by Rena Barron
Attendants in earth-toned robes direct people through the gates. Along the edge of the cliff, five stone buildings curve around a half-moon ingress. Several scholars veer toward the gardens and ponds to confer in private. While most people funnel into the central buildings for lessons, I head for the Hall of Orishas.
A tang of blood lingers in the air as I cross the courtyard, where the shotani practice in the dead of night. The elite assassins train with the seers from a young age. Over the generations, their families moved from the tribal lands to the Kingdom. They have magic—not enough to gain status in the tribal lands, but much more than the street charlatans. Most of what we know about them is speculation since they always move in shadows.
Magic clings to the Temple walls. More even than at the sacred Gaer tree where the first Ka-Priest’s body was buried. In the day, it only looks like specks of dust out of the corner of your eyes. It’s at night, especially during the hour of ösana, that it comes to life.
Sukar and another attendant stand outside the Hall of Orishas on the northeast edge of the cliff. He waves me over. “So many people confessing their wrongdoings.” He rolls his eyes when I reach them. “They tithe to rid themselves of their guilt. It never gets old.”
Sweat glistens against Sukar’s shaved head, and his tattoos glow. They only do that when he’s near someone with the gift. I glance at the other attendant as she waves people along. The echo of her magic dances across my skin, taunting me. Sukar excuses himself from his duties, and we duck into the long ingress and enter the Hall of Orishas. Shifting torchlight along the walls casts nefarious shadows across the chamber. It’s the perfect place to talk—and to brush up on my history.
The hall is home to the statues of the orishas who survived the war with the Demon King. They molded their own images out of stardust darker than the darkest night. It’s hard to look straight at them, or stare too long, for their figures begin to blur around the edges.
When I was younger, Sukar, Essnai, and I used to make a game of it. Who could stare the longest? I won once, if you can call it winning. I stared so long that the darkness around Essi’s—the sky god’s—statue bled into my eyes and left me blind for half a bell. Sukar ran to get my mother, who sent his uncle in her stead. I wasn’t the first child to tempt fate and pay the price. I don’t repeat my mistake now.
On our way to a private spot, we pass a few patrons prostrated in meditation at the feet of their favorite orisha. As we go deeper into the hall, we see fewer people and it’s only the echo of our footfalls that disturbs the silence. The glowing script on the walls stands out in stark contrast against the dark. I’ve never had a reason to question the holy texts, nor the history I was taught about the tribal lands. But the scripts say that the orishas destroyed all of the demons. If the first scribes got that wrong, then what else don’t we know?
The sun orisha, Re’Mec, wears an elaborate headdress of ostrich feathers and pearls, his ram horns as thick as a man’s arm. His eyes glow with fire above a sharp beak that ends in a point. He’s naked, his shoulders broad, the chiseled lines of his muscles further asserting his dominance. A glass sphere sits upon his lap. The gray mist inside it represents the souls of the orishas who sacrificed themselves to stop the Demon King.
Re’Mec’s twin sister, Koré, sits across from him on a dais beneath a glass dome that shrouds her in shadows. She has the sculptured face of an Aatiri woman, sharp angles and prominent cheeks. Her hands are talons, and long braids flow like rivers across her breasts. She holds a bronze box with a chain around it. Two women wearing the sheer white headwraps common among the Twin King’s worshippers kneel at her feet. They each offer their patron god a small box of trinkets with moons carved inside the lids.
The wall next to Koré tells the story of the Demon King’s fall. She poured her magic into a box to trap his soul, yet it wasn’t enough. It took twenty of their most powerful generals to seal the box. They volunteered their own kas to bind it forever. Other orishas had fallen in the war, but it took their sacrifice to end it.
I wrap my arms around my shoulders, unable to imagine what that would’ve been like. To give the part of yourself the tribal people considered the most sacred, the most pure. I have more questions about the demons than I started with. How were they as powerful as the orishas if they weren’t gods themselves? Why did they eat souls? How did they do it? We only know fragments of stories about them, made whole by imagination.
Sukar clears his throat, encouraging me to hurry up. But I look at each orisha as we amble down the hall. We leave behind Koré and Re’Mec, passing by Essi, then Nana, the orisha who shaped the earth.
“Have the seers had any more visions about the child snatcher?” I whisper to not disturb the patrons lying at the feet of Mouran, the master of the sea. Across from him, two more patrons kneel before Sisi, the guardian of fire. I skim every holy script we pass, but nothing immediately jumps out at me. Much of it describes the war in bloody details.
“If you mean have we heard of more visions from your mother: no,” Sukar says. “Whoever the child snatcher is, they’re able to block my uncle and the others from seeing them at all. The Ka-Priestess is the only one powerful enough to get a glimpse. And even that hasn’t been much help.”
I wince at the news, and silence stretches between us as we walk past Yookulu, the weaver of seasons. His followers have sprinkled rain daisies at the base of his dais to celebrate Su’omi—the season of renewal, when all the flowers bloom after the cooler months of Osesé. We come upon Kiva, the protector of children and innocence. Oma, the orisha of dreams. Kekiyé, the orisha of gratitude. Ugeniou, the harvester. Fayouma, the mother of beast and fowl. Fram, the balancer of life and death. All of the orishas appear giant in stature.
“And you, my friend,” Sukar asks, his usual playfulness gone. “Any news since the Aatiri chieftain’s strange vision?”
I shake my head, recalling the conversation between my father and me. Now is not the time to say, not until we know more. “Nothing yet.”
“Be as patient as a lion stalking the night.” He winks at me. “The edam will find an answer.”
At the end of the hall, we come upon the fourteenth orisha, called the Unnamed. Her face has no memorable features, so there’s little to recognize her by, save for the cobras around each of her arms. I pause to examine her, or rather the serpents with their heads poised to strike at her wrists. The other statues are majestic, intimidating, but this one feels wrong. Staring too long at her, darkness begins to seep into the corners of my eyes and my heartbeat quickens. The room seems to tilt, and panic unfolds in my mind. I force myself to look away.
I’m in the middle of reading another script when Tam, one of Rudjek’s sparring partners, ambles toward us. He has kinky golden hair with the sky-blue eyes and bronze skin of a Yöome set against Tamaran features. A face that’s lean and athletic, noble. His look is striking, one that draws eyes, and he knows it. He was recently named a first-year scribe and has been teaching at the Temple.
Tam clucks his tongue, a sly grin on his lips. “Is the Ka-Priestess’s daughter skipping lessons again?” He casts a pointed look at me, then turns to Sukar. “. . . and the Zu seer’s nephew shunning his duties. Need I remind you that the orishas demand our fealty, and such disregard is frowned upon?”
Sukar rolls his eyes. “Get lost, Tam. Can’t you see we’re busy?”
“Barasa is looking for you.” Tam shrugs. “Something about misplaced scrolls.”
“Twenty-gods,” Sukar says after a deep sigh. “I swear my uncle is hopeless without me.”
“A Temple attendant swearing in this sacred place.” Tam cringes, his sly grin fading. “That doesn’t bode well.”
“Shut it, will you, Tam,” Sukar snaps, then excuses himself before rushing to answer his uncle’s summons.
When Sukar is gone, Tam leans against the throne upon which the orisha of life and death sits. Fram is duality and balance, depicted with two heads to represent their fluid
nature.
“They didn’t want any part in the war with the Demon King.” Tam tilts his chin up at Fram. “For them, life and death are different sides of the same coin, so they refused when Re’Mec and Koré asked for their help. The whole duality thing is a double-edged sword . . . but they eventually came around.”
I cross my arms. “I never thought you’d end up a scribe; you love the arena too much.”
“I considered the gendars”—he grins again—“but my real talents lie in education.”
He says it with such sarcasm that I laugh. I’m about to write him off when I think again. Maybe he can help me find out more about demons.
“So tell me something about the orishas that most people don’t know.”
“The universe began with a bang.” He whistles, drawing death stares from the other patrons in the hall. “You call it the Supreme Cataclysm, but it has many names. Think of it as a void of profound darkness that destroys and creates without beginning or end. Over the course of eons, the first orishas crawled from its belly and cut their umbilical cords—so to speak. Each of them possesses some piece of the Supreme Cataclysm’s nature. Like the Cataclysm, the orishas love their creations.” Tam adjusts his position, his focus turning to the Unnamed. “Unfortunately for us, a god’s love is both beautiful and terrifying.”
“I’ve never heard the origin story told quite like that,” I say, surprised.
“I embellished it a little,” he admits. “I became a scribe so I can tell lies once in a while.”
“Tell me about her . . . the Unnamed.” I point up. “The truth.”
“We don’t speak of her.” Tam shakes his head, his words clipped. “There’s nothing to tell.”
My eyes linger on the serpents again. There was someone here . . . something, Grandmother had said. Someone who does not belong. Perhaps a relic from the past, I do not know, or an omen of the future.
“A green-eyed serpent.” I swallow. “Is that a symbol of demons?”
Tam startles and stares at me with one eyebrow quirked. “That’s an interesting question.”
“Why interesting?” I say, catching the somber note in his voice.
“That’s the name the orishas gave to the demons, yes,” Tam confirms. “For though they possessed many forms, they all had green eyes, a mark of their race.”
My dread from earlier comes back in full force. If my father is right about the connection between both visions, then I have my answer. I know what a demon would want with children . . . with me.
This can’t be possible. It can’t be. The demon race perished in the war with the orishas, but had one survived? Could there be more? If demons have an insatiable hunger for souls, there are none more sacred and pure than the kas of children.
Eight
Long after leaving the Temple, I struggle to catch my breath. I take a shortcut near the sacred Gaer tree on my way to the East Market. The tree stands naked and alone in iridescent dark soil—its black branches crooked and bare. The magic here is so thick that it’s palpable. I don’t linger, but as I pass, the branches shudder. Outside the Almighty Temple, it’s the most magical place in Tamar. How powerful had the first Ka-Priest of the Kingdom been to cheat death by taking up roots and becoming a tree?
When I set foot in the East Market, I see Familiars swarming like a nest of agitated wasps. Hundreds slither among the crowd and crawl across every place imaginable. Dogs howl at them, while most people are none the wiser. They draw the heat from the air, and even though it’s midday, a cool draft settles over the market. The sun is behind the clouds—a rare thing in Tamar, which enjoys sunshine on more days than not. Does the sun orisha Re’Mec feel the disturbance too?
On the surface, everything looks normal. People haggle over prices, and merchants outbid each other to attract patrons. Some older children play an upbeat tempo on the bottoms of wooden crates, and people drop copper coins in a bowl in front of them. But bad energy hums through the crowd like the charge in the air before lightning strikes. Several fights break out and the City Guard steps in. It hits me at once. All the amulets with the orisha Kiva in the market today—now that the news is out about the children. When I was little, his bulbous face and lopsided eyes scared me. But Kiva protects the innocent. People wear his likeness when disease sweeps through the city, or when crops are poor. It’s a sign of fear.
I spot Rudjek ahead, fending off a street charlatan trying to peddle him charms. The charlatan wears a dozen bone necklaces and another two dozen on each arm. He gapes at Rudjek, his cataract-laden eyes stretched wide. His cheeks are sunken, his skin ashen and weathered—his movements slow and lethargic. People might think he’s drunk, but his face bears the signs of someone who’s been trading years for magic. Not all the charlatans do it, but this man clearly has.
“You need protection,” he proclaims, his voice like cracked eggshells. “I have a necklace for you. All the way from the tribal lands. Blessed by a great witchdoctor.”
The charlatan’s words stop me cold in the thicket of the crowd before I reach Rudjek. Patrons divide around me, some yelling to get out of their way, but I can’t move. I’ve always thought the charlatans weak. In truth, some have more magic than me even without trading their years. They flood this corner of the market, offering charms, sacks of herbs, and potions promising to deliver your heart’s desire.
I know what it feels like to want magic so bad that it hurts. To watch your parents impose their will on magic with the snap of their fingers, but not be able to touch it yourself.
A bitter taste sours my mouth and I swallow hard. What I can’t understand is why someone would trade their years to make petty charms. If you’re going to do it, do it for a better reason. Do it because you have no other choice.
It isn’t fair to judge the charlatans, but when I look at them, I see my own reflection. I see a yearning to belong. I see my desire to protect myself when the demon comes after me—for it will. I have no doubts about that now. Grandmother’s vision had been a warning for me.
Rudjek frowns. “I don’t need trinkets made from chicken bones.”
The charlatan sweeps his arms wide, rattling the bones. “Trinkets? These are genuine charms.”
“Which tribe are they from?” Rudjek arches one eyebrow at the tiny bones strung together.
“Tribe Kes,” the man says with a lazy wave. “Only the best bone charms from them.”
Rudjek rubs his chin. “Aren’t the Aatiri the bone charmers?”
The man grimaces, his expression so exaggerated that he belongs on a stage. “Where did you hear such lies?”
“He heard such truths from me,” I say, stepping forward.
Rudjek greets me in the way of the Aatiri, touching his forehead and flourishing a little bow. His cheeks flush and he’s grinning like a fool again. I can’t stop myself from blushing too. I try not to stare into his obsidian eyes or at his lips that look as soft as velvet, or his broad shoulders. Instead, I make the mistake of shifting my attention to the smooth brown skin visible between the slit in his elara. I catch a glimpse of the curve of his throat, his collarbone, and a pang of warmth spreads to my belly. So much for less conspicuous places.
“She’s the expert on all things tribal.” Rudjek nods at me, his deep voice ringing in my ears.
“Waiting for someone?”
“You, of course,” he utters under his breath.
“And who are—” The charlatan cuts off mid-question when his eyes land on me. He looks decades older and his hair is whiter since I last encountered him, months before the blood moon.
“Many blessings, young priestess.” He bows, glancing to the ground. He must see my mother in my features. Most people do. The amber eyes, the high set of my cheekbones, the proud nose. “I meant no disrespect. May I offer a silver coin to the Temple to show my penance?”
I shift from heel to heel, looking everywhere but the charlatan’s face. He makes a show of digging in his pocket and his hand trembles so much that he almost d
rops the coin. Some of the other charlatans watch with curiosity. What do they expect me to do? I’m not my mother, nor will I ever be like her.
“Please don’t curse another one,” Rudjek begs me. “Not after what happened to the last one who crossed you.”
My lips purse in protest, but as much as I cringe in embarrassment, the charlatan looks equally distressed. People always believe Rudjek when he lies about my purported magic, even if I’ve never shown a drop of talent.
Before they realize who I am, strangers don’t give me a second glance. I’m only another person in the market to swindle out of a few copper coins, or a silver one if I’m foolish enough. When they find out who I am—who she is—people look at me with a mix of horror, admiration, and longing. A little envy too. Like the charlatan staring at me right now. It’s the same way I gazed upon the witchdoctors at the Blood Moon Festival, and for a moment I pretend it’s true. I pretend that magic will obey my every whim. And the first thing I’ll make it do is shove a rag in Rudjek’s big mouth.
I glare at him as he pulls me away. A shock of warmth flows between our hands and crawls up my arm. His hand’s much larger than mine, his skin calloused from handling shotels in his father’s arena. My heart flaps like a skyward bird. Rudjek looks down at our interlocked fingers and blushes again as he lets go. We’re both doing an awful lot of that lately.
I huff a frustrated breath. “I wish people wouldn’t act like I’m her.”
“Your mother inspires a special kind of terror,” Rudjek says. “She and my father both.”
What Tam said about Fram, the orisha of life and death, comes back to mind. They saw life and death as different sides of the same coin. Our parents could be described that way. Both ruthless in their own right. No wonder they hate each other.
Rudjek touches my arm and warmth pulses between us again. We’ve touched many times before, and this should be no different. Yet I’m not mistaking the spark in his midnight eyes. “Everything okay?”
