Raybearer

by Jordan Ifueko

  “Melu,” I breathed. I rushed to his side, not daring to touch the long, shimmering limbs. “No. Don’t be dead. Please don’t be dead.”

  Silence. Then a dry chuckle. “Alas,” Melu said, “death is a wish I may not grant. No matter how deeply I long for it.”

  I blinked, taken aback. Laboriously, the ehru roused his pole-like body and stood, wings twitching as they shook off dirt. The Lady’s emerald cuff still glinted on his forearm, and the whole savannah seemed to shudder as Melu gazed down and sighed.

  “Oh, daughter. Why did you have to come back?”

  It was not the greeting I had imagined.

  I stammered after a pause, “You know why, Melu. To break The Lady’s bond. To free us from the curse.”

  “And how do you propose to do that here? The Kunleo boy is miles, leagues away.”

  I glared. “You know I refuse to hurt him.”

  He turned away. “As long as you keep running from him, you will always be The Lady’s plaything. And I will always be her caged bird.”

  My hands clenched into fists. Sanjeet, who stared up at the ehru with horror and wonder, placed a restraining hand on my arm. “Tar.”

  I had heard once that alagbatos were difficult to persuade. They were wary of sharing secrets with mortals, even in the direst of circumstances. But I had seen deep into Melu’s gold-flecked eyes, gazing at a spark identical to one in myself. Melu had given me his pride: a trait as old as the Swana sky, and as deeply rooted as the grasslands.

  “Are you telling me,” I said coolly, “that the mighty, all-knowing guardian of Swana has no idea how to free himself?” Sanjeet’s grasp tightened, but I shook him off and stalked after Melu, refusing to let the ehru turn his back on me. The sunstone warmed on my chest. “Are you telling me that hurting an innocent person—killing Dayo—is the only way for an alagbato to be free of a human’s whim?”

  Melu stiffened.

  “You’re too strong to let a mortal decide your fate,” I told him. “And you sure as hell aren’t going to decide mine.”

  Sanjeet swore and fumbled for his weapon halter as Melu began to glow, radiating blue heat like a smoldering coal. The ehru hovered closer, closer, bending down until his shimmering face was level with mine.

  Then he smiled, giving a deep-throated chuckle.

  “Put away your sword, Dhyrma boy,” the ehru said. “My daughter has nothing to fear from me.” He touched my brow with a long, slender finger. “You were well-named, Behold-What-is-Coming.”

  “Then tell me,” I demanded. “How do I break The Lady’s hold on me?”

  Melu considered. “Only one thing is more powerful than a wish, and that is a purpose.”

  “You’ll have to be more specific than that.”

  Melu’s wings stirred with agitation, as if he struggled for the right words. “Every creature has a purpose. A place in a grand story, a tale as old and pure as life, and stronger than any mortal’s wish. To diverge from the path your mother has set, you must find your place in that grand story. Otherwise, The Lady will decide your place for you. That is all I know.” Melu paused, looking ashamed. “Killing the Kunleo boy was a simpler solution, and that is why I urged you to do it. But I see now that your fate will never be simple, and if you are ever to find your purpose, then you must know who you really are. You must know who The Lady is.”

  My pulse quickened. “Tell me everything.”

  Melu rose again, ascending until he hovered over the smooth amber pool. “I will tell you, and show you.” The pool’s surface rippled, and from its depths a young face appeared.

  It was Dayo. No—a boy who looked like him, playing with wooden spears in the Children’s Palace. The pool rippled again, showing a council woman who had just given birth, cradling a baby girl. A barrage of moving pictures illustrated Melu’s words as he spoke.

  “An emperor sires many children in his lifetime. But you only ever hear of one: the Raybearer. Any other heirs are considered irrelevant. As a result, Kunleo daughters—and Rayless sons—are born without fanfare, sent away after weaning, adopted by nobles who raise them away from court.

  “By custom, Kunleo girls are not christened. But when a daughter was born to Olugbade’s father, the young crown prince took a liking to her. Prince Olugbade’s sister was so beautiful, clever, and precocious, he gave her a nickname: The Lady.”

  Cold washed through my veins and froze, rooting me in place. I shook my head, slowly, and did not stop shaking it until the story was done.

  “The Lady worshipped her older brother. At night she would steal away from her nursery to Olugbade’s bed, lisping his name. The prince was flattered. Breaking centuries of custom, he brought The Lady to the Children’s Palace, where he kept her as his pet. For many moons, Olugbade showered The Lady with trinkets. He taught her at his knee, and for as long as The Lady was young and ignorant, Olugbade loved her.

  “But one day, The Lady began to interrupt Olugbade’s lectures. She started to talk circles around him in history and philosophy, stumping him with riddles and beating him at chess. Olugbade had suffered from a stutter in his youth, and had a tendency to ramble. But when The Lady opened her mouth, entire rooms hushed to listen.

  “The prince began to shun The Lady. Confused by her brother’s growing coldness, the girl threw herself into her studies even more. Surely, she thought, being useful would win her brother’s love again. She haunted the halls of the Children’s Palace like a charming ghost. She befriended the candidates who vied for Olugbade’s council, slipping them hints on how to pass each trial. Olugbade had tried the Ray on many children. But the test always failed.

  “Prince Olugbade was an intelligent boy, thoughtful and quiet. But behind his gentle manner, he had one weakness: a crippling fear of intimacy. With inferiors, Prince Olugbade was kind and generous. But with equals, he was closed and paranoid. He required constant proof of their love and loyalty, recoiling at the slightest hint of criticism. All but the most patient children found him exhausting. The Lady understood Olugbade better than anyone, and would have loved him, if he had let her. But for reasons that Olugbade could not put into words, The Lady’s effortless charisma filled him with rage.

  “Months passed, and The Lady’s friends tripled. From her divan in the playroom corner, always crowded with giggling candidates, she watched her lonely brother with pity. If only he would look at her. If only he would see her: the real Lady, a partner, not a pet. She could make up for all his weaknesses. They would be a team, a family, and everything would go back to the way it was before.

  “So The Lady plotted. A spark had nestled in her breast from the moment she was born, an ember she had never dared coax into flame. According to the priests, her spark should not exist. Its presence was impossible; an arrogance, an abomination, and so for years she had suppressed the ember out of shame. But now, she thought, perhaps that spark was just what she needed.

  “‘I want to show you something,’ she told Olugbade at supper. The Lady was ten years old, and her brother, fifteen. Around them, candidates laughed and chattered. She sat at his side as he reclined in the Children’s Palace banquet hall, letting servants feed him grapes and plantain.

  “‘Another of your dolly plays?’ Olugbade smiled down at his sister. ‘I’ve told you, Lady. Princes don’t have time for toys.’

  “‘I don’t write dolly plays,’ The Lady snapped. Then she exhaled, determined to keep her temper. ‘I write debates. About the empire. I do act them out with my dolls, sometimes, but I wouldn’t need to if you read them, brother—’

  “‘Don’t call me brother,’ Olugbade chided patiently. ‘Raybearers have no blood kin, only council. Remember that, Lady.’

  “‘I wasn’t going to show you dolls.’

  “‘What, then?’ Olugbade sighed. ‘Will it take long?’

  “The Lady knelt close to him, heart pounding with excitement. The banquet spread out before them at a long, low table. ‘Tell me what you want to eat. Anything you see. Whisper
it in my ear.’

  “Olugbade rolled his eyes . . . but his expression grew soft. He liked his sister this way: anxious, desperate for his attention. It felt much better than when she beat him at chess. ‘Very well,’ he said, patting her beaded braids. ‘Bring me some moi moi pudding.’

  “She focused for a moment, then looked up, grinning. A child at the far end of the dinner table rose and came over, offering the prince a wobbling cake of moi moi bean pudding.

  “Olugbade blinked. ‘How did you . . .’

  “‘Ask for something else,’ The Lady said, clapping her hands.

  “Olugbade’s jaw ticked. ‘Saltfish. Yam stew. Fried chin chin.’ He barely spoke above a breath. But around the room, two more children shot up and hurried over with the dishes.

  “By now, the other candidates were watching, curious. The Lady gathered her courage. She drew herself up and announced, ‘I told them with my mind.’

  “The room fell deathly still.

  “‘These three candidates’—she gestured at the food-bearing children—‘are my friends. More than friends, brother. They can be yours too.’

  “‘Impossible,’ rasped Olugbade.

  “‘Don’t you see?’ The Lady said. ‘I can do it again—’

  “‘You can’t have that power. You don’t. It’s not the will of Am.’

  “‘I don’t know what Am wants,’ said The Lady. ‘But I know my friends can hear me. Maybe they could hear you too.’ The Lady swallowed hard. ‘Maybe we could share a council.’

  “Dishes crashed in every direction as Olugbade leapt to his feet. His nostrils flared—and then he inhaled, arranging his features in a fatherly smile. ‘I am disappointed in you, Lady. Your vain little games have gone too far. You should not play at usurping a crown prince of the empire.’

  “‘Usurping?’ stammered The Lady. ‘No. I just—I thought we could be partners.’

  “Olugbade laughed quietly. ‘You? Partners with a Raybearer?’

  “‘But I have the Ray too,’ she blurted.

  “The dining hall went completely silent.

  “The Lady gulped, clutching her linen wrapper to keep her hands from shaking. ‘I stole pelican oil from the temple. I anointed my friends because you needed a council, and because . . . I’m good at ruling people, brother. You’ve had trouble with the Ray. But I haven’t. We could join forces. We could rule as Kunleos. Together.’

  “Olugbade’s pupils dilated, and muscles tensed beneath his gold-encrusted tunic. ‘The priests were right,’ he whispered. ‘I should never have kept a girl as a pet. Spoiled her. Let her play at statecraft, humored her . . .’ He stopped, fists shaking, staring at The Lady with cold determination. ‘You will leave Oluwan by tomorrow morning. You and your traitor friends.’

  “The Lady trembled, eyes pooling with disbelief. ‘Leave the realm? But where will we go?’

  “‘Out’ Olugbade snarled in a rare loss of temper, upending the banquet table. The children whom The Lady had anointed flocked to her protection.

  “The Lady reached for a child who still lingered behind the table. ‘Come with me, Mbali,’ she said. ‘I can anoint you too. You’re better than this place. Leave him.’

  “Young Mbali gazed at The Lady with tortured indecision. ‘I want to help Aritsar,’ she whispered at last. ‘But . . . I can do better work here, with the prince. Still . . .’ She glanced nervously back at Olugbade. I believe you, she mouthed at The Lady. You have the Ray too. Then she turned away, going to stand by Olugbade’s side.

  “The Lady’s lower lip trembled. ‘You will regret choosing him over me.’

  “‘Guards,’ roared Olugbade.

  “The Lady and her friends fled from the banquet hall, and were never seen by the palace again. Where The Lady went, or how she survived all these years, is a tale too long for one night. Suffice it to say: The world is not kind to a girl it wishes dead. Years of cruelty soured her own kindness. Her heart calcified to a self-preserving stone. And soon, Arits would trade tales of a strange new cult traveling across the empire: a bandit ring of abandoned, Hallowed children, led by a nameless child queen.

  “Eventually, Olugbade’s fear of intimacy lightened. He successfully anointed a council of his own, and in every courtier home, the tale of The Lady was silenced or forgotten.

  “But every night, ever since that banquet at the Children’s Palace, the emperor has paced the An-Ileyoba halls, blind and deaf to any who try to comfort him.

  “‘She was nothing,’ he repeats, long into the night. ‘Nothing. There is only one.’ He grips the lion mask that hangs around his neck. ‘There is only one.’”

  CHAPTER 23

  The pool rippled, and olugbade’s twisted face disappeared into its depths. I collapsed to my knees, as though only Melu’s voice had kept me upright. The sun had dipped below the horizon, and the living constellations of tutsu provided the only light.

  “My mother is a Raybearer.” I said the words, but did not believe them. Craving normalcy, I looked up at Sanjeet. “There are no female Raybearers.” I expected him to nod in agreement. Instead he was frozen, staring at me in wonder.

  “I knew it,” he said.

  “What in Am’s name is that supposed to mean?”

  “I wasn’t sure for a while,” he said, his gaze distant. “That spark, that . . . heat I saw around you when we first met . . . it disappeared when you made yourself forget your past. Still, the spark came back, sometimes. When you were very happy, or very angry. I had doubts, but never quite stopped believing . . .” He laughed, shaking his head. “I was right.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You glow like Dayo,” he said. “The heat that draws people, that makes them want to trust him, follow him . . . I felt it the first day I met you.”

  I staggered to my feet, shaking my head. “That’s treason. Stop it. Believing in folktales won’t do us any—”

  “The fire in the Children’s Palace,” he interrupted, pacing. “I thought I was going crazy, or that my eyes were playing tricks on me. You didn’t have a single burn, not one. But it makes sense now,” he said. “You’re immune to fire. You were born that way, just like Dayo was born immune to poison.”

  “That’s because The Lady was protecting me. Or because I’m half-ehru,” I insisted, but Melu shook his head while still hovering above the pool.

  “The Lady has no special ability to protect anyone. And while your alagbato blood provided your ability to see memories, the rest of you is human.”

  “There are no female Raybearers,” I repeated, and Sanjeet crossed his arms.

  “What about Aiyetoro?”

  “She was an exception,” I said, parroting the priests from Oluwan. “Am only chose her because the emperor’s son died, and Aritsar needed a leader . . .” My voice trailed off. Who could prove that Aiyetoro had not been born with the Ray? She had been sent away at birth, just like every other Kunleo girl. Doubt wormed its way into my mind, but I resisted it, stubbornly.” The Lady couldn’t be a Raybearer, because Olugbade already has the Ray. There can only be one per generation.”

  “Why?”

  “Because—because—” I quailed, trying to remember the careful lines of reasoning the priests had taught in our catechism. “Because that would mean war. A man and a woman couldn’t share rights to the crown. How would they rule?”

  “Together,” Melu replied, and the answer’s simplicity unnerved me.

  I scowled at the ehru. This was all wrong. There could not be two Raybearers. The empire could not have been mistaken for dozens, for hundreds of years.

  “And if the two rulers disagree?” I shot back. “What then?”

  The ehru shrugged. “Defer to their council. Flip a coin. Divide tasks according to their strengths. Compromise.” He sighed. “I’ve never understood why mortals make things so complicated. Am’s story for men and women has always been simple: You are equals, built to work side by side. But when it comes to power, mortals have always loathed simplicity
.”

  “Olugbade and The Lady could never rule together,” I insisted.

  “On that point,” Melu conceded, “I’m afraid you are correct. Olugbade’s fear of The Lady has festered for too long, as has The Lady’s anger at him. She means to erase Olugbade’s entire legacy, including Ekundayo. But the prince’s story is yet unwritten—as is yours.” He descended, pool rippling in his wake. “You have seen the mask of the emperor, and the mask of your prince. They were forged by Warlord Fire himself, and the story of their creation is etched in the crypts of An-Ileyoba. Should a mortal translate those ancient words, she would see Warlord Fire created not two masks, but four. Four Raybearers. Emperor and empress. Prince and princess.”

  “Then we can prove it,” said Sanjeet. “We can prove that Tarisai’s a Raybearer. If we present the masks to the priests, they’ll have to admit it.”

  “For that very reason,” said Melu, “the other two masks have been lost. Aiyetoro was the last to see them. And as they were forged beyond this realm, I cannot track them through the earth. But you must find them, I think. I do not know Tarisai’s purpose, but she shall never obtain it without first claiming her name.”

  “My purpose is Dayo,” I said. The world was spinning. Mbali’s voice in the Children’s Palace, the words I had repeated every day for five years, roared in my ears. Why do I live? So that I can serve the Prince, the Chosen Raybearer of Aritsar, and aspire to be one of his anointed. Because I love him more than life itself . . .

  “Stories are meant to be shared,” Melu said gently, “but no one was made for another person, Tarisai.”

  “No.” I remembered the moment I had pierced Dayo in the gut. I purposely resurrected my old panic, my armor of fear and self-loathing. You are dangerous, I told myself. Freedom for you will always mean harm for Dayo.

  But the harder I tried to remember my treachery, the more I saw the tutsu. I saw them whirl around me, lifting the weight from my scalp and humming their choice.