by Rena Barron
I take in the silver-and-blue engravings on the bedposts, dulled with time, and the gold-trimmed dresser. The floor is covered in gray marble with a faint outline of a sundial that spans most of the room. I reach underneath the cushion on the chair and run my fingers across the three names carved in the wood. Sukar. Essnai. Arrah.
I cringe as the memories from so many years ago come rushing back in. “You brought me here of all places?”
Sukar looks around, his nose wrinkled. “I don’t like the decor, either. It’s rather old-fashioned. But when I got back, Emere had boxed up my things and moved someone else into my room.”
I stare at him in disbelief, heat burning down my neck. “I’m not talking about the decor,” I shoot back. “We once hid in here from our lessons, and you asked if you could . . .” I squirm in the chair, remembering the thrill of the moment. He asked if he could kiss Essnai and me. “Never mind—it doesn’t matter.”
A knock sounds at the door, and Sukar sighs. “Go away, Emere.”
I frown and whisper, “How do you know it’s her?”
Sukar smacks his forehead. “She’s been asking about you since we got back.”
“Why?” I remember how weird the attendant in the courtyard had acted when I was looking for Sukar. Now I’m thinking that she went straight to tell Emere I was here.
“Sukar, I’d like a word with Arrah?” the head attendant says from the other side of the apartment door. Her voice always rises so that her every phrase sounds like a question.
“For Heka’s sake, Emere,” Sukar groans. “Not now.”
“What have I told you about invoking Heka’s name in the orishas’ holy place?” she presses.
“What do you want, Emere?” I sound too much like a petulant child. She’s only six years older than us, but even when we were younger, she was such a nag.
“It’s important that I speak with you,” she repeats.
Sukar looks to me for confirmation, and I nod. He shakes his head as he crosses the room and lets her in. She enters with a pleasant yet reserved smile. Her gray robe pales in comparison to the richness of her brown skin, her high cheekbones, and her small mouth. She wears silver crescent moon earrings and a sheer white headscarf. “I’m sorry to disturb you.” Emere bows to me. “I wouldn’t have if it wasn’t of grave importance.”
The melodrama I expected, but averting her eyes and bowing . . . “What are you doing?”
“Showing respect, of course,” Emere says. “Sukar told me that you carry the souls of the chieftains.”
“What’s this about?” I cut my eyes to Sukar, who only shrugs. He’d conveniently forgotten to mention the part about him gossiping with Emere.
“The Almighty One will be putting Tyrek Sukkara on trial for his crimes this afternoon.”
Rudjek’s already told me this, and I don’t see what it has to do with me. “Yes?”
“A lot has happened in your absence.” Emere paces around the room with her hands clasped against the small of her back. “The Almighty One has spoken at length about disbanding the Temple leadership. He doesn’t plan to seek out suitable candidates to fill the seers’ positions. Gods, I don’t know if there are suitable replacements after what happened to the tribes. How are we going to run the Temple without seers—who’s going to keep the balance of power in check?” Emere glances away. “Your mother . . .”
I grit my teeth as her words ring in my ears, digging up my doubt.
I won’t be like her.
“She resisted Suran Omari’s attempts to limit the Temple’s power for years,” Emere says. “He’s always wanted complete control over the Kingdom.”
I understand now why the mob in the West Market angrily called Emere and the others Temple loyalists. If Suran wants to limit the Temple, he’d have plenty of support to discredit those who oppose him. He won’t stop until he has the whole Kingdom under his thumb. I clutch the arms of my chair. I can’t say that I’m surprised, but I never thought he’d go so far. “Have you talked to any of the people of tribal lineage in the city? Some of them may be willing to serve the Temple and stand against Suran Omari.”
“We need a gifted leader to stand against the Almighty One,” Emere says, distressed, as she comes to rest in front of me. “We need someone who can remind Tamarans that magic has done a lot of good for our great city. The seers have ended countless famines, treated the sick, and tempered the seasons to keep our crops plentiful. The charlatans in the markets can’t do that.”
She stands still, her lips parted, on the verge of saying more. “No.” I answer the question before she asks. My voice is a sharp note of pent-up anger threatening to burst free.
Sukar leans against one of the bedposts with his arms crossed, his face unreadable. Had he known of her plans to ask me to join the Almighty Temple?
“We need you, Arrah,” Emere begs. “With the tribes gone, you are undoubtedly the most suited to the role of Ka-Priestess. You already have the favor of Crown Prince Rudjek, from what I saw in the West Market the other day.”
My head throbs. I can’t believe what she’s asking. She wants me to be my mother’s successor. She wants me to be Ka-Priestess of the Almighty Kingdom.
“Suran Omari’s planning to claim the tribal lands,” adds Emere, desperate.
Sukar straightens at that. He glances at the mask, then at me, his eyebrows raised. I shake my head. We need to be sure about what I saw in Rassa’s memory before we tell Emere—especially if what she says is true. The nerve of Suran Omari to think that he can just take the tribal lands. He has no respect for all the people who died. It’s business as usual for him. Trades to make. Land to steal.
“Where did you hear that?” I ask Emere.
“Prince Derane Sukkara,” she answers. “He thought it information the Temple could use against Suran Omari.” Emere draws in a ragged breath. “Now you know why we need your help.”
“Let it go, Emere,” Sukar says, his voice sympathetic. “She already said no.”
Emere’s eyes brim with unshed tears, but she brushes them away with the back of her sleeve. She clears her throat and lifts her chin. “I understand.” She smiles and, on her way to the door, pauses to pat my shoulder. “I know I ask too much, and I’m sorry for that.” I have no words for her, so I squeeze her hand before she lets herself out.
When she’s gone, Sukar drops onto the bed. “I should’ve warned you. She’s been at it for days, going on about you taking your mother’s place.”
I massage my forehead. “I have to go.”
“Why don’t you stay a little longer?” Sukar offers. “That way, you can avoid the trial altogether.”
“I can’t,” I say, thinking about my promise to meet Rudjek by the Serpent River. “I’ll come back soon so we can make plans to leave for the tribal lands.”
I bypass the heart of the West Market along the quieter streets, headed for the Serpent River. The bells strike the thirteenth hour, and I curse. I’m late. My forearms tingle before I spot Rudjek up ahead on the path. There’s something off about his gait—he’s favoring his right side. His guards are with him, but he holds up one hand to tell them to fall back as he crosses the space between us. Kira and Majka mumble to each other, their conversation almost inaudible. For once, even Fadyi and Jahla look on edge. Another guard, the oldest of the bunch, with gray hair, watches me like a hawk.
Rudjek stops within arm’s reach of me. “I waited for you at the river.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Sorry—I lost track of time at the Temple.”
“How is Sukar?” Rudjek asks after clearing his throat.
“Much better,” I say, anxious to tell him about the tribal people and ask if his father really means to claim their lands. But I can’t do that with his guards so near and risk them taking news back to Suran Omari. I frown, noticing that Rudjek’s elara is a tad snug. One of his guards wears a bloodstained uniform that’s too big, with a lion’s head stitched across the chest. It’s not a far stretch to be
lieve that he and Rudjek have switched tunics. “What happened?”
Rudjek scratches the back of his neck, but it doesn’t cover the nervous energy radiating from him. “I got into a little disagreement.”
I cross my arms. “So little that one of your guards couldn’t handle it?”
Rudjek opens his mouth, his dark eyes darting away from my face. “It got ugly,” he admits, all pretense gone. He stumbles over his next words. “There’s a lot of tension among some circles in the city right now . . . people with grudges and scores to settle.” He presses his arm close against his side—a flash of pain etching across his face. When he catches me looking, his features smooth out; his mask slips into place.
“Emere asked me to speak for the Temple at Tyrek Sukkara’s trial,” I tell him.
“She is more than capable of speaking herself,” Rudjek says, his voice brittle. “You’ve been through enough.”
“You’ve been through as much, yet . . .” I gesture to his uniform.
The gong rings in the West Market, and the lingering echo sets my teeth on edge. It’s the first call to gather the assembly for the trial. I can’t get Emere’s disappointed face and her words out of my head. I know I ask too much. Does she truly not understand that I could never step into my mother’s role or be her replacement? I could never be that for her or for the Kingdom, but I also can’t let Suran go unchecked.
The guard with the gray hair strolls forward. “We must leave soon before we’re late for the trial, Commandant.”
“Don’t mind Captain Dakte,” Rudjek says with his back still to the soldier. “He means to spy on my every move and report to my father.”
“I’m here to protect the Almighty One’s interests,” the man says, resentful. “Shall we go?”
“After I finish the conversation you so rudely interrupted,” Rudjek snaps at him.
Captain Dakte lets out an exasperated breath. The gendars stare between the two of them as if waiting for the next move in a game. With a man like that around, I’m glad that Rudjek has loyal friends with him.
“I’ll come to the assembly with you,” I blurt out against my better judgment. “In case Emere does need my support.”
“It’s your decision.” Rudjek gives me a look like he knows I’m not telling the whole truth, but then again, neither is he. “For my part, I want nothing more than to have you by my side.”
There’s weight in his words that even the most oblivious person in the world could understand. I want him by my side, too, but this is nothing like when he pledged to help me find the child snatcher. How can we be there for each other when my magic and his anti-magic stand between us?
I decide against telling Rudjek about the Zu mask—until I’m sure Suran Omari can’t use the information to his advantage. I smile to reassure him, all while feeling like I’m falling into the same pit of vipers that destroyed my mother.
Ten
Arrah
Rudjek keeps casting nervous glances at everyone we pass as if he expects more trouble. He says nothing more about his earlier disagreement, but it isn’t hard to figure out. His father has many enemies; some poor fools must have thought him an easy target.
We walk toward the crowded part of the West Market with a gap between us that could fit a whole person. He clenches and unclenches his hands, the leather gloves creaking. My magic is restless with him so near, and it itches underneath my skin. Along with the headache, it’s hard to concentrate. I want to go to our secret spot by the river and dream together. I want to be reckless and kiss him right here in front of everyone, but I also want to retreat from his anti-magic.
“Dare I ask what you’re thinking?” His midnight eyes burn with longing.
“Things wholly inappropriate in this moment,” I say, my voice pitched low.
Rudjek laughs, and the sound is pure music to my heart. With all that’s happened, it makes me feel less alone in the world—less afraid. When did this boy become so important to me? It’s such an impossible question to answer. I’ve loved him in one way or another for so long that it doesn’t matter.
I eye the pendant dangling around his neck. “Remember the first time you showed me your family crest?”
“I told you that it protected me against magic,” Rudjek muses, a dreamy look in his eyes. “To which you asked in the snottiest tone, ‘Will it stop us from being friends once I have magic?’”
I glare at him for making me sound like a brat. “You offered to throw the pendant into the river so that it wouldn’t stand in the way of our friendship.”
“I still wish I could, but I’d have to throw myself in the river with it.” Rudjek runs his hand absently across the craven bone crest. “We’ll find a way to be together, Arrah. A clever man only needs one stone to kill two birds.”
I smile, finding it ironic that he’s quoting a tribal proverb to me. I should take strength from Rudjek’s resolve, but I’m losing hope.
We come upon dozens of Temple loyalists in gray robes standing near the coliseum walls. They swat the ground with sticks to show their disapproval. People shout at them to go home, but the loyalists repeat three lines:
“Magic is the language of the gods.”
“Magic connects us to the divine.”
“Magic is a blessed gift.”
“Magic is a gift and a curse,” I whisper.
“Is that her?” a person asks when their eyes lock with mine. “Is that the new Ka-Priestess with the Crown Prince?”
“It’s a sign from the orishas,” someone else yells in relief, and my stomach falls to my knees. It’s enough to make me turn on my heel and flee the scene, but I don’t. I will hear this trial out, and I will make sure Suran Omari knows that I stand between him and the tribal lands.
Rudjek groans something under his breath, but his mask never slips. Murmurs rise through the market as word of our arrival spreads. Sweat trickles down my back, and I dig my nails into my palms. I don’t want to be the voice of the Temple—I don’t want people depending on me. I don’t want to fail them like I failed my father.
“Twenty-gods,” Majka curses, his eyes bright with admiration. I follow his gaze to Jahla, who had slipped away before we reached the market to change. Now she’s entering the coliseum, wearing a white sheath fitted through the bust and hips. Her silver locks flow in waves down her back. Raëke is with her, dressed in a jeweled tunic and wide-leg pants. If they’re in disguises to hide among the crowd, then Rudjek is expecting more trouble. “She is magnificent.”
“Careful, Majka,” Kira says at his side. “She looks like more than you can handle.”
“Is that a challenge?” He laughs. “I love challenges.”
My cheeks warm at the thought of myself in my dusty tunic compared to all the people in fancy garb. Not so long ago, laborers had carried Arti and me into the coliseum in a litter. My mother had timed our arrival to spoil Suran Omari’s plans. My sheath had been so lovely that day, but I hadn’t appreciated it.
“What are we going to do with the tribes gone?” asks a teary-eyed woman with slender veins along her temples, talking to a friend. She looks to be of Kes descent or Delenian like Rudjek’s mother. “What will the Kingdom do when there’s another drought or a famine? Who’s going to help us if all the witchdoctors are gone?”
“Can you stop thinking about yourself for once?” her friend says, glaring at her. “They’re gone—every single one of them. It’s horrible.”
I cringe as the gong rings the third and final time. Some two thousand people fill the circular benches that face each other. The coliseum’s mosaic ceiling shrouds them in a prism of flitting shadows. I recognize many of their faces from the days my mother stood against Suran Omari at past assemblies. Beyond them, the two-tiered stage looms over the crowd. Arti and the seers used to sit on one side of the first tier, the Vizier and his guildmasters on the other side. Now there are six empty high-backed chairs in the middle of the tier.
The royal family once occupied a gilded box o
n the second tier, high above the first. The late Almighty One, Jerek Sukkara, and his sons, Crown Prince Darnek and Second Son Tyrek. Tyrek, who had looked upon the rivalry between Rudjek’s father and my mother with keen interest. Now there’s only shadows and cobwebs and the echo of memories in the royal family’s place.
Two gendars in full body armor drag Tyrek from a private room behind the first tier. They force him to his knees, and his head dips between his sunken shoulders. His exquisite blue elara trimmed in silver does nothing to hide the bruises on his gaunt face or the cuts on his rough-shaven head. I can hardly stand to look at him, knowing that he chose to side with my sister. He seized his chance to take the throne while letting the demons prey upon the city.
“How dare you put a Sukkara on his knees,” shouts Prince Derane from his perch on the highest bench in the audience. A dozen Sukkaras with their ram’s head pendants and fine clothes surround him. With Tyrek’s arrest, he should be on the second tier—he should be Almighty One. “It is a show of disrespect to the gods themselves.”
“You are mistaken, Prince Derane,” says a voice that silences the coliseum. Suran Omari enters the stage from the hidden door, followed by his four guildmasters. He glides across the tier in a white-and-gold elara that shimmers as he moves. Bile burns a trail of fire up my throat, and my magic coils tight underneath my skin. I push down an urge to burn him where he stands. “Even those of us with divine ties to the gods must learn to subjugate ourselves before the eyes of justice.”
“Were you interested in justice, I would be in your place,” Prince Derane says, rallying the crowd. The coliseum falls into chaos as Suran Omari and the guildmasters move to take their seats.
After not seeing Suran since the day he banished my family, I’d almost forgotten how much Rudjek looks like him. The resemblance is jarring. His once chiseled jaw has gone slack with age, but Rudjek has his angular face, haunting dark eyes, and thick eyebrows. Suran is tall, too, broad shouldered, though he’s soft around the waist. He keeps his hair cropped so short you can hardly tell that it’s curly like his son’s. I bite back my anger—why should he get to be alive, healthy, and well, while my father suffered to the end of his days?
