Raybearer

by Jordan Ifueko

  “There’s nothing to forgive, brother,” said the spirit as Sanjeet grew closer. “I know you didn’t really abandon me. You’re nothing like Father; you would never leave me to fend for my—”Then the spirit ducked beneath the water, and the pool was unnervingly still.

  “Sendhil?” Sanjeet cried out, teetering over the water.

  My trance broke. “Stop,” I barked, and seized his arm.

  The spirit resurfaced, coughing and sputtering. “Something—it’s below—help me, brother—”

  “It’s a trick,” I gasped, tightening my grip as Sanjeet grew frantic. “Jeet, why would Dhyrmish mercenaries be camping in the Oluwan Bush? Why would Sendhil just happen to find you?”

  Sanjeet’s gaze snapped from me to the spirit, who screamed and flailed again. He freed himself easily from my grasp, preparing to jump.

  “You once told me that Sendhil never lies,” I said in a rush. I didn’t want to continue; I hated to be cruel. But I had no choice. “Your brother wouldn’t deny that you abandoned him, Jeet. Because you did. You agreed with your father. Mercenaries took Sendhil because you didn’t protect him.”

  Sanjeet froze. Firmly, I cupped his face and searched his mind for memories of the real Sendhil, drawing them painfully to the surface. Sanjeet gazed down at me, eyes clear and wet with shock.

  “Lies will never set us free, Jeet.” Then I tossed a handful of kiriwi into the pool.

  The spirit shrieked, and the pool turned chalky white. The water rippled, and in its place yawned a fathomless pit. Immediately I felt that pull, that malevolent hunger for souls and living blood.

  “Run,” I said.

  Hand in hand, Sanjeet and I barely managed to retrieve the pouch and weapon halter before sprinting across the Bush. Maybe the kiriwi gave us strength—or perhaps together, we were harder to overcome. Either way we somehow reached the path, collapsing in a pile among the leaves and purple blossoms.

  As we caught our breath, I checked his skin for scrapes and bruises. He had sparred with spirit-Sendhil and could have sustained wounds that the Bush concealed.

  “You stayed,” he said.

  I peered up at him, puzzled.

  “You stayed,” he repeated, staring at me. “Instead of going back to the keep. You had your seal. You could have gone back to Dayo and left me to die in the Bush.”

  I paused my search, hands lingering on his chest. Then I stood and turned away, shrugging. “Even monsters can surprise you.”

  He inhaled through his teeth. “Don’t—don’t call yourself that.”

  “Why not?” I dusted off my Guard uniform. “You did.”

  “I’m sorry.” When I didn’t turn around he said, “I mean it. Am’s Story, Tar—when I saw Dayo all bloody like that, and you standing over him, I lost my head. I couldn’t help it. But you didn’t deserve that. You . . . you aren’t The Lady.”

  I stiffened, remembering spirit-Sanjeet’s caressing voice. “That isn’t true.”

  “She isn’t you,” he countered. “You didn’t want to kill Dayo.”

  “That’s the problem, Jeet. Part of me did.” I faced him so he knew I was serious. “When I attacked him I felt numb, but I also felt right. Like I was fixing a mistake that shouldn’t have been made. There was an . . . anger in my blood that had to be satisfied.”

  “You didn’t choose to feel that way.”

  “Does that matter? It’s still me.” I was pacing now, determined to have it out at last. “For years, I told myself that I was nothing like The Lady. That I would never be her. But my mother is part of me, Jeet. Just like your father is part of you. No, it isn’t fair. No, we don’t deserve the burdens that our parents gave us. But we can’t defeat monsters that we won’t face.” I thought for a moment, listening to the rustling grass, where illusions hid to steal our souls. “I thought I could forget. That if I buried it deep enough, The Lady’s wish would disappear. But if I’d been honest with myself, Dayo would have been safe. I never would have joined the council.”

  “And I would have stayed chained to that pillar in the Children’s Palace,” said Sanjeet. “I would be the Prince’s Bear, with a rat’s skull as a token instead of a cowrie shell.” His voice was soft, and he appeared to consider taking my hand, just like spirit-Sanjeet had.

  But instead we remained apart, staring at each other as if scouring mire from glass. A clear and cold reflection of our truest selves: the good and the monstrous.

  “You had enough faith in me to cross a firepit,” Sanjeet said. “For everyone’s sake, Tar, have that faith in yourself.”

  CHAPTER 20

  We stumbled through three more false landscapes before we reached the end of the Bush. The illusions had been made for Captain Bunmi and her four warriors, who had leapt into the Bush impulsively after seeing me disappear.

  “We can’t leave them,” I said grimly. Sanjeet nodded and we swallowed kiriwi until we felt sick.

  We found Captain Bunmi in a quiet field, surrounded by the bodies of dead imperial warriors. None of the corpses were real, of course—I could tell from the blood, which was too lurid, and from the way each body flickered when Bunmi wasn’t looking.

  The captain sobbed on her knees, screaming the names of her comrades. I picked through the corpses and put a hand on her shoulder. She stared up at me, blankly.

  “I . . . killed them,” Bunmi said. “They looked like enemies at first and then they . . . changed. The Bush tricked me, it tricked me—” She clawed at her head, desperate to expel the images lodged there.

  Sanjeet restrained her arms. “It’s all right,” I said. “Come with us. Come back to the path.”

  She shook her head slowly. “I can never go back. A captain does not abandon—I should stay with them, in the Bush—I can never go back.”

  “Your warriors are not here. They’re fine,” I said firmly, and prayed to Am I was right.

  We rescued three more warriors. The third we found brandishing a spear over a lifeless body.

  A real one.

  The beguiled warrior had pierced the fourth remaining warrior, a woman named Awofeso, through the heart. The Bush had tricked him into seeing a wild beast. When his vision cleared, he began to tremble, yelling, then whispering her name. He continued to ask for Awofeso even when we reached the end of the path, crossing out of the Bush into a rural village.

  “Sometimes, the Bush wants to keep you,” Bunmi told us as we put the warrior to bed at the village inn. “Other times, it only wants to steal your joy, so instead you carry the Bush with you, always.” The warrior’s lips continued to shape that name, over and over, until at last I brushed his temples, plucking the memory of his comrade’s mangled body from his mind. He stilled, sighed, and fell fitfully asleep.

  Sanjeet and I spent the night side by side on straw mats in the inn’s best room. The floor was packed dirt, strewn with fresh hay. More than once, I wanted to touch him. He twitched often, as if he wrestled with the same temptation. But our arms stayed by our sides, and I stared up at the wattle-and-daub ceiling, knowing we couldn’t go back.

  The children who had kissed by the sea were gone. We were different people now, more jaded and honest. If I touched him that way again, I would be making a promise that I had no power to keep. How could I swear to love anyone when The Lady still held my puppet strings?

  I turned away from Sanjeet so he wouldn’t see my features contort with anger. “It’s my story. Mine, you hear me?” I hissed at a woman only I could see. “And I’ll get it back. You’ll see.”

  When we said our goodbyes to the Imperial Guard warriors the next morning, their faces shone with grave new respect. This time, they did not challenge us when we kept our destination secret and nodded when we insisted on going alone.

  “If you had left the Bush without rescuing my warriors,” said Bunmi, “no one would have blamed you. You are Aritsar’s future. Your lives must be preserved. But you came back.” She squinted and locked her jaw, restraining tears. “I will never forget what you did
, and neither will any of my comrades. The Imperial Guard shall always be loyal to Tarisai of Swana and Sanjeet of Dhyrma. For the first time in many moons . . . I smile for the future of Aritsar.”

  As Sanjeet and I walked away, her last words rang strangely in my ears. For the first time in many moons. The Imperial Guard was more loyal to the empire than anyone. Why would a captain have doubts about Aritsar’s future?

  A three-hour walk from the village, a bustling town guarded a lodestone port to Nyamba, the realm northeast of Oluwan. Sanjeet and I had planned the journey with a map the night before. Each lodestone could transport travelers to only one place. Nyamba was the opposite direction from where we needed to go, but from there, another port could take us directly to Swana. Going the wrong way via lodestone was faster than going the right way on mule or on foot.

  “Names and reason for travel,” barked a scowling old man when we arrived at the port. The lodestone, a smooth bed of black rock ten men wide, was nestled in a copse of trees at the edge of town. A palisade fence surrounded the port, with openings on either side, flanked by guards. I could feel the power pulsing in the stone from several feet away. My stomach gurgled, anticipating the nausea. The last time I had taken a lodestone had been when my council moved to Yorua Keep. We had taken two days to recover, lying on our pallets and clutching our middles.

  Sanjeet flashed our council seals at the guard, and the man’s eyes widened. “Your Anointed—”

  “Keep your voice down,” muttered Sanjeet, and paid our fare.

  “Of course, Anointed Honors. You’re free to cross . . . No. Wait.” The man peered at the lodestone’s surface, from which lines of ghostly black script began to rise. “Someone’s coming.”

  With a thunderous crack, a cohort of imperial militia burst into view from thin air. “No time to waste,” the captain shouted to his comrades, stepping off the lodestone and shrugging off the nausea. He flashed his identification at the guards. “We may have captured the abomination, but her servants still lurk in the empire. They were last spotted not far from . . .” His voice trailed off as the cohort left the port, running in formation.

  “Who knows what all that was about,” said the old man, smiling at us with nervous courtesy, then waving us on. “It’s safest if you hold hands,” he called after us.

  I looked at Sanjeet askance, but he held out his calloused palm. I stared at our clasped hands as we stepped onto the lodestone. Warmth pulsed into my soles, and vibrations traveled up my legs, belly, and chest until my eardrums rang. We stepped again. The scene around us shimmered, and I could no longer see our hands. We continued to walk, blinded by a growing whirl of heat and wind, until at lasted we jolted to a stop.

  “Names and reason for travel,” a reedy voice said.

  My vision was still blurry. Now we stood atop a new lodestone, slightly smaller than the last. This port rested inside a city; I could hear the bustle of carts and street criers outside the palisade wall. Shaking his head to clear it, Sanjeet produced our council seals.

  “Welcome to Kofi-on-River,” said the guard, stepping aside. “Enjoy your stay in Nyamba, Anointed Honors.”

  I smiled at him shakily and stepped off the stone. The world tilted, but Sanjeet caught my elbow. “Inn,” he said, clutching his stomach, and I nodded.

  “The best accommodations are toward the city center,” the guard called after us. “I’d be wary today though, Anointed Honors. The streets are rowdy.”

  When we reached the city square, indignant roars echoed off the stone high-rises. Smoke rose to the sky, and Nyambans shrieked objections from every direction, crowded around something I couldn’t see.

  “That’s not fair—”

  “. . . older than the empire—”

  “How dare you erase our griots’ legacy—”

  I gasped as an imperial crier yelled above the din, reciting words I recognized: Thaddace’s Unity Edict. I hadn’t known it would be enforced so soon. Sanjeet stood head and shoulders above the crowd, and grew rigid as he watched the square.

  “What do you see?” I demanded. When he didn’t answer, I elbowed my way through the angry citizens.

  A towering bonfire burned in the square. Imperial Guard warriors wrestled drums and scrolls from a trembling line of griots. The stories—some no doubt hundreds, thousands of years old—were cast into the flames. The imperial crier thanked each griot curtly, and handed them new drums and crisp imperial scrolls.

  My face grew wet with tears, and I stepped back into the crowd, back, back, until strong hands found my shoulders.

  “We should go,” grunted Sanjeet.

  “Why take their drums?” I asked dazedly. “Isn’t taking their stories enough?”

  “The drums carry their own stories,” Sanjeet reminded me grimly. “I guess Thaddace and the emperor didn’t want to risk it.”

  We found an inn several streets away. When night came I tossed and turned, though this time our room had wood floors, and sweet-smelling down pallets instead of straw mats.

  Thaddace had made the Unity Edict sound so reasonable. He had been right—the disunity at Ebujo had been disastrous. If the realms had only put aside their differences and worked together, fewer people would have died. But . . .

  I remembered a griot from the town square, an old woman with sad, sunken eyes, wailing as her drum was wrenched away.

  “That can’t be right,” I mumbled. Could it?

  We were supposed to wait a month before traveling via lodestone again. We waited only a week. I was eager to find Melu . . . and to leave Kofi-on-River. When at last we left the town, the smoke of griot drums still stained the horizon.

  The lodestone to Swana was ten miles west of the city, in a lush Nyamban valley. My stomach lurched as we crossed into Swana. When we came to a stop, I crawled across the lodestone and vomited over the edge.

  “Names and reason for travel,” came the expected demand.

  An eerie feeling crept over my spine as I took in the lodestone port. I had been here only once before: when strangers had taken me from Bhekina House. My palms began to sweat. This was her turf. Her domain of power. Already I could see the walls of Bhekina House rising around me. I was a child again, friendless, windowless, trapped—

  “Tar.” Sanjeet was crouching beside me with a hand on my trembling back. “Your home realm is beautiful.”

  I blinked, staring dumbly at him, and then looked around.

  “It’s just like the memories you used to show me,” said Sanjeet, sounding almost shy.

  A copse of slender acacia trees and vibrant green grass surrounded us. The air was sweet with honeysuckle, and winked with whorls of lavender light. “Tutsu sprites,” I whispered. “I haven’t seen them since I was small.”

  “Those only exist where the land is especially fertile,” said the Swana port guard, standing straighter with pride. I smiled weakly—even while trapped in his grassland, a little of Melu’s blessing still remained in Swana. I wondered how much longer that magic would last.

  The port was located in a secluded crossroads. As we left, our stomachs still sloshing from the lodestone, the sound of singing and plodding donkeys greeted us.

  Oluwan and Swana bring his drum; nse, nse.

  Dhyrma and Nyamba bring his plow; gpopo, gpopo.

  “It’s market day,” I observed.

  “Good,” said Sanjeet, heading toward one of the caravans, which rocked with goods and gleeful children hanging off the sides. “We can ask for directions to Melu’s pool. If they don’t know, they can guide us to a town where someone does. Maybe they’ll even give us a lift.” When I didn’t follow him, he glanced back quizzically.

  “I used to watch them,” I said quietly. “From my window. I used to dream about joining them and having a family. About being . . . normal.”

  The corner of Sanjeet’s mouth lifted. “You can be a market girl today, if you like, I won’t tell. Imperial Guard gear might give you away, though.”

  When Sanjeet and I approache
d the caravan, the family’s singing died. They eyed our uniforms, stiffening.

  “We don’t have any griot drums,” said a bearded man in hoop earrings. “No scrolls either.”

  My eyes widened. “Oh, we aren’t—”

  “Check if you must,” said the man, uncovering the cart’s load. “We were already stopped twice in Pikwe Village.”

  Wrappers in starry patterns shone from the cart: wax-dyed cloth of blue and maize yellow, beet purple and fuchsia. Rainbow-beaded bangles winked in the sunlight, waiting to be stacked on the arms of Swana lords and ladies. Thankfully, native clothing was not illegal under Thaddace’s edict. But how long until this merchant’s sales dwindled? How long until villagers and townspeople bowed to the pressure of empire cloth?

  “We’d like to buy your whole stock,” I blurted.

  Everyone, including Sanjeet, gaped at me.

  “I’ll need my purse,” I told Sanjeet. “Just for now.” Puzzled, he retrieved my coin purse from the pouch around his neck. I selected three gold coins and offered them to the merchant.

  “I am an honest man, lady warrior,” the apparel merchant stammered. “That is twice what I profit in a year. One gold and some coppers would more than suffice.”

  “Two golds for the stock. The rest for you to finish your journey, and give the clothes away for free at the market. Color the whole town in your beautiful fabric.”

  Sanjeet and I gave false names, and learned the merchant was called Tegoso. We traveled in his mule-drawn cart for eight miles, and he introduced us to his four daughters and one son, the latter of whom had not yet been born. His wife and fellow merchant, Keeya, pressed my hand to her belly.

  “I know it is a boy,” she told me. Keeya was a plump, frank-voiced woman with cornrowed braids that fell to her hips. “I always know. I want to name him Bopelo, after his grandfather. But Tegoso thinks Overcomer or Peacemaker would be best. Good Arit names, he says. Meanings that everyone can understand. I tell him Swana people understand Bopelo just fine.” She laughed, then sighed and said, “My husband will have his way, in the end. We need the reward money for our daughters’ schooling.”