by Rena Barron
We don’t wait for them to answer before setting off for the shop again.
“One of these days they’re going to confess to your father,” I say to distract him.
He laughs, but it’s forced. He’s worried about Kofi too and covers it with thinly veiled humor. He gives me an ember of hope that things can be normal again. “As long as it’s after my Coming of Age Ceremony”—he shrugs—“I don’t care.”
The bell on the door announces us to the empty shop. It’s dark inside, and when I step across the threshold the fire lamps along the walls flare to life. The shop is warm and filled with rows of neatly stocked shelves. The hint of cloves in the air reminds me of sipping tea with my father between lessons. On my free days, I usually help him prepare his blood medicines. The memories calm my nerves a little.
Before we left for the Blood Moon Festival, I hid behind a shelf of animal carcasses and watched him extend the life of an old scholar woman. Oshhe squatted in the center of the room, where the cauldron boiled beneath a bushel of herbs. Kohl covered his already dark face, his teeth painted crimson. His eyes stretched wide as the smoke wrapped around the woman. It encircled her feet first, then curled up her legs. Slow and methodical, rising like a winged serpent.
The scholar stood as still as the dead, her pristine elara a flush of silver. A deep hum rose from Oshhe’s throat as he guided the smoke. It snaked around her waist, and she didn’t make so much as a sound. The regulars never did. I moved closer to get a better look, peeking between the bloodroot and woodworm. Always in awe of my father’s work, I quietly straightened the medicinals on their shelves the entire time. Opium, cannabis, myrrh, frankincense, fennel, cassia, senna, thyme. Too many to count.
Once the smoke reached the woman’s head, the fire beneath the cauldron winked out. The scholar’s wrinkled skin rippled like a pebble breaching the surface of a pond. It smoothed along her temples and forehead. Her gray hair deepened into a rich auburn. My father’s magic had halved the woman’s age.
Rudjek fans his hand in front of his nose. “How can either of you stand the smell in here?”
Hints of thyme and lavender and clove lace the air. It smells better than a perfumery. If this were a better day, I would soak up the smell and settle in for a peaceful afternoon with my father. It’s my favorite place to come outside of the East Market, but I’ll find no comfort here either. “There’s nothing wrong with the smell,” I shoot back, more than a little annoyed.
He grimaces as he cracks open a window. “This place needs some fresh air.”
I cross my arms. “What exactly about herbs and flowers do you find so offensive?”
“Herbs?” His eyes water and he wipes away tears. “That’s a quaint description.”
“What do you mean?” I ask. “The air’s charmed to smell pleasant.”
Rudjek frowns again. “The magic doesn’t seem to be working.”
I head for the shelves of scrolls at the back of the shop. “What does it smell like to you?”
“Like something gone rancid.” He tugs at the collar of his elara. “It burns my nose and chest.”
Rudjek actually might be allergic to something in the shop.
“I warned you,” I mumble under my breath.
The scroll feels heavy in my pocket, and I can’t wait any longer even if Rudjek’s still here. I take up the wrinkled paper between sweaty fingers and untie the twine. I read the ritual written in Tamaran so fast that my pulse drums in my ears. If I do this, make the trade, the connection can only be broken if magic decides to come to me of its own free will. I suck in a breath through my teeth, both relieved and devastated. There’s still hope. If my own gifts come and they’re strong, that will break the connection. But Arti said no Mulani came into their gifts late. Even my father doesn’t believe it will happen. The only other way to break the connection is death.
I force myself to keep reading, my hand shaking as I do. The ritual requires a place where magic gathers in abundance. Here in Tamar, that means the Almighty Temple or the sacred Gaer tree. Since the Temple is out of the question, it has to be the tree. I’ve become no better than the people my mother ridicules. If she knew my plans she’d look down her nose at me, the same way I looked down my nose at the charlatans. The one in the market had made sure to rub it in my face. A pang of shame heats my belly, but I won’t let it sway my decision. I’m doing this for Kofi and the others. My pride is the least of my concerns.
When I glance up, Rudjek has slid to the floor with his back against the wall. Sweat soaks through his elara. He’s waiting for me to tell him what the scroll says, but I can’t bring myself to do it.
“Are you okay?” I ask instead. “You really don’t look well.”
“I’m fine.” He palms his family crest. “It’ll pass.”
I frown, wondering if the craven bone is reacting to the magic in the shop, and if it is, would it react to the ritual? I can’t risk it interfering with my plans.
“Would you like some tea?” I ask, and his face blanches.“What?” I frown. “Do you think the tea smells bad too?”
“No, it’s not that.” He shakes his head and glances at his hands. “Now that I’m coming of age, I’ve been learning more about the customs of my mother’s people. In the North, offering tea can be . . . misinterpreted.”
“Misinterpreted?” I laugh. “How?”
Rudjek draws his legs against his chest and rests his chin on his knees. He looks like the skinny little boy I first met along the Serpent River all those years ago. He was dreadful then, with his tangled black curls falling into his eyes as he yelled at two grown men. His attendants stood back while he tinkered with his fishing pole. One snickered at his frustration, and the other looked like he wanted to slap the boy across the back of the head.
Oshhe and I had been gathering mint grass by the river. The boy struggled with his line for the longest time, until finally I grew impatient. I asked my father if I could help, and without waiting for an answer, I stormed off toward them, to find the boy near tears. “They’re not showing you the right way.”
He looked up at me with eyes darker than night. Then he flashed the two attendants a crooked grin. “I told you, but you never listen to me!”
“Do you want me to show you?” I shrugged. “My father taught me.”
Pain flashed in his eyes and he replied in a small voice, “I’d like that.”
“In my mother’s country, Delene”—Rudjek’s voice pulls me out of the memory—“when a girl offers tea to a boy, it means something more.”
“Don’t go getting any ideas.” I blush. “In the tribal lands, tea is tea.”
“Who said I had any ideas?” he asks as he comes to his feet again. “Tea is tea here too.”
I don’t answer as I turn back to the scroll. There’s another awkward silence between us. Had it been another time, I would tease him to no end. I would ask if he wants an offer of tea to mean more than just tea. It isn’t as if I’ve never thought about it too.
“I want to do this alone.” I bite my lip. “I’ll mess something up with you here.”
“Why?” His voice drops low as he closes the space between us. He looks quite awful. “Am I distracting?” he adds in an innocent tone.
“In fact, you are.” I squint at him. “You look like you’re going to be sick.”
“Arrah.” He draws out my name and it’s music to my ears. “I don’t know what you’re planning, but I can tell it’s dangerous. I can’t let you do it by yourself. If something were to go wrong—”
“Nothing will go wrong.” I cut him off.
“Things have been different between us since you got back from the tribal lands.” He searches my face for something, his dark eyes penetrating my cover of half-truths. “We used to tell each other everything.”
“I’ve told you almost everything.” The words slip out before I can catch myself.
“Almost everything,” he repeats, taking a step closer.
“I know you want
to help, Rudjek.” I wince. “But I need to do this on my own.”
He sighs, glancing away. “You’re stubborn, you know that?”
More silence. There’s been enough of that to make the shop feel too small. In the end, he’s not feeling well, so I win out. We part ways with things left unsaid.
Once he leaves, I waste no time. For the hour of ösana waits for no one.
Twelve
Several spells, incantations, and charms could help me find the demon. The problem is that most of them need some cherished possession to work. Oshhe has scrolls from all five tribes, and I find a Mulani ritual that doesn’t need a personal item. The scroll promises to uncover something or someone hidden from plain sight. I wonder if my mother has been using a similar ritual at the Temple, or none at all. Those strongest in the gift don’t always need rituals to focus their magic.
My hands shake as I untether the Mulani scroll and lay it on the table next to the one from the charlatan. First, I must enact the ritual to open a bridge between magic and myself during the hour of ösana. There’s still time, yet the doubts start to creep in. For the ritual will bring me close to death. I have no reason to believe it will work either. I’ve never been good at magic, but that won’t stop me from trying.
I cling to the hope that my natural gifts will come before it’s too late. That if I do this one ritual, there’s still a chance to break the connection. But what if my abilities to see magic and have it not affect my mind are the only gifts I will ever have? I bite the inside of my cheek, letting my doubts curl up next to my hope. One gives me the strength to keep pushing, and the other reminds me to never give up.
At night, sparks of magic flicker between the shelves of dried herbs, bones, and charms in my father’s shop like moths drawn to flames. Shadows gather in corners and change into looming shapes that once terrified me as a child, and even now, set me on edge. The magic is aimless—lost without someone to wield it. There’s something foreboding about being here without my father. I’ve never snuck into the shop before alone, and I can’t shake the feeling that I’m invading his private space. That I shouldn’t be here.
Oshhe stores his tools for brewing blood medicines in a small room at the back of the shop. Pots, shears, linens, knives, and needles to extract blood hang along the walls. Soil imported from the Aatiri lands covers the floor. He says it makes his magic stronger.
I should’ve sent word home that I would be staying with Essnai tonight to not draw attention to my absence, but it’s too late for that. If Arti wants to find me, she will. When I step inside the storeroom, I close my eyes and curl my toes into the cool soil. I inhale a deep breath, anticipation and fear pulsing in my body. I can’t fail again. Kofi needs me. But beneath the feeling of need is something else I can’t deny. My motivations aren’t pure. I want desperately to be able to call magic and control it like my parents, to catch it on my fingertips. And if I do the ritual and my own gifts never show, then this will be my only link to true magic.
I’m breaking my promise to my father. For that I’m sorry. I don’t want to disappoint him, or endure the devastated look he gave me in the garden when he said that my magic may never come. Arti has always made me feel less for not possessing magic, even if she didn’t do it on purpose. All my life I’ve watched the way she never doubted or second-guessed herself. The way her steps ring with pure, unchallenged confidence. I’ve always wanted to be powerful and sure like her—to have even a fraction of her gifts. For my father, my not having magic has never mattered. I wish it didn’t matter to me either, but it’s too late to wallow in my feelings about it now. I haven’t the time.
I squat in front of a stack of wood and set a fire to make the blood medicine for the Mulani ritual. Once the herbs—bitter leaf, goat weed, and senna—start to boil there’s nothing to do but wait. As I stare at the flames, I try to reconcile Grandmother’s vision with Arti’s. Tam all but confirmed that the green-eyed serpent was a demon. Demons need souls, and children’s kas are the purest. Now there’s no doubt left in my mind that seeking out the green-eyed serpent will lead me to the child snatcher.
When the herbs are ready, I mix them with ginger and eeru pepper paste and put the medicine in a vial. It’s as thick as molasses and the smell is sharp enough to draw tears from my eyes. To seal the ritual, I must add blood infused with magic—magic that I’ll have if the bargain to trade my years works. I’m nervous—more so than before the tests with Grandmother at the Blood Moon Festival. What will it be like when magic answers my call? When it becomes a part of me? Tonight, if all goes well, I’ll know soon enough.
Something as simple as dyeing one’s hair blue needs a bit of blood. My father’s ritual to extend life needs much more. That is the true limitation of flesh magic. There’s only so much blood a person can give over a short period of time. I’ve mixed countless medicines before on my own and with my father. None of them worked, but the action itself has always given me a sense of peace. This time my blood medicine has to work.
I work for hours, through the entire afternoon and late into the night. The first morning bells toll as I finish stringing a bone necklace. It’s a charm for protection in case something goes wrong. As much as I’m willing to sacrifice, I want to come out of this ritual whole. It’s foolish to think that a simple charm will protect me, but the necklace offers me the smallest solace. And right now, I’ll take what little comfort I can get. Sweat drips down my forehead as I rush to tidy up Oshhe’s shop. He might not notice the missing items, but if he asks, I won’t hide the truth. Once he learns of what I’ve done, he’ll see that I had no choice.
The moon bathes the cobblestones outside the shop. All the merchants have closed for the night, and most of the West Market is quiet. Fire lamps light my way through the darkened streets. I avoid the drunkards looking for owahyats, and the ones who lock arms with each other in song. As I enter quieter neighborhoods with the moonlight as my guide, every sound makes my heart jump.
It would’ve been safer to take the busier route through the East Market, but the hour is fast approaching. By the time I reach the sacred Gaer tree on the north edge of the city, I’m drenched in sweat. The bald tree is darker than the night itself. No leaves grow on its branches and no grass around its roots.
The first Ka-Priest of the Kingdom was buried here. It’s said that his magic was so powerful that his ka took root and grew into a tree rather than ascend into death. Outside of the Temple, this is the most holy place in Tamar—and the most practical place to perform the ritual.
I settle into the cool embrace of soil as black and iridescent as obsidian glass. As the hour of ösana approaches, sparks of magic dance across the bruised sky. I wait for two gods to cross paths, wait for the world to wake and the magic to burrow into my veins. The moment languishes so long that my heartbeat fills my ears with a desperate plea.
This won’t be easy. I’m not a fool, but I am a foolish girl doing a foolish thing. Magic has costs, even for those who make it look as effortless as kneading fufu.
First, the trade.
Magic will either obey or refuse me. It rejected me when I was a little girl at Imebyé and has forsaken me in all my years practicing with Grandmother. Now I have something to offer it.
Before I lose my nerve, I slam my hand into the sacred tree, and thorns pierce my flesh with the ease of a tobachi knife. The pain is hot and sharp, and I bite back a cry. One of the thorns cuts clear through to the back of my hand. I inhale a deep breath as my pulse throbs in my ears. The blood gathers at my wrist and drops down to feed the roots of the tree. It isn’t so bad, I tell myself, but this is only the beginning. It’ll be much worse before it gets better. The scroll had been clear about that.
I whisper the words to offer my life as payment for a taste of magic, and then I wait. I’ve been patient all these years; I can hold out a little longer. But the magic is impatient for once. Black vines sprout from the tree like weeds in a garden. They writhe and lash out at me. When I try to snat
ch my hand back, they burrow under my skin. I scream as the vines stretch up my arm, leaving a trail of excruciating pain in their wake. A new crop shoots from the tree and straight into my open mouth, cutting off my scream. I can’t breathe. My first instinct is to pull the vines out, but I’ve lost control of my body. I can’t lift my free arm. Fire burns down my throat, and I can’t hold on much longer. Panic sets in. I want to call it off, but it’s too late.
I can do this. The words taunt me as vines crawl behind my eyes and tighten around my organs. No, I can’t. I’m going to die. It’s the last thing that crosses my mind before everything blinks out and there’s only darkness.
Then I’m gasping for air, my face half-buried in the dirt. My right hand almost gives out as I drag myself to sit up. It’s crusted in blood, and the wound is raw. It takes a moment to gather my wits, and I lean against a place on the tree without thorns. I’m afraid the vines will come back, but I’m too weak to move, let alone stand up. I wipe away a sting of tears that turn out to be blood. Did it work? I can’t tell. There’s plenty of magic in the night sky, but it doesn’t come to me.
My stomach clenches. I can’t have failed again. Not after going through so much.
The bone charm rattles around my neck, reminding me of my father’s warning. When you barter your years for magic, it takes of you what it will. It could be five years, or your whole life as payment. It does not matter the complexity of the ritual, spell, or charm. There’s no way to tell until it’s too late. I waste no time: after adding my blood, I drink the medicine to find the child snatcher. I gag on the foul taste and my pulse quickens. I should heed my father’s words and stop before it’s too late, but what then? I can’t turn my back and pretend that everything’s okay. Kofi needs me. I should’ve found a way to protect him when I saw the Familiars in the market.
