“It’s the law,” Thaddace interjected. “Divine law, Nawusi. She washed in the basin. We at least have to check if she has a Hallow; we can’t get rid of her without breaking the rules—”
“Hang the rules,” snapped Nawusi. “If Ekundayo anoints this brat onto his council, his Ray won’t be able to protect him. We might as well sign his death warrant.”
“And you know this to be fate?”
The woman paused, pressing her lips together. “I did not see it in the stars,” she admitted. “But the girl is that woman’s spawn.”
Thaddace sighed. “If we deny her a chance, we profane holy rites. Dayo’s council could be cursed forever. Is that your suggestion?”
Nawusi gripped the arms of her chair, fixing me with her spearhead stare. “Murder is in that child’s blood,” she whispered, and I shivered.
“It seems,” said a fluting voice, “we must determine if this girl is truthful. Shall I examine her?”
The speaker was lounging on a couch in front of Thaddace. She was Swanian, and the loveliest person I had ever seen. Her coily curls were shorn close to her scalp, and gold powder shimmered on high, dark cheekbones. Dots of white paint adorned the bridge of her nose and arched above each eyelid, and the pelican pendant worn by priests of Am twinkled on her willowy neck.
“I am Mbali,” she said. “Come here, Tarisai.”
A tattooed line on her chin marked Mbali as a griot. I had only ever heard of them in story scrolls—griots were singers of histories and stories, the most sacred of Arit priests. As I approached, Thaddace’s hands closed protectively on Mbali’s shoulders.
She tilted my chin so her mirror-black eyes poured into mine. I warmed, as I always did when touched. Then my head swam, and my vision blurred. Scrambling for control, I placed my hand over Mbali’s and tried to steal her story. But the priestess’s mental shields were made of adamant. Her mind pushed back . . . and won.
Calm flooded my thoughts like smoke over a beehive. My arms hung limp at my sides.
“Now,” intoned Mbali, “we shall have the truth. Tarisai, did your mother send you here to kill the emperor?”
I could not lie, even if I wished to do so. “No,” I said.
A relieved murmur rippled through the room. “Very well,” she continued. “Did your mother send you here to kill Ekundayo, Crown Prince of Aritsar?”
“I’ve never heard of him,” I said truthfully. “Not until today.”
Mbali beamed and stroked my cheek. “Am be praised,” she sighed. “I ached to imagine that The Lady might have corrupted a child. If your soul is pure, we shall strive to keep it so.”
I glanced around the room. Apparently Mbali’s power could convince a room full of skeptics. Previously hostile faces had now softened with interest . . . except for Olugbade’s and Nawusi’s, which looked as wary as ever.
“It doesn’t matter how innocent she is,” Nawusi said, perking up. “She can’t join the Prince’s Council without a Hallow.”
Olugbade nodded, looking relieved. “The Lady could not have force-bred a Hallowed child. That would be an act of the gods.” He leaned forward with a pitying smile. “There is a difference between a talent and a Hallow, you see. Hallows are unteachable: an ability so vast, it could only be bestowed at birth. Few children qualify, but to please the law, we will let you try. Did The Lady train you to recite epic poems? That’s a popular one.” He chuckled. “Or let me guess: You’re a juggler, or a master hyena-tamer.”
“Mother didn’t teach me anything,” I retorted. “I can see your memories.”
Again the room fell silent. Fear returned to the courtiers’ faces.
“You mean,” Olugbade said slowly, “that you can imagine what you think happened years ago. Memories that your mother has fed you.”
I shook my head. “I told you—The Lady doesn’t tell me anything. And I don’t like going back years; it makes my head hurt.”
“Why don’t you demonstrate,” said Mbali.
I touched her cheek, as she had touched mine. Her skin was smooth and cool, though the tattoo on her chin thrummed with heat. I closed my eyes. The first memory was from early this morning. Thaddace’s face leaned toward Mbali. He smiled warmly, his beard prickling her cheek—then his lips were on Mbali, and then—
I jerked back from her, my eyes wide as moons.
“Well?” She cocked her head.
“I . . . didn’t see anything that time,” I stuttered. “I’ll try again.” I touched her tentatively, hoping the next memory would not include the strange games adults played. I was lucky. “You were at a banquet last night,” I told Mbali. “A party with just your council and the emperor. There was lots of food. You told a story.” I snuck a glance at Olugbade. “The story made His Imperial Highness angry.”
The griot priestess froze, and the pulse at her temple quickened.
“She could have learned that from servants talking,” Nawusi said quickly. “This proves nothing.”
“But no one else heard the story,” Mbali whispered. “No one but our council.”
“Let’s see her repeat it,” demanded Nawusi.
I touched Mbali’s face again, reliving the private banquet. The griot priestess had accompanied herself on a talking drum, holding the goatskin-covered gourd in the crook of her arm. The drum’s pitch had risen and fallen with Mbali’s voice. My hips swayed with the pulsing beat as I repeated the story.
“There is a farmer’s son with a mango tree, aheh. He keeps it in a pot by his sleeping mat. So frail, his tree! He whispers to it day and night. He enjoys the perfume of its branches, ashe, ashe. Most children keep dogs, goats, chickens. But not our farmer’s son. For he fears any beast that can bark, aroo, or bite, gnatche.
“His tree has no mouth. His tree has no claws. His tree depends on him, only him, for water, wishe, for light, ra.
“‘Poor tree,’ he murmurs. See him caress the branches. ‘You are too small for fruit. You are useless for the farm. You are useless for the market. You are useless to everyone but me.’
“But the branches thicken and grow, aheh! Up, up, up, in one night! ‘Poor tree,’ scoffs our farmer’s son. He plucks the single mango. ‘I am surprised you can blossom at all.’
“The next morning, three mangoes greet him: za, za, za! ‘You will never make fruit for the market,’ says our farmer’s son.
“Up, up—our tree, she grows in the night. See her branches make shadows, long and thick. The boy watches and his knees shake, didun, didun. ‘It’s just my little tree,’ he says. ‘It would be dead without me.’
“The next morning, there are twenty mangoes.
“Ka! Ka! The farmer’s son hacks off every branch. ‘It is for the tree’s own good,’ he says. ‘The weight would strain its little boughs.’ But the tree keeps growing: gung-gung, gung-gung. ‘I will move it to a smaller pot,’ he says. The roots creep over the tiny clay pot. See them burrow deep, deep into the dirt floor. ‘I will stop watering it,’ says our farmer’s son.
“But the tree, she has learned to blossom on her own.
“The boy hacks—ka! ka!—but the tree grows, gung-gung, gung-gung. See her branches fill the boy’s room! See him cower in her shadow!
“Ehmm-ehmm, the neighbors smell the mango perfume. They come to gape at the boy’s tree. ’Aheh! What wonder! The fruit will feed the whole village!’
“Krah! Krah! The boy cuts the tree down.
“Rra! He burns her branches.
“‘The neighbors were wrong,’ he says as the blaze grows high. ‘The tree could never be useful without me.’
“How peacefully he sleeps now, ashh, ashh. There are no branches. There are no shadows. But smell . . .
“Was that a hint of mango?
“Perhaps we imagine it, kye, kye!
“Or perhaps a seed survived the flames. Whish—see it drift on the wind, and fly where the boy cannot find it. See it take root in the earth. See children lounge in its shadow.
“See as the boy’s name i
s forgotten.
“Aheh: my story is done.”
My voice had grown hoarse by the ending line. When my hand fell at last from Mbali’s cheek, the griot priestess was trembling. Confused, I followed her gaze to Olugbade.
The emperor of Aritsar was staring at me with cold, simmering hatred.
Mbali’s arm slipped around me protectively. Energy vibrated through the room, and the men and women exchanged looks, speaking without words. Their mouths remained closed, but the faint voices floated in the air, like chattering leaves on overhead branches.
“It doesn’t matter whether or not she wants to kill Dayo,” Nawusi finally said out loud. “If this brat has that woman’s power, then she is just as dangerous as any assassin.”
“The girl does not have power,” Olugbade insisted. “And neither does her mother. That woman is an imposter. I will not hear any speculation of her legitimacy.”
“Olu.” Mbali sighed. “No matter how we examine this, the safest place for Tarisai is on Dayo’s council.”
“Have you lost your mind?” shrilled Nawusi.
“We already know she has a Hallow,” Mbali insisted. “If Tarisai has another power—”
“She doesn’t,” Olugbade said.
“If she does,” Mbali persisted, “this is the only way we can guarantee she never uses it against Dayo. The Children’s Palace is secure, isolated from the outside world. On Dayo’s council, we could shield her from The Lady’s influence more effectively than anywhere else.”
After a long deliberation, several begrudging voices spoke around the room: “Dayo’s council . . . Mbali’s right . . . Her memory gift could be useful . . . Strict surveillance . . . Give it a try . . .”
“Fine,” Nawusi said finally, rigid in her chair. “She can meet the prince. But only after we have tried our last option.” She stood and approached me, back straight as a palace spire. Her face twitched as she tried, unconvincingly, to look friendly. “Are you hungry, child?”
“I don’t know.” I fidgeted. “A little.”
She reached into her robe pocket and produced a shiny red fruit. The room tensed immediately.
“Nawusi . . . ,” Thaddace growled. “Don’t be rash—”
“Do you know what this is, Tarisai?” Nawusi cooed. “No, you don’t have these in Swana. But in Oluwan City, we eat delicacies from all over the empire. This is called an apple. They grow far to the north. Won’t you take a bite?”
“No!” Mbali exclaimed, rising to her feet. “Nawusi, how could you?”
“You’re the one who’s so sure of her power, Mbali,” Nawusi retorted. “If you’re right, then perhaps she has nothing to fear from me.”
“We must obey the law, Nawusi,” Thaddace objected. “And for Am’s sake, she’s a child.”
“Olugbade?” Nawusi turned to the emperor, raising an expectant eyebrow.
Olugbade leaned back in his chair, tenting his hands over the obsidian mask. At last, he said weakly, “Give it to her.”
Mbali’s face slackened with horror. “Olu.”
But the emperor ignored the priestess, wincing at me. “I fear we are frightening you, little one. Sometimes, adults argue over silly things. But you need not fear. Take the apple.”
A small voice in my head told me to run.
But where would I go? There were guards outside the door, and these people were powerful in ways I dared not guess. What if they chased me? Besides . . . Arit emperors were good. They were perfect.
I took the apple. Everyone in the room held their breath. I raised the smooth-skinned fruit, opened my mouth, and . . .
Mbali reached me in two strides, knocked the apple out of my hand, then kneeled and pressed me to her chest.
“Am will punish us for this,” she whispered. “Poisoning a child is an unclean game to play. No matter how powerful that child may be.”
I recoiled, staring at the apple on the floor with horror. What was this place, where adults tried to kill children? Why had The Lady sent me here?
I began to cry. Mbali made a soothing noise, pushing a wayward coil from my face. “Let us start again,” she said. “I am the High Priestess of Aritsar. Everyone in this room is a member of Olugbade’s Eleven. And really—it’s lovely to meet you, Tarisai.”
“I don’t understand,” I hiccupped.
“Aritsar is ruled by twelve people. When the emperor is a young boy, he anoints eleven children, one from each realm, to rule beside him until death. These children are gifted, special, and loyal only to the emperor.”
“And,” Thaddace murmured, “to each other.”
Mbali shot him what appeared to be a warning look . . . but she nodded. “A child on the council gains not only power, but a family.”
Curiosity crept into my fear. I remembered Kirah’s joke on the stairs: If we both pass the trials, we’re stuck together for life. My whole life, I had longed for friends who stayed. For the people I loved to never disappear. I glanced at the men and women clustered around Olugbade, faces animated in silent conversation. That was how I had always imagined being part of a family: draped across one another like a pride of lions, trading giggles and secrets.
“If I want to join the prince’s Eleven,” I said slowly, “what do I have to do?”
“Well . . . above all, you must love Crown Prince Ekundayo, and devote your life to his service.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Love the prince? That’s it?”
“In summary.” Mbali waved a hand. “There are other tests, to be sure. But what matters most is your connection with the Ray: the power of Kunleo emperors. It allows them to join eleven minds to their own. If you succeed, the prince will offer you both the Ray and his hand in councilhood. Your choice is permanent. Nothing is more important than your love—than your loyalty. Do you understand, Tarisai?” She stood and reached for me. “Good. I think you’ll like the prince. He’s—”
“Wait,” I said. “How do you all know Mother? Has she been here before?”
Another pause from Mbali. “The Lady lived at the Children’s Palace a long time ago, when Emperor Olugbade was a boy. It would be best, Tarisai, if you do not speak of your mother while at An-Ileyoba. Few people are old enough to remember when she lived here, but those who do may not look . . . kindly on your connection. If anyone asks, your parents are middling gentry, prosperous farmers from the Owatu region in Swana. Can you remember that?”
I nodded reluctantly. Then I scanned the room with new interest, trying to imagine The Lady as a child. “Was my mother a candidate? Did she fail?”
“She failed in every way,” Olugbade intoned. “She was not aspiring to be a council member.”
“Oh. Then why did she—”
“It’s no use bringing up the past,” Mbali said briskly. “You write your story, not the people who came before you. Come.”
We crossed the room to a gilded set of doors behind Olugbade’s Eleven. My hand in hers, we entered a place that made me dizzy from gazing.
“Welcome to the Children’s Palace,” said Mbali. “The happiest place in An-Ileyoba.”
Sunlight streamed into a high-domed chamber of blue and gold. Rays glinted off a mountain of toys and a menagerie of rideable wooden animals from every Arit realm. Children on zebras and tigers scooted past me, jeering and screaming in chase. Servants in brocade wrappers bustled about, holding fruit trays and water pitchers.
Mbali caught a child by the arm: the girl I had met on the stairs. I smiled at Kirah, relieved that she had passed the mysterious trial. She beamed back and curtsied to Mbali. “Anointed Honor! Is it time for another test?”
“Not yet, my dear,” Mbali replied. “But can you help me find Ekundayo? I can’t pick him out in this crowd.”
Kirah’s round face flushed. “None of us can, Your Anointed Honor. He’s been hiding since I got here.” She gestured at a large group of children, who were throwing open cabinets and peeking under tables. As the groups of searchers disemboweled the room, shrieking the prince’s nam
e . . . I felt a pang of familiarity.
My tutors had often searched for me in Bhekina House. I had hidden for hours, plugging my ears to the sound of my name as it echoed through every hall. My tutors feared The Lady, and so their lives had revolved around me: my every success and failure.
Empathy surged inside me for this prince I had never met.
“He’s not in here,” I said.
Mbali looked down at me in surprise. “How do you know?”
I shrugged, scanning the room. “Too many people. And the cabinets would be too easy.”
Mbali’s mouth twitched.” Then we had better look somewhere else.”
We left Kirah and passed through the brightly painted halls of the Children’s Palace. It was a miniature version of An-Ileyoba’s central wing, Mbali told me, and in one room, the floor was a giant marble checkerboard, where giggling children stood in place of the pieces. In another, dining tables brimmed with oranges, fried plantains, sticky fig cakes, and mountains of treats I couldn’t name. The wing even had a mock throne room—a chamber with mirrored ceilings and twelve child-size thrones. At last, I lingered in a large, airy room with a dais in the center. Murals of long-dead councils glittered overhead, depicted as flower-crowned children, smiling beatifically as they danced in a circle.
“This is the Hall of Dreams,” said Mbali. “You will conduct much of your training here during the day, and sleep here at night.” Rolled sleeping mats lay stacked in neat piles against the walls. Tied-up mosquito nets hung in gauzy festoons from the ceiling, and embroidered constellations shimmered in silver and blue across the netting. When the nets were let down, they would look like the heavens, tumbling to the bodies of children below.
“At night, a screen separates the boys from the girls. The prince sleeps there, in the middle.” She pointed to the raised platform. “Someday, his council will sleep close beside him.”
Lofty unglazed windows sank into arches along one wall, shielded by white damask curtains, which glowed with sunlight and shuddered in the breeze.
“Here,” I murmured. “He’s in here.”
Mbali raised an eyebrow. “How do you know?”
“It’s where I would hide. It’s so open that no one would look very hard.” One of the curtains wrinkled more than the others. I approached it, spying dark brown toes and the tips of golden sandals at the curtain’s edge.
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