Reaper of Souls

by Rena Barron

  My shoulders stiffen as I glance up at Jahla and Fadyi, who both look stricken by the news. I never paid much attention to my history scribe, but I do remember that the demons come from another world. But hadn’t the orishas destroyed that world long ago? “What gate?”

  He coughs again and closes his eyes. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

  “Tell me, and I’ll spare your life,” I demand, shaking him.

  The demon wheezes and exhales. His body falls still, and I let it drop to the ground. A faint gray smoke lifts from his lips and dissipates. I’m not strong enough to destroy his soul, but he’s at least back in a bodiless state and harmless for the time being.

  “Did you know about this gate?” I ask, peering up at Fadyi again.

  He casts an unsure glance at Jahla. “I only know that during the war with the demons, the orishas severed the connection between worlds.”

  “Let me get this straight.” Dread wrenches through my gut. “We foiled the demons’ plot to free their king, but apparently that wasn’t enough to stop them. Now they’re planning to open this gate, reunite their army, and destroy our world.” I pause to let the news sink in. “They don’t know when to quit, do they?”

  Eight

  Arrah

  I rush out of the shop at the crack of dawn, on my way to the Almighty Temple. I would’ve gone sooner, but I didn’t think Sukar would be happy with me waking him up in the dead of night. I clutch the mask close in a burlap sack over my shoulder. I need my friend to tell me that I’m not delusional—that I haven’t fallen into some magic-induced fever dream. I need him to tell me that the impressions from the mask are real.

  I can’t let myself believe it—not yet. Sweat pours down my forehead, and my tunic sticks to my skin as I weave through the busy West Market. I dip out of the way of a man pushing a barrel after almost walking straight into him.

  Soon I’m clear of the crowd and climbing the precipice to the Almighty Temple. I think about my journey to the Temple after Efiya killed the edam. The city had been gloomy in the half light and littered with the ashes of whole neighborhoods. Now most of the debris has been cleared away, leaving gaping wounds. But Tamar has already started to heal. From here I can see the markets bursting at the seams, the boats choking the docks, the coliseum. A giggling boy pushes past me on the way to the Temple, running with his sister on his heels. Their parents follow, calling for them to slow down.

  At the top of the precipice, two attendants in gray robes greet patrons with warm smiles. I take in the five gray stone buildings connected by a half-moon ingress. On the southernmost point stands the Hall of Orishas. Next to it sits the Forum, where the scribes teach the holy script, and the Archive that houses the city’s records. The seers’ quarters, the kitchens, and attendant barracks make up the rest of the Temple.

  Children play in the gardens while their parents congregate in the courtyard. Some people head to the Hall of Orishas to make offerings and pray. It’s a far cry from the days when thousands of patrons visited the Temple. Not that I blame those who don’t come anymore—not after my mother’s deeds.

  “Have you seen Sukar?” I ask an attendant as she sweeps across the courtyard.

  When she looks up and sees me, she dips her head. “Hello, Arrah.” She says my name with a kind of reverence that makes me uncomfortable. “I last saw Attendant Sukar in the vegetable garden.”

  I thank her, and the woman lingers as if eager for me to ask another question. Even for a Temple attendant, she’s acting strangely.

  I leave the courtyard and the public gardens, heading for the barracks at the north side of the Temple. I slip behind a thicket of vines, where the noise from only a moment ago feels like it’s a world away. Sukar’s kneeling in front of a row of greens, pulling up weeds, shirtless. His deep brown skin glistens with sweat and clumps of dirt. He stops for a moment, braces his hands on his lower back, and stretches. My insides twist as I remember how he slammed into the pillar and slumped to the ground on the battlefield. I almost killed him—my own friend.

  “Are you going to stand there and watch me, or say something?” He turns to face me with one eyebrow raised. “I felt your magic as soon as you passed through the gates.”

  “You look well.” My gaze travels to the tree that had inked across his chest after I healed him. It extends down his belly and disappears beneath his trousers. At the center of the tree lies the kaheri—a star that connects him to Heka.

  With Beka’s knowledge inside me, I can’t resist taking stock of his other tattoos. The ayame, twin leaves on each of his forearms, give him courage. The lofa—a bird with its wings spread to reflect upon the past and look to the future—sits upon his left forearm. The hortiti or war horn, a symbol of vengeance and justice, on his right. On his neck, the pa’soni, the flame to bind him to his ancestors and draw their protection. My gaze lingers on the twin antlers that I tattooed on his wrist, imbued with the magic to heal. “I see that my poor drawing skills didn’t kill you after all.”

  “A stroke of luck,” Sukar says with none of his usual playfulness. He studies my face, his eyes searching, then he brushes the dirt off his hands. “In truth, I wouldn’t be here if not for you. . . . I was sure that I wouldn’t wake again.”

  I look at the pile of weeds he’s pulled from the ground. “I never pegged you for a gardener.”

  “Ah, did you think I spent all my time at the Temple answering to my uncle’s every whim?” He flashes me a sly grin and wipes sweat from his forehead. The raised tiger stripes on his cheeks glow. “I do have quite the green thumb, and Emere put me to work. . . .”

  A dull ache edges between my eyes as Sukar drones on about Emere. I massage my forehead, willing the pain to go away. I take one step forward and sway on my feet. The world tilts, and my legs give out.

  Sukar lunges forward and catches me in his arms. “I’ve got you,” he says, his tattoos glowing. It feels nice to be close to him—to know that my touch won’t hurt him. He’s leaner than Rudjek, his chest narrower, his skin hot from the sun. I shouldn’t compare them. One is my friend, and one I wish could be more. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes,” I answer a little too quickly as I pull away.

  He narrows his eyes. “You’re a horrible liar.”

  “I’m feeling a little tired,” I admit, my mind foggy.

  “Let’s go inside.” Sukar guides me toward the Temple. “It’s mighty hot out today.”

  We step beneath the shade of the vestibule. Out of the reach of the sun, the air is cool and damp. Magic flutters in the corridor, almost as much as at the shop. Something flickers in and out of the corners of my eyes—faint impressions of generations of people passing through the Temple. Not ghosts—echoes of memories. Grandmother’s presence brushes against my mind. This is her gift: the magic to peer across time. “I wish you could see this,” I tell Sukar.

  He glances around the hall. “I can sense magic here, but I don’t know what it’s doing.”

  “It’s replaying memories,” I breathe.

  Sukar frowns as we walk past attendants, some real and some only echoes. We reach the door to one of the guest apartments and move into the salon. I drop into a chair, still massaging my forehead, while he slips into a tunic.

  “Tell me what’s wrong.” He kneels in front of me with a cup of water. Only a few days ago, Essnai and I were taking care of him, and now he’s returning the favor. “Are you unwell because you healed me?”

  I shake my head and take a sip from the cup, thankful to have something to occupy the awkward silence that falls between us. I only jokingly thought I was in a magic-induced fever dream, but now I have to wonder if it’s true. I don’t know why my magic showed me the impressions in the corridor. “I’ve brought something that I’d like you to take a look at.” I squeeze the cup between my hands until the wood pinches into my palm. “I think it might be important.”

  “Arrah, what are you talking about?” Sukar asks, looking increasingly worried.

&nbs
p; “A mask.” I shove the sack at him. “I found a Zu mask.”

  He frowns. “What do you mean, found—did you buy a mask?”

  “Just take a look at it, please,” I insist, flustered.

  “Okay.” Sukar unstrings the sack and slips the mask out. He studies the glowing symbols, unblinking. “For Heka’s sake.” His hands shake. “How did you get this?”

  “I got it from a boy at the street fair last night,” I say, and when Sukar quirks an eyebrow, I add, “That part isn’t important.”

  “Burning fires, it is important.” His voice rises. “This is a warrior’s mask, not some knockoff from the East Market.”

  I slump in the chair, my head spinning. This whole conversation has gone in the wrong direction. “Let me start at the beginning,” I say, then explain to him how I came by the mask. “The boy said that he’d bought it from a merchant. Who knows if that’s true or not, but, Sukar, when I touch it, I can see the warrior’s last memories.”

  Sukar looks down at the mask again. “I’m afraid that this ben’ik does not possess your gifts. I see only that the symbols are glowing—nothing more.”

  I shove down my disappointment. Sukar’s magic is from his tattoos. He has no natural affinity for it—the way I never had before the chieftains’ sacrifice. Still, I hoped that he’d have some sense of awareness or some connection with the scrivener magic. I want him to tell me that what I saw was real—that I haven’t lost my mind and I’m not a fool for believing there’s a chance.

  “Something about this memory is important?” he asks hesitantly.

  “The tribal people—they’re not all gone,” I say, breathless. “I held the mask most of the night. I hardly got any sleep over it. In Rassa’s memory—the boy who owned the mask—the Zu tribe split up before the demons attacked. Some people escaped.”

  “Escaped?” Sukar repeats, his doubt evident.

  “Yes,” I say, the lack of sleep catching up with me.

  “How is that possible?” Sukar shakes his head. “The cravens searched the tribal lands after they found the tribes destroyed. There were no survivors.”

  “No one survived the battle, yes, but some people got away before it started.” I smile through my tears as he puts the mask aside.

  Sukar squeezes his eyes shut for a brief moment. “Can you find them?”

  “Yes,” I answer, sure of it. “I don’t know where they are, but if I go to the ridge in the mountains, I can pick up their trail.”

  Sukar breaks into a big grin, his chestnut eyes bright. “Well then, this more than makes up for you almost killing me and giving me three ugly tattoos.”

  “You’re an ungrateful brat.” I struggle to keep a straight face.

  “I know.” He clasps my hand between his own. “They’re really alive.”

  Triumph fills my belly with heat as I consider what this means. How did Tribe Zu trick the demons? Had people from the other tribes fled before the demons arrived, too? If there are survivors, then I’m not the only one—I’m not the last witchdoctor. The tribal lands will heal, too, just like the Almighty Kingdom.

  Only yesterday, I had grand plans to reopen my father’s shop, but that will have to wait for now. It won’t take more than a couple of months, maybe, to search for the missing tribal people. “We’re going to find them,” I vow, more to myself than to Sukar.

  Part II

  The Unnamed Orisha: Dimma

  I often wonder how I can remember every moment of my many lives, yet not remember the exact moment I fell in love with Daho. Time may be linear, but it’s a fickle thing that toys with even the likes of my kind. I believe, then, that the moment I seek is not one but many stretched across time.

  The first moment happens when Daho finally breaks his silence. He spends days after our first brief conversation lost in the fragments of his memories. His thoughts are a tangle of roots that I cannot decipher, but eventually the knots unravel.

  I sit completely still on the edge of the lake. If I were bound to the limitations of my physical body, it would’ve succumbed to the elements days ago. But it would be a falsehood to let my vessel wither—and I am already pretending to be a thing that I am not. For the first time, I consider the difference between having a vessel and simply existing as part of the universe. In this body, I am my own world.

  “You are very strange,” Daho says, coming to stand beside me. He stares across the lake with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, and I wonder what he sees. “You’re not really endoyan. No one could withstand this cold for days on end in your flimsy clothes.”

  “There are many names for what I am,” I say, “but they are all meaningless.”

  “I have to call you something,” Daho insists. Underneath his words, his intentions pour out like a silent song. You are Dimma, beautiful and terrifying. You are my salvation; you are death.

  That name again. It’s beginning to grow on me—the way he thinks of it with such trepidation. It has taken on a new meaning for him. “You may call me Dimma, but I am not terrifying, nor am I death.”

  “You can read my thoughts?” he asks, as if that is unusual.

  Even though my skin is cold, a subtle warmth flushes into my face. I touch my cheeks, fascinated by this change. “Yes.”

  “You can’t go poking around in people’s heads,” Daho groans.

  “Why?” I ask, confused when his mind is open.

  “It’s an invasion of privacy.” He shudders and glances over his shoulder. “This explains how that cabin looks exactly like my father’s old workshop. You gleaned it from my mind.”

  “How would I know that you want to call me Dimma if not from your thoughts?”

  Daho’s cheeks deepen in color. “People share what they want through words.”

  “Words on their own seem to lack . . . color,” I say. “What about listening to the meaning underneath your words? Is that an invasion of privacy?”

  Daho groans again. “I would very much appreciate it if you don’t do that either, okay?”

  “Okay,” I echo him. I am fascinated by the limitations of mortality and its rules, but I will stay my curiosity.

  Daho digs his tattered shoes into the snow. “Thank you for saving my life.” He hesitates—his voice coarse and tense. “Can you bring my parents back from death, too? Like you did for me?”

  There is hope woven between his words—and I already know that my answer will disappoint him. “There are many states of death, but it is not final until the soul joins with the creator. And final death is only the beginning of rebirth.”

  “Please,” Daho begs.

  I search the realms for a trace of the souls that bear his mark—that show some kinship. There are some, but they are distant in relation. Had his parents’ souls lingered, even without a body, I could make them new vessels. But there is nothing left but impressions, echoes of what they once were. “I can’t.”

  Daho sits down in the snow next to me. Faint black veins show through his diaphanous skin. Tears run down his cheeks, and I know that I have made a mistake. I underestimated his bond with his parents. This is another thing for which I lack context. I have never felt a bond with anyone.

  “I am sorry, Daho.” His name rolls around my mouth, full on my tongue. Daho. Da-o. Silent h. Daho.

  He draws in a sharp breath, his shoulders trembling. “My uncle raided the royal palace and killed my parents—he cut them down like dogs.”

  I open my mouth to speak again and pause. I’m still getting used to words, and I can’t think of any that will reassure him. It would be so much easier for him to share my thoughts.

  Daho wipes his face with the blanket. “I don’t have anyone without them—I am alone.”

  I turn back to staring at the lake, an uneasiness settling in my vessel. “I have always been alone.”

  “Always?” he says. “What about your parents?”

  I tell him about the Supreme Cataclysm, and Koré bringing me here, to which he asks, “She just left you by you
rself?” His glowing eyes widen. When I nod, he sighs. “I was hardly ever alone until the servants in the palace helped me escape the slaughter. I ran until I couldn’t go any farther, then I flew.”

  “How long have you been running?” I ask, curious.

  “I don’t know . . . a few months now.” He shrugs. “In truth, my uncle may still be searching for me.” His eyes meet mine. “How old are you?”

  “Age is a mortal construct,” I say. “I can’t age.”

  Daho bites his lip, pushing back a fresh crop of tears. “I’m almost seventeen, but I bet you already knew that.”

  I nod, but to elaborate on how I know is too complicated for words.

  He draws his knees to his chest and hugs his legs. “My uncle will kill me if I show my face in Jiiek again, but I will go back once I’m stronger. I must avenge my parents. If I don’t, I will die without honor.”

  “You could stay here for a while,” I say. “Until you’re stronger.”

  He glances at me through silver lashes. “Thank you.”

  “You can keep calling me Dimma,” I say, suddenly glad that he can’t read the intention beneath my words—the longing. “I would very much like that.”

  Daho laughs. His voice echoes across the frozen lake, and I feel a strange sensation in my chest. I do not know why he’s laughing, but I would do anything to make him laugh again. That was the moment I vowed neither of us would ever be alone again.

  Nine

  Arrah

  The Zu mask hums with magic that clings to my fingers like finely spun gossamer. I’ve been too wrapped up in the news about the tribal people to notice that Sukar has brought me to a familiar guest apartment. He, Essnai, and I used to come here to hide from our lessons.

  As a favorite attendant, he’s always had his own bedchamber while the others lived in communal quarters. But his room is nothing like this one. He had a narrow bunk, a dressing table, and a dozen Zu masks decorating the walls. That room smelled like sweet perfume—everything ordered and in its place. This apartment is dusty, with crates stacked along one wall.