by Rena Barron
“Of course,” I say, eager. “I’ll make sure we run the entire staff through drills to prepare for your arrival.” She doesn’t even scoff at my poor attempt at humor. Nothing I say could make this day less of a disaster.
She comes to her feet, finally cracking a shadow of a smile. “Until tomorrow, Crown Prince.”
“Raëke will stay near you in the West Market,” I say, thinking about the demons in the alley. “In case anyone gets any ideas.”
“Thank you.” Arrah passes so close her magic brushes against my skin. It’s only a tickle, an insatiable itch, an urge to react. Part of me wants to take her into my arms—to drown her in kisses—but the anti-magic pulls me away. The feeling only abates when she’s gone. Burning fires. I’m relieved to be free of it.
When I enter into the wing of the palace reserved for the Crown Prince, I’m second-guessing myself. I should have left Fadyi or Jahla to help Raëke guard Arrah against the demons. Or maybe stationed half the City Guard at her doorstep. I can’t stop thinking about the demon in the alley and the two dozen people he’d killed without regard.
The five of us—Fadyi, Jahla, Majka, Kira, and me—enter a salon that belonged to Crown Prince Darnek. The palace is the only place I’m allowed to roam without guards, so I send the others away. I’m glad to be rid of Captain Dakte for the time being.
The salon is eccentric and not at all to my taste. Swathes of white gossamer drape from the ceiling like spiderwebs that I have to keep pushing out of my face. I bump into one of the dozen couches and stumble over piles of pillows. None of which is half as absurd as the stage in one of the corners. Like his father and uncle, my Sukkara cousin loved his indulgences.
“I sealed off the attendants’ passageways in your wing of the palace last night,” Jahla says, headed straight for the window. She’s still in the white sheath. “There’s no way in or out, and no way for your father to spy on you here.”
Majka dramatically clutches at his chest. “I hope you made sure the passageways were empty first. I’d hate it if some poor soul got stuck inside.”
“Of course.” Jahla grimaces. “Do you take me for a fool?”
“That was a joke,” Majka grumbles under his breath.
Jahla waves like he’s a gnat buzzing around her ear and turns to peer out the window. Before our eyes, her clothes change from her fitted sheath to a loose white elara. I have to remind myself that she isn’t wearing clothes at all—she’s only creating an illusion for our benefit. Though the thought that she’s naked makes me avert my eyes.
Majka nudges my shoulder. “I don’t think she likes me.”
“Stop messing around, will you.” I unbuckle my sword belt and drop my shotels on the nearest couch. I miss the weight of them almost immediately. “We need to figure out if the demons can open this gate.”
“Can’t you put in a good word for me, though?” Majka whispers. “I’m your most loyal friend, and I deserve that much from you.”
“You do realize that she can hear your every word.” I glance at Jahla’s back. “Those superior craven senses, remember?”
“Oh, good.” Majka lets out a sigh. “I do love an awkward courtship.”
Jahla scoffs at the window, but she doesn’t acknowledge Majka otherwise.
“I read about the gate in my advanced history lessons.” Kira perches on the edge of a couch and pulls a dagger from a hidden sheath in her uniform. “Iben, the orisha of time, built it,” she explains. “He bent the distance between two points to connect one world to the next. Some scholars believe that he connected them all.”
“Not every world,” comes a drawling voice. I whirl around to find Re’Mec, the sun god, lying on his side on the stage, cloaked in shadows. I groan at the sight of him. After the demons and that mockery of a trial, the last thing I want to deal with is a pompous god in need of attention. “Iben was a dreamer. He would cut a door to a world, then he’d linger for centuries on end, getting to know it.”
Re’Mec climbs to his feet, his movements languid, his shadows writhing like a pit of vipers. As he crosses the salon, they settle around him in a blanket of fog. I blink as the edges of my vision blur. My eyelids droop, my mind slows. My knees suddenly go weak, and I can’t stop staring at Re’Mec as his shadows bleed across the floor, creeping closer to me. He is without a doubt captivating.
“It’s a thing of glory to behold your god, isn’t it?” Re’Mec snaps me out of my daze. His body shifts into that of his persona Tam—a golden-haired, brown-skinned boy in a black elara.
I shake the cobwebs from my head and bite back the insult on the tip of my tongue. I don’t have time for his little games. “So let me get this straight. The demons wouldn’t have come here if the orishas hadn’t connected our two worlds through this gate. Meaning the war that almost destroyed our world five thousand years ago was your fault.”
“Well, if you put it that way, yes,” Re’Mec says. “Koré’s first children, the demons, lived on a world we call Ilora. They were the first of any of our children to discover the gate and figure out how to use it. The demons and their endoyan cousins, who they called their familiars, formed a trade relationship with Zöran, your world. All was well until one of my sisters—you know her as the Unnamed orisha—made the demons immortal. They became insufferable after that.”
“I don’t get it,” Majka interrupts. “If you’re all-powerful, why do you need this gate to travel from one world to the next?”
“Because the universe is vast, even for a god, and it keeps expanding,” Kira answers as if it should be obvious.
“It’s not expanding anymore.” Re’Mec glowers, his lips turned down. “When my sister stole immortality from the Supreme Cataclysm, she upset the balance. Now the Supreme Cataclysm does not create—it only destroys, and the universe is finite.”
“The gate, Re’Mec,” I press him. “We don’t care about the orisha origin story.”
Some part of me mourns Tam—his snark, his absurd lies, his stories. Though he and Re’Mec have the same personality, it will never be the same between us.
“I’ll get to that soon,” Re’Mec says, “but first, you need to understand history. We were born with the same need to create as the Supreme Cataclysm, but the space around it was unstable. We needed distance, so Iben cut a path to the edge of the universe, where we built Ilora, Zöran, and countless other worlds.”
“You’re saying that the gate existed before mortal life?” I ask.
“No”—Kira frowns—“he’s saying that life exists because of the gate.”
Re’Mec winks at her. “Smart girl.”
I sift through the plethora of new information fighting for space in my mind. “The demon in the alley said that Shezmu is planning to reunite the demon army and destroy Zöran. Does he have the power to control the gate? And if he does, why hasn’t he opened it already?”
“Shezmu killed Iben and ate his soul, so, yes, he can control the gate,” Re’Mec explains. “As far as why he hasn’t opened it, I assume he has some grander scheme in mind. Shezmu was always a good strategist. He’ll open the gate at the opportune moment.”
“Burning fires,” Kira swears. “The demons ate the souls of gods, too?”
Re’Mec looks miserable as he nods confirmation. “Most of them died from indigestion, but some, like Shezmu, did not.”
Majka laughs, but then abruptly stops when we all glare at him. “What?”
I shove down the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. What chance do we stand against an army that can bring gods to their knees? I push the thought away—it doesn’t matter how powerful the demons are. They aren’t infallible. They must have a weakness, or they’ll make a mistake. “Why haven’t you killed Shezmu yourself?”
“He’s hiding from me,” Re’Mec says, his voice low and resentful.
“What about the box with the Demon King’s soul?” Fadyi asks, leaning against the wall next to the door. He and Jahla have positioned themselves near the only exits in the sal
on, ever the watchful guardians. “Has the moon orisha found it?”
“No.” Re’Mec narrows his eyes, his tone icy. “She has hundreds of worlds to search, and without the gate, that is not an easy task even for our kind. Speaking metaphorically, my sister is quick-footed, but the universe is vast. Think of it as looking for a blade of grass in the entirety of Zöran. It will take time.”
Majka stares at the sun orisha in disbelief. “How can she not know where it is?”
“My sister erased her memories of where she hid the box in case her encounter with Efiya went bad.” Re’Mec’s anger sends waves of heat through the salon, and Majka scrunches up his nose like he smells something rank.
“So Koré doesn’t have access to the gate, but Shezmu does,” I say as the puzzle pieces start to click together. “The box is not on our world, or else Koré would’ve found it already. It stands to reason that Shezmu has kept the gate closed to slow down her search, but it has to be more than that. Shezmu must be using the gate to look for the Demon King’s soul himself. Perhaps he won’t attack until he is sure that his master is safe from the orishas.”
“Shezmu is strong, but he can’t free the Demon King even if he does find the box.” Re’Mec brushes off the idea, but his voice is tense. “My twin sister is quite talented in her own right, and Iben’s gift would be no match for her power. The Demon King’s soul will stay imprisoned as long as you keep Arrah in line. She’s the wild card in this game. She has Heka’s magic—and his magic has proven itself to be unpredictable.”
“What does Arrah have to do with any of this?” I scoff at his accusation, though I remember that moment in the coliseum when her magic had felt like hot knives. “The last time I checked, she’s the only one of us who lost everything to save the world. She’s done nothing for you to cast such doubt on her.”
“How quickly you forget,” the sun god snaps. “Her mother hadn’t done anything, either, until she sacrificed children to wake a demon. Her sister destroyed thousands of people in a matter of months. Let’s just say that her family has a particular propensity for ruination. Arrah has more magic now than any mortal before her—she is a very dangerous creature, even if you haven’t figured that out yet.”
Fadyi and Jahla exchange a meaningful glance like they’re in agreement. I should’ve told Arrah about the demons in the city. She deserves to know the truth, and contrary to what Re’Mec might think, she would never use her magic for the wrong reasons. “We have more important things to worry about than Arrah at the moment,” I say, annoyed at the lot of them. “How many demons are left in Ilora? We need to know what to expect if they attack.”
“As far as I recall, ten thousand, give or take a few hundred.” Re’Mec shrugs. “You can expect total annihilation if Shezmu opens the gate. The demons here are weak from five thousand years of imprisonment. The ones in Ilora will have no such limitations. They will make the ones you faced in the tribal lands look like amateurs.”
“As far as you recall? From five millennia ago?” Kira says, flinching at his words. “There have to be millions of them now.”
“I’m positive that their population hasn’t changed in that time,” Re’Mec corrects her. “They no longer have the ability to bear offspring, or your world would be overrun in days, instead of, say, a year.”
“Where is the gate?” I groan. This keeps getting worse, and I fear what will become of the Almighty Kingdom if Shezmu opens the gate. The massacre in the alley will be nothing compared to the havoc he will unleash upon our world if we don’t stop him. “Assuming that Shezmu is searching for the Demon King’s soul right now, then he’ll have to come back through it. We can set a trap for him.”
“If it were that simple, we wouldn’t be having this conversation,” Re’Mec says, his voice devoid of its usual humor. “If Shezmu has full control over the gate, he’ll be able to open it anywhere he chooses.”
Twelve
Arrah
The Temple loyalists shove people out of my path. I am at once grateful and disturbed as they slap away stray hands reaching out to touch me. People shout to and at me, their voices a chorus of chaos that makes my head throb. Arti would never have had to ask people to make space for her—she would’ve made her own way. She wouldn’t have let Suran Omari make a fool of her, either.
“He won’t get away with outlawing magic,” Emere says, keeping pace with me while the loyalists fan out around us in the West Market. “The Sukkaras aren’t the only devout followers of the Temple with influence. We’ll gather support.”
My sandals scrape against the cobblestones as I head for my father’s shop. Today was a painful reminder that people like Suran Omari will always distrust magic. If he succeeds in banning it, where will that leave me—how will I run the shop? I don’t want to give up, but I don’t want to become the target of his agenda—though it might be too late for that. “Be careful with him, Emere,” I warn her. “He will do anything to get what he wants—my mother knew that best.”
Emere puts a hand on my shoulder. “You may want no part of the life of a seer, but it suits your temperament to help those in need. If you do change your mind, you always know where to find me.”
“Goodbye, Emere,” I say, and I leave her and the rest of the loyalists behind. If anything, after this debacle, I have even more reason to stay away from the Temple and Kingdom politics.
I don’t know how Arti stood toe to toe with Suran Omari and always looked so unbothered by him. He irks me to no end. I’m already dreading seeing him at the Almighty Palace tomorrow, but I push that out of my mind. I don’t have time for Suran’s games. I must tell Essnai about the Zu mask, so we can plan for the journey back to the tribal lands with Sukar. As much as I hate to admit it, Rudjek can’t come with us. His anti-magic might hinder our search, and it’s not as if his father would let him anyway. Whether I like it or not, he is the Crown Prince of the Almighty Kingdom and that comes before all else.
It’s hard to temper the flame growing inside me—knowing there’s still a chance some of the tribal people are alive. Only months ago, I was an outsider without magic in the tribes, and now I am an outsider in Tamar with it. I have to believe that one day the tribes will come together for another Blood Moon and that I will be with them. Even if Heka never comes back to the tribal lands, the people will pick up the pieces of their lives and start again.
I’m almost in front of the shop when Chima and a man in a dusty teal kaftan—one of the charlatans from the East Market—approach the door. They both hold on to one of Mami’s arms. Her brown skin is slick with sweat, and she’s clutching her chest. “How long has she been like this?” I ask, rushing over to meet them.
“Thank Heka,” Chima says upon seeing me. “Since this morning—I came to fetch you earlier, but you were already out.”
“Let’s get her inside.” I open the door quickly. “Put her on the pallet.”
“Can you help her?” Chima asks, his eyes rimmed with tears. “Is it too late?”
“I’ll try.” I kneel at Mami’s side. She writhes in pain, her eyes screwed shut while she murmurs nonsense. I press a hand above her heart, and my magic wakes under my skin. I reach for a memory from the Litho chieftain that allows me to find what ails her heart. Flashes of flesh and blood and bone fill my head. I clench my teeth to push back my headache and the dizziness that nearly overcomes me.
Broken, the Litho chieftain whispers in my ear in his harsh voice.
He means that her heart is failing—she’s dying. I rush through the chieftains’ memories again, looking for a ritual to direct my magic. The Mulani chieftain knows a blood medicine that restores organs, but it takes two days to brew. Grandmother’s method needs two witchdoctors to perform, and I don’t think the charlatan will be of any use. The magic I sense from him is too faint. The Kes chieftain’s technique involves cutting open Mami’s chest. I could use Beka’s scrivener magic, but I haven’t the time to prepare the ink.
“Stop hesitating, girl—do someth
ing,” the charlatan demands from behind me.
“I’m . . . I’m trying to think of a ritual that’ll help.” I pause. “Give me a moment.”
“You can do it without a ritual,” the charlatan insists.
“It’s too risky.” I shake my head. “I need to channel the magic.”
“If you don’t do something soon,” he says, “she will die.”
“Arrah, please,” Chima begs.
I climb up from the floor—the charlatan is right. There isn’t much time, but I must protect Mami in case things go wrong. I grab sulfur and salt and make a circle around her like my father used to do for his sick patrons. “Stay out of the circle,” I tell Chima and the charlatan. The powder looks plain compared to the rituals in the chieftains’ memories, but it will work all the same. It will keep her soul from ascending into death.
I kneel beside Mami again, listening to her ragged breathing and the echo of her broken heartbeat. She’s unconscious now, which is for the best. I’m counting on the Litho chieftain’s traditions, and I don’t trust his work to not be painful, for both Mami and me.
I reach for the aimless magic in the shop, and it gathers in my palms until the colors blend into white light. It burns my skin, but I push back the pain and begin to stretch and braid the light into a rope that tethers Mami to me. With the Litho chieftain’s knowledge, I can grow her a new heart out of magic, but it must be a copy of my own.
Chima paces out of my line of sight. “What are you doing?”
“She’s building a bridge between herself and your mother,” answers the charlatan for me.
Chima stops abruptly. “Is that good?”
“It’s . . .” The charlatan stutters. “It’s beautiful.”
“Shh,” I hiss. “I need to concentrate.”
I press one end of the rope to my chest and the other end to Mami’s. The connection is immediate—it feels like a rush of water against my face, almost like drowning. I gasp to catch my breath as the sound of two heartbeats echoes in my ears. One is a murmur, and one is fast and steady. I squeeze my eyes shut against the pain building in my chest and the splitting headache.
