makes me open my eyes again. Smoke curls up from Sukar’s new tattoos, and ash flakes from his skin. He inhales another ragged breath, and it takes a beat too long for me to realize that he never lets it out.
“Sukar,” I whisper as I rush to his side. “No, no, no.”
His body convulses against the bed as his face twists in pain. I hold him, not sure what else I can do. Dread untangles from the emotions buried inside me. I’d gone over the Zu ritual in my head for days. I can’t have messed this up, too.
Essnai steps into the chamber with two bowls in her arms. “The kitchen only had stale bread and cold—” She falters upon seeing Sukar shaking, then drops the meal on a table. She rushes to his other side. “What happened?”
“I don’t know,” I say, but then I notice the faintest light coming from his tattoos, growing brighter and stronger. My shoulders sag in relief as Sukar’s whole body starts to glow. “He’s . . . I think he’s coming around.”
Sukar’s face screws up into a
deep frown, and Essnai laughs, her voice a sharp note. He tries and fails to speak, then Essnai shushes him and presses a cup of water from his bedside to his lips.
When he finally comes to his senses, he croaks out, “Why do I feel like I’ve ascended into death and come back?”
I smile as I squeeze his hand. He’s going to be okay. “Because you have.”
Two
Arrah
Sukar squints against the candlelight as tentacles of ink spread out from the kaheri—the star tattoo at the center of his chest. It grows crooked branches that reach his collarbone and roots that wind down his belly. The reconfiguration is a good sign. The tree shows strength. His body has enough magic to help him recover. When his eyes finally come into focus, he grimaces.
Essnai gives him a playful slap on the cheek. “Don’t ever scare us like that again.”
I expect Sukar to say something witty or sharp, but his red-rimmed eyes glisten with unshed tears. Beads of sweat streak down his forehead as he groans, “What did I miss?”
“Efiya caught you off guard—I suppose you were daydreaming on the battlefield or something,” Essnai tells him, flicking her wrist. To which Sukar wrinkles his nose at her. “Arrah used her magic to fling you out of the way of Efiya’s killing blow. Had she not, we’d be performing a Zu burial rite for you right now.”
Sukar flinches—the movement almost imperceptible. He strains to adjust his position, and Essnai helps him sit with his back against the wall. “Did we win?”
I nod, biting back the phantom pain in my side where Efiya stabbed me. I can’t bring myself to say that I killed my sister. That I both loved and despised her. That I pitied her and hated her. That I could never forgive her for what she did to our parents, to the tribes, to Rudjek. That I failed her. Maybe if I would’ve tried harder, taught her better, I could’ve saved her, too.
“Efiya’s dead,” I say, and then shift the conversation back to him. “Sorry for almost killing you.”
Sukar stares at me, his eyes wide. I desperately want him to crack a joke like he always does, but he only massages his temples.
