Kingdom of Souls

by Rena Barron

  “That’s a pity.” Oshhe shrugs. “Had I been around, I could have healed him.”

  Arti scowls at him as she flicks the goat cheese away. “It’s peculiar for an Eké not to have any family around, but Ren had none in Tamar and none willing to travel from Tribe Litho. I offered to care for him and take over his duties.” Her words are devoid of emotions, as though she’s recounting some mundane assembly matter. “I sought out girls whose minds he had violated. Most were street girls—the kind so-called men of status used and threw away. Most had perished or were beyond help. Ren never laid one hand on them; that wasn’t his particular vice. What he did was worse.

  “He’d reach inside your mind and twist your memories to suit his own perverse pleasures.” Her gaze shifts to the wall behind me. “Then he would replace them with new, defiled memories, and those became the only memories you had. He violated hundreds of women before me, and Suran tidied it all up because Ren did his bidding too. He collected information to put the Kingdom at an advantage over its enemies. And the orishas . . . ,” she spits out, “they knew the entire time and did nothing to stop him.”

  I stare at my mother, unblinking. As much as I want to deny it, my heart aches for her . . . for the girl she’d been before Ka-Priest Ren Eké. I never truly knew the depth of what he’d done to her. My father’s story, and what Rudjek added, was the tale made pretty by smoothing over the details. Even the most horrible act isn’t so bad if you skipped the devastating parts. And here they are, laid out before me. I don’t know what’s worse: hearing of the Ka-Priest’s crimes, or hearing my mother’s matter-of-fact tone as she recounts them.

  “There was never much of a person’s mind left once he’d finished playing in their heads . . . but some had withstood his worst. I hired two of them to take care of him when he grew . . . ill. It was quite remarkable they kept him alive as long as they did.” Arti pauses, a shadow of a smile crossing her face. “I’m sure Nezi or Ty would love to share the details. They were with him in the end.”

  The fork slips from between my trembling fingers and crashes against my plate. I can’t breathe, my mind racing to Nezi’s limp and the scars on her hands, and Ty who never speaks. That bastard Ka-Priest did that to them. Arti helped them get revenge, but in the end, she’s no better than him. He passed his depravity on to her like a disease spreads through tight quarters. I can’t reconcile the two sides of my mother—the side that sheltered two women who suffered so much, and the side that snatches children in the night.

  The next morning, I’m still dazed as Terra rifles through my clothes. She’s prattling on about something, but I don’t listen. All I can think about is my mother and father eating their meals last night as if nothing has changed. When Arti finished, she swept out of the salon with Oshhe trailing behind her like an obedient pet. Whatever the reason for my ability to resist her magic, I’m left with more control over myself than my father. My best chance to break the binding lies in his shop, among his hundreds of scrolls on tribal magic. There has to be some ritual or a powerful charm that can break my mother’s curse, for no magic is infallible. I wait for Arti to leave for the Temple and Oshhe to set off to conduct business as usual, his patrons none the wiser.

  Nezi is arguing with someone outside the gate of our villa. I’m halfway across the garden when Rudjek pokes his head around her, his forehead etched into a frown. When he spots me, his shoulders relax.

  “Do I want to know what you’re doing?” I groan, even if I’m glad to see him.

  “Looking for you, of course.” Rudjek squeezes the ribs of the gate. His dark gaze rakes over me, and whatever he finds bleeds the color from his face. “She wouldn’t let me in.”

  Nezi straightens from her spot leaning against the porter’s station and opens the gate. I stare at her scarred hands. They’re covered in angry welts from scratching. When I was little, I never doubted her story about burning herself while plucking magic from the sky. Now, my throat bobs as a stone settles in my belly. If the Ka-Priest never touched the women, then did Nezi do that to herself?

  After seeing my family struggle with pain my entire life, I’m filled with rage against the man who hurt them. If I were Ty, Nezi, or Arti, would I have done the same?

  I push the thought away. “Why didn’t you tell me Rudjek was here?” I ask her.

  Rubbing the back of her hand, Nezi looks down her nose at him. “Your mother wouldn’t approve of him coming here. The Omaris are nothing but trouble.”

  I grab Rudjek by the arm and drag him away from the villa as he opens his mouth to tell Nezi his mind. “Don’t bother.”

  “Did she just insult me?” Rudjek glances over his shoulder at her. “I feel insulted.”

  “We need to go back to my father’s shop,” I say, releasing his arm.

  My father’s scrolls must have an answer. I remember the feel of their grainy texture against my fingers. Charms, rituals, and curses from the simple to the complex, from benign to ominous. I’ve rambled through them all out of curiosity at some point or another, but now they’re my last and only hope. I take one step and my mother’s magic blossoms in my chest. My legs come to a halt; my whole body seizes up. “Oh no,” Rudjek protests. “Whatever you’re thinking . . .”

  “It’s not your business,” I cut him off before he can finish. I try to take another step, but the curse only tightens its hold. “Twenty-gods!” I blurt out in frustration.

  The magic won’t let me act against my mother, but there must be a way around it. She’s manipulated my father’s mind and likely intended the same for me, but a part of her curse had failed. All those years ago at Imebyé, Grandmother said my mind’s ability to resist magic is my greatest gift. What good is it if I can’t speak or act on any thoughts against Arti? The curse knows my intentions.

  “You don’t have to be so pissy about it,” Rudjek grumbles.

  “Don’t be such a nag,” I hiss at him.

  Every time my thoughts flit too close to the truth, the magic surges underneath my skin. What would happen if I didn’t focus on the reason for going to my father’s shop? What if I can pretend my intentions lie elsewhere? Will the magic see through my deceit? There’s only one way to find out. “I’m going to my father’s shop to help him clean,” I announce, more to myself than Rudjek. I let memories of me straightening the shelves and washing vials sweep through my mind. Today is no different from any other day. My father needs my help tidying up, nothing more. Rudjek stares at me, frowning, as if I’ve lost my mind. I take one step forward, my leg moving with ease again. A shiver of relief runs across my shoulders. It actually worked. I don’t let my thoughts linger on this small concession so I don’t get my hopes up. When I’m able to take another step, I say, “Are you coming or not?”

  “I resent being called a nag.” Rudjek looks me over again. This time his eyes linger long enough to make me uncomfortable. He takes hold of my arm, his fingers gliding down to my wrist. His touch is like sunshine kissing my skin. “It took something from you, Arrah. I can tell. The ritual, I mean. You must feel it.”

  There’s no point in arguing or denying that my skin has lost some color. Even the fit of my clothes is a bit looser, though I was forced to eat my fill last night. If anything, I’m hungrier than usual, but eating didn’t satisfy the feeling of emptiness inside me. “Yes, I know,” I say before he can press the matter. “How many more have gone missing?”

  Rudjek holds on to my wrist until I pull away. “Another girl.”

  When we’re a few paces away from the villa, Kira and Majka fall into step with us, one ahead and one behind. I failed the children because I was too naive to see my mother for what she is. I failed Kofi—sweet, loquacious Kofi who always has a smile for everyone. A pang of guilt wrenches through my belly. Countless more children will go missing if I fail today. I can’t let that happen.

  Arti said that she had to take the children because they were innocent, but I’m no closer to finding out her reason. Whoever her accomplice is, she’s
turned against her family to protect him and carry out their plans.

  Rudjek and I avoid the East Market altogether. There’s too much yelling, cursing, and fighting on the streets. So many Familiars flit around that the air tastes bitter. We walk the rest of the way to my father’s shop in silence. Rudjek doesn’t have to tell me that the shotani haven’t found any leads on the child snatcher. Now I know they never will. Arti and her seers trained the shotani. Their loyalty is to her.

  “Even with all this chaos, my father refuses to postpone my Coming of Age Ceremony,” Rudjek groans. “Please tell me you’re attending . . . I need to see a friendly face.”

  “I don’t know,” I say, half listening. The magic stirs in my chest again, and I tell myself over and over that I’m only going to help my father.

  Rudjek spots the smoke from behind Oshhe’s shop first, and my heart skips a beat. I run around to the alley behind the shop. My legs almost collapse as I stumble toward my father. “What are you doing?” I yell, my vision blurring, the world spinning.

  Oshhe tosses handfuls of scrolls into a barrel with fire raging inside. “Getting rid of some old things. I’ve been at it all morning—didn’t realize how many of these useless scrolls I had lying around.”

  I run headlong to where my father is burning his magic scrolls and try to save the last one as it catches fire. I reach for it, but Rudjek grabs my waist and drags me from the barrel. I kick and fight to break free. His body is so hot against my back that my skin feels like it’s on fire too.

  Oshhe rushes over and they both keep asking the same question. “What’s wrong? What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” My father’s eyes bear no regret as he pulls me into his arms. Arti said that he will only know happiness, but the man holding me is a shell. I scream, my throat raw, my chest burning. I blink back tears as flames curl around the scroll. The smooth papyrus blackens and flakes away. The embers fade until there’s only ashes left.

  Arti has made my father destroy our last hope.

  Seventeen

  The moon hangs fat and heavy in the night sky as my father and I make our rounds at Rudjek’s Coming of Age Ceremony. It’s been days since Oshhe burned his scrolls and I still can’t get the image or the acrid odor out of my head. Now he’s laughing with statesmen in the Vizier’s courtyard and charming people with his stories. A warm breeze sweeps in from the garden, carrying hints of jasmine, lilac, and rose petals. The sweet smell only upsets my stomach. For the third time in less than an hour, an attendant offers me a glass of honeyed wine, and I wave them away.

  Arti isn’t here, and that worries me. This morning before leaving for the Temple, she said that Oshhe and I would attend. Her magic did the rest. Of course she’d known about the ceremony, likely from her spies. Or from all the gossip surrounding the important families who had come to the city for the event. No one comments on her absence because of her rivalry with the Vizier, but I have no doubt she’s up to no good. I’m worried about Rudjek too. I wouldn’t put it past her to move against him to strike at his father.

  I crane my neck, looking for the other seers. I don’t know if I’m more or less nervous when I don’t spot any of them. It crosses my mind again that one might be her accomplice. Arti has no love for the orishas, that much is clear now, but do the other seers feel the same? Have they turned their backs on their faith, as they had on Heka when they gave up life in the tribal lands?

  Oshhe is ever the perfect conversationalist, telling tales of magic. Many of the families of status in attendance are also patrons of his shop. Scholars, scribes, artisans, craftsmen. People with enough money to pay for youth and good health. People who would’ve died ten times over if not for his touch. Someone who’s lived one hundred years, a great feat already, can live twice as long and not look a day over fifty. Such is his gift.

  My father would still be in the desert had he not fallen in love with Arti. He’d be a healer in Tribe Aatiri, where no one wastes coins on changing their hair color or enhancing body parts. He’d be happy; he’d be whole.

  In his love story, the boys said that the Mulani girl could steal your magic with one kiss.

  Oshhe underestimated Arti. We both did.

  I never will again.

  “The Ka-Priestess let you come,” muses Essnai, rustling at my side. “I didn’t expect that.”

  I startle at my friend’s sudden appearance. For a girl a head taller than most, she moves with the grace of a shadow. Her red dress shimmers with flecks of silver and matches the silver dusted on her ebony skin. She is, as always, radiant.

  “It was kind of her,” I say, my voice somber. I can’t speak against my mother, but I can still control the temperament of my words. It’s a small grace, but it hasn’t done me any good.

  “This ceremony is ill-timed.” Essnai peers at the crowd, her hands on her hips. “The city mourns for the missing children.”

  “The Vizier doesn’t care,” I murmur under my breath. “He’s a selfish bastard.”

  Essnai quirks an approving eyebrow at me. “Indeed.”

  Before my temper flares higher, I change the subject. “I’m surprised you came too.”

  “I made half the dresses here.” Essnai shrugs. “Couldn’t miss seeing them in the wild.”

  Of my friends, she is the most grounded. No matter the trouble, her serene demeanor always calms me. At Imebyé all those years ago, she helped me find my way back to the Aatiri camp. She’d been my beacon of light, guiding me in the dark. I wish she could show me the way now—that she’d tell me everything would be okay. “I’m glad you’re here.” I give her a small smile.

  She turns her dark gaze fully on me, searching. “You haven’t stopped by the shop lately.”

  “I know.” She means I haven’t visited her—never mind gawking over the gorgeous garb in her mother’s shop. We’ve spent hardly any time together since getting back from the Blood Moon Festival. Essnai’s never been one to pry, and instead of asking why, she waits for me to give a reason. “Things have been complicated.”

  Her eyes linger on my face a bit longer, and then she says, “I’m here if you need me.”

  When the doors of the estate open, the music falls silent and people stop talking to stare. Rudjek steps across the threshold, his expression blank. Underneath his mask of indifference, though, he clenches his jaw, his shoulders stiffen. He reminds me of the caged lions the Almighty One parades in the city at the start of Basi—the harvest season. Had this been a better time, better circumstances, with me in a better mood, I would tease him about it later. But no, I don’t want to be here. I need to know what my mother is doing at the Temple.

  The Vizier stands to Rudjek’s right in a plain black elara, not his usual white silk embroidered with gold. All the men and boys attending the Coming of Age Ceremony wear black. Even my father wears a black kaftan. Rudjek’s mother, Serre, flanks his left, every bit the Northern princess. Layers of lavender silk stretch behind her like the Great Sea. Her raven hair flows in waves down her back and she wears a crown of pearls. Powder gives color to her skin so that the veins beneath are invisible.

  As lovely as Serre looks, all eyes are on Rudjek. Despite the fact that my mind feels trapped someplace far away, I can’t stop staring at him either. I hold my breath. For the briefest moment, I let myself forget everything else, and take him in. Lush eyebrows crowning even darker eyes, full lips drawn tight. His sculpted jaw made more prominent in the flickering torchlight. His white elara stitched with gold thread, his sleeves inlaid with rubies. The craven-bone crest standing out as an understated prize against his rich ceremonial garb. Only the Vizier wears an elara of white and gold. He’s making a bold statement about his son’s future. I don’t have to wonder if that’s why Rudjek looks so uncomfortable standing on the steps.

  The crowd parts to create a path down the middle of the courtyard. So many curious eyes watching him, so many shy smiles glowing beneath the soft firelight. But his gaze lands on me. His lips tug into a smile as his parents take each o
ne of his hands.

  “I present to you, Rudjek of House Omari, flesh of my flesh,” the Vizier’s voice carries over the crowd with ease.

  “No longer a boy, but a man,” adds Serre. “He shall present himself as such from this day forth.”

  “Heir to the Omari legacy,” his father decrees, “and future Vizier of the Almighty Kingdom.”

  “Let it be known,” Rudjek speaks for the first time, his voice flat. “I have stepped out of my father’s shadow and into my own.”

  The crowd acknowledges his declaration with a simple nod, and the flutes and harps cue up. Three dancers in sheer shifts that leave nothing to the imagination sashay down the aisle. One is tall, all legs, with skin a rich brown that turns heads. The second dancer has lips the color of fire and bright ribbons coil around her long braids. The third woman is all curves and bats her lashes at Rudjek as if they are the only two people in the entire courtyard. A warm blush creeps up his neck and sets his cheeks aflame. He takes a step back as all three women converge on him, and his father nudges him forward. Some of the men in the crowd whistle. Some laugh.

  Foolish tradition.

  Instead of sulking at the women slithering against Rudjek like gnats stuck in honey, I turn away. Kira slips out of the crowd with a glass of honeyed wine. “Do you mind if I steal away my ama?” She reaches for Essnai’s hand and plants a kiss on her palm. Essnai smiles, her dark eyes bewitched. “She’s been a wayward bird all night.” A pang of longing twists in my chest as I dip my head, my fingers sweeping my brow, and the two disappear in the throng of people.

  When the crowd gasps, I snap my head back around. The dancers twist and contort their lithe bodies to the call of the flutes and harps. The way some of these supposed people of status gawk at them makes my flesh crawl. The vile Ka-Priest may have once leered at Ty and Nezi the same way, itching to do his worst. And he had: Arti is proof of that.