The Redemptor man stepped forward and bowed, mocking the gesture by prolonging it. “Anointed Honor.”
“Thank you for coming,” I responded politely. “Songland is very far from Ebujo. Were your travels difficult, sir . . . ?”
When I waited for his name, the man gave me a sardonic look, as though I had asked a question to which we both knew the answer.
“My name is Woo In,” he said with a taut smile. “And the most harrowing journey of my life began in this room.”
My face heated as he looked past me toward the steaming Oruku Breach. “Of course,” I murmured, ashamed at my insensitivity. “This temple must hold terrible memories. I’m honored you would return here on my behalf. Please accept my deepest gratitude.”
Woo In swept a dark blue cloak over his birthmarked shoulder, and bent to plant an icy kiss on my seal ring. “I have no need of gratitude,” he said. “But I will accept justice: your assurance that my story never happens to any Songland child again.”
I withdrew my hand sharply. “What are you talking about?”
Instead of responding, Woo In beckoned to his companion. The cloaked isoken held the hand of a young Redemptor girl. The child curtsied, looking at me with strong, inquisitive features, her skin completely covered in geometric patterns. I noted the difference between her marks and Woo In’s—his were purple and glittering, and hers blue and soft. The marks of a Redemptor who had not yet crossed the Underworld.
“I’m Ye Eun,” she piped up. “It’s nice to meet you, Anointed Honor.” On her short dark hair, she wore a lily-of-the-valley flower crown. Shyly, she offered a matching crown to me. I bowed my head, allowing her to lay it atop my twisted coils.
“Thank you,” I said.
She grinned as though we shared a secret. “You’re as pretty as your mother.”
I froze. “I . . . What did you say?”
“You’re going to save us,” she said cheerily. “The Lady promised it would happen any day now, but first, you’ve got to get your memories back. I hope it’s soon. I don’t have long before . . .” Her gaze traveled to the Breach beyond me.
The child was delusional. Was that a side effect of being a Redemptor? Poor thing; her parents had likely abandoned her at birth. “Ye Eun,” I said. “How old are you?”
“Almost eleven,” she chirped.
My stomach turned to knots. Redemptor children were supposed to be surrendered to the Breach at age ten. Failure to comply, according to the histories, meant retaliation from the Underworld.
But surely the old stories weren’t all true. How could the abiku—the spirits with whom Enoba had forged the Redemptor Treaty—resent the loss of one tiny girl? My heart lightened. The Emperor’s Council had the power to help Ye Eun. They could make an exception to the Treaty, certainly. I just needed to buy her time.
I leaned forward, grasping Ye Eun’s shoulders. “Listen, I need you to hide. Here in the temple, out of sight of the priests. I’ll send for you once the ceremonies are over. Then you can come visit me in Yorua Keep. How does that sound?”
Ye Eun’s grin broadened, but she looked at Woo In and the isoken woman for permission. They shrugged, and so the girl giggled with excitement and disappeared into the crowd.
“Are you her guardians?” I asked the strangers.
Woo In’s expression hardened. “All Redemptors are my brothers and sisters. And any person who would hinder their freedom is my enemy.”
The isoken woman came forward then, smirking as she presented me with a talking drum. “My name is Kathleen, oh great Anointed One. Please accept this humble gift. If rumors are to be believed, it once belonged to the Empress Aiyetoro. Such an artifact must contain priceless stories, and only a Hallow such as yours could retrieve them. Perhaps such stories will remind you of your own.”
I examined the gift with reverent fingers. The gourd was shaped like an hourglass, strung head-to-head with strips of taut goatskin that determined the pitch. A beating stick was nestled in the skins for safekeeping. Emblazoned around the drum’s face was a pattern of discs and interlinking hands, and a line in the script of ancient Oluwan. Squinting, I struggled to translate it: The truth will never die, as long as griots keep beating their drums.
“Where did you find this?” I asked.
Woo In smiled crisply. “There are those who would preserve history, instead of choosing to forget it.”
I plunged into the drum’s memories, but when my mind stole into the gourd, only dust and moist darkness teased my senses, along with the skittering of spiders on my skin. I grimaced and withdrew.
“It’s been kept in storage too long,” I said. “My Hallow can only go back a few decades. I could never reach Aiyetoro. But thank you. The gift is precious all the same.”
Woo In and Kathleen looked disappointed.
“I told The Lady that drum wouldn’t work,” the woman complained to Woo In, not bothering to lower her voice. “It’s too indirect. She’ll never remember who she is through ancient artifacts. We need to awaken the ehru inside her.”
“Only The Lady can communicate with Melu,” Woo In muttered. “So she’ll have to solve this problem herself.”
Their words made my veins prickle with cold. Had Sanjeet been right? Did these people know me? More important, why had I chosen to forget them?
But before I could question them further, drums hiccupped through the temple. A palace secretary bearing calfskin scrolls bustled into the chamber, and Woo In and Kathleen vanished into the crowd.
Amid excited murmurs, Dayo received the scroll from the secretary. “Citizens of Aritsar, and honored guests from Songland,” he announced, bowing to each of the groups surrounding us. “My father’s council has long deliberated over the imperial positions my council will inherit. Today, it is my sincerest pleasure to read their decisions.” Silently, he sent each of us a pulse of affection through the Ray.
Ready? Kirah Ray-spoke, and eleven voices echoed in my head. You’re kidding, right? . . . Don’t care which one I get . . . Can’t wait . . . As long as we finally get to move out of that cramped Children’s Palace . . .
Dayo cleared his throat and unfurled the scroll. A grin split his face, and so I knew the first name on the list was no surprise. “As her heir apparent to the title of High Priestess,” Dayo said, “Anointed Honor Mbali of Swana has selected Kirah of Blessid Valley.”
The temple rang with cheers, and Kirah stood, hazel eyes shining. “I accept my title as High Priestess Apparent,” she croaked, and glowed as the imperial secretary came forward to place a gold circlet on her brow.
The next declaration was also no surprise. “As heir apparent to the title of High Lord General,” Dayo said, “Anointed Honor Wagundu of Djbanti has selected Sanjeet of Dhyrma.”
Sanjeet stood, accepting his title and circlet without expression. My heart twinged; Sanjeet hated using his Hallow for violence, and he had hoped for a more peaceful appointment. But Aritsar hadn’t had a civil war in decades, and foreign continents rarely attacked. Perhaps, I hoped naively, he would never have to hurt anyone.
I didn’t know what title to expect for myself. While most of Olugbade’s council had grown used to me, Nawusi still considered me a sin against nature. With her influence, I anticipated that my title would be less than glamorous—High Lady Treasurer, perhaps, responsible for collecting the empire’s taxes. Or High Lady Archdean, tasked with supervising the empire’s stuffy academies and scholar guilds.
Dayo paused before the next reading, taking a moment to face me and beam. “As his heir apparent to the title of High Lord Judge,” he said, “Anointed Honor Thaddace of Mewe has selected Tarisai of Swana.”
My stomach dropped to my sandals.
Judge?
High Lady Judge of Aritsar?
Deciding the fate of Aritsar’s worst traitors and criminals? A sixteen-year-old girl who couldn’t remember her own past beyond five years ago, when she first came to the Children’s Palace? What in Am’s name had Thaddace been
thinking?
I could refuse to accept. But the Emperor’s Council had deliberated for months, and my rejection would start the process all over again. After getting their hopes up for Yorua Keep, my council would have to return to the Children’s Palace—and even then, the results might be the same.
So I rose from my stool, clasped my hands to hide their shaking, and rasped, “I accept my title as High Judge Apparent.” Then I bent my head for the heavy gold circlet.
“You’ll have to take off the flowers first, Anointed Honor,” murmured the secretary.
I had forgotten Ye Eun’s lily-of-the-valley crown. As I removed them and the delegate crowned me, the Redemptor girl’s trusting, inquisitive features flashed in my mind. As High Lady Judge, I could influence the terms of the Redemptor Treaty. If I could help children like Ye Eun . . . maybe being High Lady Judge wouldn’t be that bad.
The rest of the ceremony passed in a blur. A smug Mayazatyl was appointed future High Lady of Castles, head of defense and civil engineering. Ai Ling, Hallowed with formidable powers of persuasion, was appointed future High Lady Ambassador, in charge of interrealm trade. Umansa, who could read vague fortunes in the stars, would be High Lord Treasurer, and Zathulu, with his bookish head for facts, would be a competent High Lord Archdean. Thérèse, our Hallowed green thumb, was destined to be High Lady of Harvests; and Kameron, who had routinely snuck dubious animal rescues into the Children’s Palace, happily accepted his future as High Lord of Husbandry. Mysterious Emeronya would regulate sorcery as High Lady Magus, and as future High Lord Laureate, bleeding-heart poet Theo would curate the art and music of all twelve realms.
When all of us were crowned, I allowed myself to relax. Our exhausting journey of diplomacy was almost over. Dayo would conduct the Peace Ritual with the continent ambassadors. Then our council would whisk away via lodestone to Yorua Keep, with nothing to do but study scrolls, play house, and throw sumptuous parties for decades to come.
Priests swept the four corners of the temple, ritually cleansing the chamber. Dayo, the eleven Arit ambassadors, and a royal emissary from Songland came to stand at the altar. A child choir of acolytes sprinkled myrrh around the marble platform and harmonized in rounds:
Sharp and cold the world received you
Warm with blood it sends you home
Back to earth, to holy black
Dark to dark:
Beginning and beginning.
On the altar rested a gourd flask and an ancient oval shield, which had once belonged to Enoba the Perfect. In one year, the thirteen continent rulers would travel to the capital and spill their blood into the shield’s basin, renewing humankind’s vow with the Underworld to uphold the Redemptor Treaty. In today’s ceremony, the Peace Ritual, Dayo, the ambassadors, and the emissary would spill water instead of blood, a good-faith promise that their realms would participate in the official renewal.
“To beginnings,” cheered the ambassadors as one by one they spilled water into the shield, sealing their commitment. First to approach were the ambassadors from the center realms—Djbanti, Nyamba, and Swana—then those from the north—Mewe, Nontes, and Biraslov. Ambassadors from the south, Blessid Valley, Quetzala, and Sparti, and from the east, Moreyao and Dhyrma, were next in line. Then came the emissary from Songland.
He was a bent old man in a sweeping, high-waisted robe who grimaced as he poured into the shield. “To beginnings,” he wheezed. “Songland shall participate in the Treaty Renewal. May it bring peace to our world. And may the parents of the lost children be comforted.”
The onlookers squirmed uncomfortably. The last words had not been scripted into the ritual, though no one dared chastise the emissary.
We all knew that Redemptors had once been born at equal rates throughout the continent. It was horrible that Redemptor children were now born exclusively in Songland, but for the most part, the continent rulers accepted this phenomenon as fate.
Why had Ye Eun thought I could change that?
Songland had tried to boycott the Treaty several times. But the Underworld would not be pacified unless every realm participated in the Treaty ritual. Whenever Songland resisted, the continent crawled with deadly plagues and monsters until at last Songland complied, grimly sending three hundred Redemptors into the Breach each year.
Dayo was last to pour water, representing both Oluwan and the empire of Aritsar. Then one of the choir children gave him a handful of myrrh, which he dropped into the shield. As a sign of the Underworld’s acceptance, the water was supposed to turn brown, the color of earth and fertility. I fidgeted, wishing for the ceremony to end, and for the chance to rest at last.
But the water bubbled and turned white: the color of bones and ash. The color of death.
The priests gasped, murmuring as the sulfuric stench intensified throughout the temple. The blue miasma thickened over the Breach, and up from the shadowy chasm rose two small figures, walking hand in hand.
CHAPTER 11
I had seen drawings of the abiku before—demons that took the form of sickly children, a mocking tribute to Redemptors. But nothing could have prepared me for the creatures who approached the altar.
The courtiers and townspeople shrieked, and my palms broke into a cold sweat. They looked like twins, no older than five or six, with pallid gray skin and eyes made completely of red pupils. They stopped at the barrier of myrrh spread by the priests, unable or unwilling to come closer. Then they tilted their heads in unison, flashing tiny smiles of yellow, pointed teeth.
“Good health to you, Prince,” one of the abiku said. “Don’t you know it’s rude to withhold gifts at a party?”
Dayo swallowed hard. “What do you want, spirits? Why didn’t the water turn brown?”
The other abiku gave a grating peal of giggles. “Does a treasurer loan gold before the previous debt is repaid? You swear to honor the Treaty. But as we stand here, you break it.”
“That’s a lie,” Dayo said. “The shamans promised that every Redemptor of age has been paid to you.”
“They miscounted,” sighed the first abiku, its irisless gaze landing briefly on mine. “Every Redemptor has been sent except one.”
My blood turned to ice. The abiku were here for Ye Eun.
It wasn’t fair. How could the demons miss one little girl out of three hundred? What use could they possibly have for her? I set my jaw. If the abiku thought I could be bullied into giving Ye Eun up, they were wrong. Before the Treaty, during the War of Twelve Armies, the Underworld had suffered losses as well as humankind. Surely they would not give up peace for the sake of a single child.
“You spirits speak of debts? Of fairness?” sputtered the emissary from Songland. “How dare you!” The old man stood dangerously close to the myrrh barrier, eyes bulging with anger. “Shades haunt the halls of Eunsan-do Palace, the shades of child Redemptors, wailing day and night. If the abiku cared anything for fairness, they would cease to rip babes from the arms of their mothers, from the same poor realm, year after year!”
The abiku cocked their heads again, blinking as though surprised at the emissary’s outburst. “When it comes to the birthplace of Redemptors,” one of them purred, “it is the blood, not us, who decides.”
I frowned. What in Am’s name was that supposed to mean?
As the abiku spoke, two young Breach warriors had crept up behind them, expressions fearful and manic.
“You—you aren’t authorized to be here,” the young warrior stammered, gripping his weapon halter. “You’re in violation of the Treaty of Enoba. Back away from the prince.”
“There is no Treaty,” the abiku hissed, “until humanity’s debt is paid.”
The creatures took a step toward the warrior . . . and the Breach warrior spooked. He staggered back, scooped a handful of myrrh from the floor, and thrust it at the abiku.
“Die, spirits!” he cried.
The creatures screamed . . . then exploded in a cloud of noxious, biting flies.
“To the prince,” Sa
njeet bellowed as the temple descended into chaos. Ambassadors, priests, and laypeople dove for cover. At Sanjeet’s command my council siblings leapt to their feet, and we retrieved our weapons from behind the stools. Sanjeet fit his pair of black-hilted scimitars in a snug halter on his back, and I brandished my steel-headed spear, shaft carved with the Kunleo sun and moons. Our eleven surrounded Dayo in tight formation, and the Ray synchronized our movements with inhuman speed.
The deep-throated howl of temple warning horns cut through the air. Feathered clumps were rising from the Oruku Breach, obscured by the miasma. They emerged as winged beasts, ugly as hyenas, diving for their victims with outstretched talons.
“I’ll be fine,” Dayo yelled at us. “Help the commoners.”
We tensed, but kept formation. The order of our priorities, drummed into us by the palace priests, had been clear: Serve the prince, then the empire.
Defending commoners was the job of the Imperial Guard, to whom Sanjeet and Mayazatyl now barked commands. “Fall into cohorts! Man the war machines! Ammunition lines, up!”
Mayazatyl had recently designed the weapons outfitting the temple walls. The sleek cannons were powered by fire, but armed with balls of ice—frozen holy water, stored in chambers deep beneath the temple grounds. The Imperial Guard warriors, burly recruits from all over the empire, formed a chain, passing up ammunition to the warriors manning the cannons. With a crack, the first round ignited, and orbs of splintering ice collided with the flying beasts and hurled six to the ground.
Mayazatyl cheered and warriors roared in response, loading the second round. Then the ammunition line broke as clouds of flies dove for the warriors on the ground. My council tried to escort Dayo to safety, but crowds of screaming courtiers stampeded for the exits, creating a lethal jam. A Djbanti woman cried out in her native language as she was trampled on the ground, causing a Djbanti cannon warrior to turn and look. The cannon misfired, and the ball of ice sailed into a crowd of Nontish emissaries. One fell and did not get up.
“Fool,” screeched a Nontish cannon warrior, seizing the Djbanti warrior by the lapels. “You killed the ambassador!”
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