Children of Virtue and Vengeance

by Tomi Adeyemi

  A Seer until the end.

  “My brave boy.” Mama Agba wiggles Tzain’s ear. “You have grown into an even braver man.”

  She makes Tzain laugh through his pain. He wipes his eyes and grabs her hand.

  “Thank you for everything.”

  She pulls him close, rubbing her hand up and down his back. “Take care of them. But do not forget to take care of yourself.”

  “Please don’t do this.” Amari’s voice cracks with tears. She hangs her head when Mama Agba steps in front of her, metal restraints still clinking around her wrists.

  “You are not your mistakes.” Mama Agba holds both of her shoulders, making Amari cry harder. “Do not let one moment define or destroy you. The gods work in mysterious ways. Have faith in their greater plan.”

  When Amari nods, Mama Agba kisses her cheek. I try to prepare myself, but I can’t when she turns toward me. A smile ignites her dark skin, bright like the sunset at her back. She walks with an unbreakable purpose, ready though I’ll never be.

  “My little warrior.” Her eyes well for the first time. She raises my chin and squares my shoulders. “Not so little anymore.”

  “Mama Agba—” I try to speak, but I can’t find the words. No matter how many times I tell myself I can do this, I’m not ready to rip my heart in half.

  “Remember what I said.” She wipes my tears and places her hand on my chest. “Every breath. Every chant. You fight with the heart of your father. The spirit of your mother. When this is over, you will fight with me as well.”

  She kisses my forehead, squeezing my hand tight. I hold her in my arms, doing everything I can to soak in her embrace. I try to memorize every wrinkle in her face. To inhale the scent of shea butter in her coils.

  When I can hold her no longer, she bows her head and kneels. My own hand shakes as I grab hers and remove my dagger.

  “Go ahead.”

  I bring the blade across her palm, creating a thin line of blood. It drips down her hand, glowing white as it falls. She exhales when I draw the sacred mark along her forehead with my thumb. I put her hand on my sternum as I whisper the command.

  “Ẹ tọnná agbára yin.”

  The tattoos on my back start to glow as the blood magic takes hold. Mama Agba gasps when the first drop of her blood falls to the ground. It sinks into the stone, sizzling with smoke.

  White light spreads from our center, cracking through the mountaintop like a spiderweb. When it hits the maji around me, ten disparate heartbeats fill my head.

  Buh-bump.

  Buh-bump.

  Each claps like thunder. Their pulses summon the storm. Howling winds swirl around us as white particles of light form in front of each chest, every lifeforce being called forward. They hang like fireflies in the night, glowing brighter with my chant. Tethers form as they blend together, reaching toward my center.

  “Ẹ tọnná agbára yin.”

  My tattoos glow brighter than they ever have as the particles condense. Magic weaves itself together like threads in a tapestry. My body strains as they hit my chest.

  The force lifts me into the air and Mama Agba follows, rising above the stone. Her hands fall limp as her chest rises. The wind blows through her silk cloak.

  “Ẹ tọnná agbára yin!” It hurts to speak the words. Blood magic spreads inside Mama Agba, glowing through every vein. It shines brightest when it reaches her heart. My chest aches as it breaks her apart.

  Her complexion darkens, turning deeper than the night. Particles of light shine through her armor and silks, glowing like stars woven into her skin.

  With her rise, the spaces between the different hearts draw to a close. Beat by beat, each pulse slows. They fall into sync with the sacred rhythm as the ancient command leaves my mouth.

  “Ẹ tọnná agbára yin.”

  With the final chant, the shine around Mama Agba becomes too bright. She lights up the night like a comet flying through the sky.

  I don’t feel the moment my feet touch back to the ground. My chest thunders with the force of a storm. Each pulse is like lightning in my blood.

  The power of ten hearts beating as one.

  I press my hand to my chest and look up, somehow feeling the pulse of Mama Agba’s love. Though tears fall from my eyes, the sensation makes me smile.

  “Títí di òdí kejì,” I whisper the sacrament under my breath. I grab her fallen cane.

  I won’t let you down.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE

  INAN

  I THOUGHT THAT when the time came, I would be riddled with doubt. Crippled by the pain in my gut. But as I stare at my reflection in Father’s mirror, it’s like every weight has been lifted off my shoulders. For so long I’ve struggled to do the right thing.

  Tonight I leave my mark as king.

  Knock! Knock!

  Mother appears in the door, a vision in a gown tailored from gold. The rich fabric glitters with embroidered crystals and shimmering pearls. A giant gele catches the light on her head. From the flush along her cheeks, I can tell she’s already had her fair share of red wine.

  “You look beautiful, Mother.”

  She lifts her chin, swishing the flowing cape draped across her shoulders. “Have you finally come to your senses?”

  “I understand.” I nod. “You’ve only done what you thought was right.”

  Mother’s mask of calm falls and her shoulders relax. In her amber eyes, I see the woman I love. It almost hurts more when she pulls me into a hug, holding me close.

  “I know you don’t agree with my methods, but I hope one day you will understand that everything I have done has been for you. By dawn, all your enemies will be gone. Nothing will get in the way of your reign over this great kingdom ever again.”

  I pat her back, inhaling her rosewater scent. Conviction radiates through her words.

  It always does.

  “I understand, Mother.”

  She pulls back and dabs her eye, drying any tears before they can fall. She reaches for the pitcher on Father’s dresser and pours red wine into the crystal flutes, before handing one to me.

  “The toast we should’ve had.” She raises her glass in the air. “To securing the kingdom.”

  “To securing the kingdom.”

  Our glasses clink, and Mother is quick to take a generous sip. She knocks back half the flute before directing her attention to my attire.

  “You look handsome in navy, but we need to match tonight.” She points her finger. “The gold agbada should be in your closet. Efia tailored it herself.”

  “I appreciate your guidance, Mother, but it doesn’t matter what I wear.” I set down my flute and meet her eyes. “This is it. I’m dissolving the monarchy tonight.”

  Mother releases a high-pitched laugh, resting her pointed fingers over her heart. “Have you had too much wine?”

  I shake my head. “I’ve just had enough.”

  Her fingers fly to her lips, but they do little to suppress her raucous laugh. She sighs and shakes her head.

  “Just when I thought you’d matured.”

  “I have matured.” I close the distance between us. “I see the truth now. We pretend that magic is the root of our pain when everything rotten in this kingdom begins and ends with us. There’s no helping it.” I clench my fist. “Amari proved that in Ibadan. This throne corrupts even the purest of hearts. As long as it exists, people will continue to tear this kingdom apart.”

  “I don’t have time for your nonsense.” Mother drinks the rest of her wine before setting down her flute. “You’re still upset about Ojore. Stay here and sulk like the child you are.”

  She turns to the door, but her knees buckle the moment she tries to walk. She blinks as she stumbles forward, bracing herself against the wall.

  “What’s going on?” she asks, her words starting to slur.

  I close the space between us, guiding her back to Father’s bed.

  “I worried you’d recognize your own sedatives,” I say, lifting up o
ne of her emerald vials. Mother stares at her empty flute. My own is still filled to the brim.

  I see the moment she realizes her mistake.

  “You rotten little m…” Her words slur together and her muscles spasm as she fights the concoction. The ground quakes, but only small tremors answer her call. They grow weaker and weaker until she can’t summon her magic at all.

  I straighten my collar as she fights to stay conscious. Even as her face falls slack, her lips curl into a snarl.

  “I hope you enjoyed the gala, Mother,” I call back to her as I walk out the door. “It’ll be your last.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX

  ZÉLIE

  NO ONE SPEAKS as we make our way down Orïsha’s coast, sailing on a boat powered by Nâo’s magic. There’s no need when every heartbeat pulses through our throats. The ocean spray coats our skin as the salt-filled air whips around us. A new magic roars through our blood, ready to tear through Lagos’s impenetrable walls.

  Every beat. Every chant.

  I hold on to Mama Agba’s words as the tides of my old home draw near. With their melody, I’m back on Baba’s boat, drawing out the fishing net. I think of him as I turn to the others, not wanting to see the ruins of Ilorin. After tonight, our kingdom will never be the same.

  “We’re close.” I turn to the others. “We can hide out on these shores until sunset.”

  Then we’ll strike, I think to myself. We’ll save our people and make the monarchy pay for all the pain they’ve caused.

  I picture Mári and Bimpe trapped with our army in the palace cellars; the rest of the Iyika waiting for their execution. I think of all those who stand in our way. Every tîtán who will have to die.

  “Get some rest,” I continue. “Prepare yourselves. There is no telling what will happen when we take that palace down—”

  “Zél,” Tzain calls, forcing me to turn to him. His arms hang limp. My brows knit and I follow his line of sight.

  I walk to the front of our boat, not believing my eyes.

  In the distance, a single ahéré stands above the tides.

  Confusion mounts as Nâo redirects us from the shore, bringing us closer to the sight. The memories of Ilorin burning moons ago cloud my mind. I can still remember the way the scent of ash choked my throat.

  The entire village sunk to the bottom of the sea. I collapsed with my home. Yet somehow, my hut still stands above the crashing waves, untouched by all that’s followed since the day I was forced to leave it behind.

  When we reach the reed ahéré, the elders wait as Tzain and I climb. It’s like a dream.

  A dream or a nightmare.

  My old home sits on wooden planks, a single safe haven above the sea. There’s no sign of the fire that burned it to the ground. No sign of everything else that was lost. But staring at the home we shared with Baba is like finding a missing part of me.

  I hold Tzain’s arm as we walk toward it, waiting for the illusion to shatter. It doesn’t make sense. Outside our ahéré, it’s like the fires never happened.

  Tzain drags his fingers against the doorframe and I find the lines Baba drew above the two of us. Each moon a new crooked line marked our changing heights. I always cried when my line couldn’t beat Tzain’s.

  “I don’t understand.” My breath hitches as I walk through the doorway. The reed walls curve around me, reeds just like the ones Baba and I wove together with love. It’s all here: the cotton cots, the agbön ball that sat in the corner. Even a black calla lily hangs in the window. The petals pass like velvet between my fingers, stems freshly cut.

  The only break from my memories is the parcel wrapped in parchment that lies on my cot. A folded note sits on top:

  I’m sorry.

  It’s like I’m drowning again. A gaping hole opens in my chest as the words Inan spoke to me moons ago return.

  “When this is over, I’ll rebuild Ilorin,” he said. “It’ll be the first thing I do.”

  Inan promised to bring back my home. I never thought he’d keep his word. My throat grows tight as I unravel the parcel’s strings. I don’t know what to make of the dozens of letters that fall to the ground.

  Why? The question rings through my mind as they spill across the floor. I reach down to pick one up, bracing myself for the words written inside.

  There are nights when you visit my dreams. Nights where I can forget.

  When I wake, I drive myself insane thinking of what could’ve been …

  My throat closes up and I throw the letter to the ground. Walk away, I command myself. But another lures me in.

  All this time I thought I was choosing my kingdom over my heart. I was naïve. Too blind to realize that you were both …

  Tears drop onto the parchment, bleeding into its ink. How dare he try to crawl back into my heart after all the pain he’s caused me?

  I slap the letters away, wishing Kenyon were here to burn them to ash. But when one letter clinks against the ground, I lift my head. I open up the parchment and a bronze piece falls into my hands. I tilt my head as I lift it by its silver chain.

  Then I remember the piece I gave him …

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “Something you can hold on to without killing yourself.”

  I placed the cheap metal in his hands.

  He kept it all this time?

  My tears continue to fall as I unfold the parchment.

  I know this might end up at the bottom of the ocean. But as long as there’s a chance, I have to write it.

  I have to try to make things right.

  I could apologize until the end of time and it still wouldn’t be enough, but I’m sorry for hurting you. I’m sorry for all the pain I’ve caused.

  It’s clear to me now that the plague of Orïsha has never been magic at all. It’s us—Father, Mother, and me. Even Amari has been twisted by this throne. The monarchy poisons us all.

  As long as it stands, Orïsha doesn’t have a chance. So I’m doing the only thing I can and ending it once and for all.

  I grip the parchment so tight, it nearly rips in half. I didn’t even know ending the monarchy was something a king could do.

  I don’t know what comes next, but I know it’s time for this reign to end. I will work till my dying breath to protect this kingdom, to be the man I thought I could be when I was with you.

  But should our paths collide again, I will not raise my sword.

  I am ready to end my life at your hand.

  “What is it?” Tzain stands behind me. I wipe away my tears, handing him the letter. His eyes widen as he combs over the words.

  “He did all this?”

  I nod, and Tzain rubs his jaw. “You two.” He shakes his head. “Even when you crash, you intertwine.”

  I stare at the bronze piece in my hand, wanting to throw it into the ocean. I hate Inan for doing this. I hate the part of me that wants to believe he’s telling the truth.

  “What’re you going to do?”

  “What I have to.” I shrug. “It doesn’t matter what he says, what he promises. Our people are still behind those walls. I have to do whatever it takes to get them out.”

  A silence hangs in the air and I grab his hand, staring at all the parchment on the ground. “What’re you going to do about you and Amari?”

  Tzain’s face twists as he winces. He holds back his tears, but I feel their sting behind my own eyes. Throughout all the pain we’ve endured, she’s been the only one to make him smile. Even when I resented her to my core, I loved Amari for that.

  “There is no me and Amari,” he finally speaks. “Not anymore.”

  “Tzain, how you feel about her, that’s not something you can just turn off—”

  “She almost killed you,” he interrupts. “There’s no coming back from that.”

  He sinks onto the replica of his old cot and I sit by his side. I squeeze the bronze piece in my hand as I lean my head against his shoulder, listening to the crash of waves outside our window.

  “
Next time let’s fall for a pair of siblings that don’t come with a crown.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN

  ZÉLIE

  WIND WHIPS AT MY HAIR as we stand on the hilltop overlooking Lagos. Storm clouds thunder above, releasing a pelting rain.

  Lanterns bathe the capital in an orange glow. Specks of light twinkle from door to door. The palace shines brightest of all, safe behind the city’s massive walls.

  “Are you ready?” Tzain nudges me, and I nod as I take Lagos’s strongest defense in. The silver barrier around the city towers thirty meters into the air, nearly twice the height of any tree in the surrounding forest. But tîtáns and cênters be damned. We shall not lose tonight.

  We carry the might of the gods.

  I feel it with every beat of my heart, every chant waiting on my lips. There’s no stopping us now.

  We’ve brought the war to them.

  I turn back to Amari, still bound in metal restraints. She stares at the ground at a safe distance behind us, not even moving when I motion for Kâmarū to release her binds. Roën stands by her side, and we exchange a nod. I look back at Lagos’s walls, bracing myself for what’s to come.

  “For Mama Agba,” I call. “Mâzeli.”

  “Baba and Mama,” Tzain joins in.

  “Zulaikha and Kwame,” Folake whispers.

  We speak the fallen one by one, naming everyone the monarchy’s taken from us.

  “Fight for them all.” I walk forward, tattoos igniting on my skin. Their purple glow flickers around my hands like a blaze, covering my body in twisting light. I close my eyes as it spreads over us all, concentrating on the sound of our twelve hearts beating as one.

  Time holds its breath as our magic bleeds together.

  Then I whisper the command.

  “Ẹ tọnná agbára yin.”