Redemptor Page 7

  “Well played,” I panted. He had tricked me into dancing after all.

  The song increased in tempo until I grew dizzy, and lost sight of Zuri’s hair. I whirled in desperation, but the beats sped by—five, six, seven—and the game was over. Zuri broke the circle, sinewy chest glistening with sweat, and grinning as the warriors chanted and closed around us.

  I scowled, crossing my arms . . . but before I could register what was happening, Zuri had lifted me by the waist, just as Dayo had lifted Ai Ling in the ijo agbaye. I gasped, hands flying to his shoulders. He whirled me in an elegant spin, set me on my feet, and leaned down to my ear.

  My breath grew shallow.

  He smelled sharp and sweet, like spear polish masked with agave. His lips brushed my cheek. And in a moment of temporary insanity, I almost—almost—wished he had found my mouth instead.

  Then he asked, in a voice as cold as silk, “Who killed Thaddace of Mewe?”

  I recoiled like he had slapped me.

  He looked immediately regretful. “Forgive me, Tarisai. I meant no—”

  I wrenched out of his arms. The hall was tilting around me. The towering obsidian statues blurred and fell together in great pillars of black, and then I was back in that abandoned hallway, Thaddace’s blood streaming across the tiles. The boy was wailing at me, convulsing with words I didn’t understand. Then he was crumbling to dust, and Thaddace was dead, and it was all my fault, and . . . and—

  The Imperial Hall rose to meet me. Zuri lurched forward, breaking my fall.

  “I’m an idiot,” he breathed as he braced me up. The satin had vanished from his voice. “That was a tasteless joke; curiosity got the best of me. I’m sorry, Tarisai.”

  “That’s Her Imperial Majesty to you,” Ai Ling said, slapping Zuri’s hands from my waist. She, Dayo, and a flock of Imperial Guards had crowded onto the dance floor. “Or Lady Empress. In that order. You would do well, King Zuri, to remember protocol.”

  “Is it poison?” Dayo asked, his face crumpled with worry. “Tar, are you all right?”

  “Check the king of Djbanti for weapons,” Ai Ling demanded.

  I tried to object, but the vision of Thaddace was too fresh. Words stuck inside me like knives.

  The Djbanti warriors clucked in protest, unsheathing concealed weapons, but Zuri barked at them to stand down.

  “I did not mean to hurt her.” The young king held up his hands in surrender. But after shooting me a guilty glance, his face went blank . . . and his signature expression of vapid cheer returned. “My humor shocks our delicate sovereign,” he announced in a wine-soaked drawl. “Allow me to make amends. I relinquish my prize. Most excellent Imperial Majesty”—he bowed with a flourish—“ask me anything you like.”

  My shoulders rose to my ears, where Ai Ling’s words echoed: None of the vassal rulers took you seriously. You were just a little girl to them. People can’t love someone they don’t respect.

  I balled my hands into fists. When I spoke again, the lioness mask warmed at the base of my throat. I imagined a beast crouching in tall grass, and willed my words to be just as calm. Just as deadly.

  “I have no questions for King Zuri of Djbanti.” I did not look at him as I spoke, but turned to mount the echo-stone on my dais, and addressed the entire hall. “The Peace Banquet is over. Your empress bids you good night.”

  I turned on my heel, preparing to sweep from the room. Blood drained from a hundred faces as sprites descended from the ceiling, swarming behind me in a burning train of light. But before I could go, Dayo seized my hand.

  It shouldn’t end this way, he Ray-spoke. Tonight was supposed to be about peace. Please, Tar—let me fix this.

  Then to my surprise, Dayo faced our guests again, voice ricocheting from the echo-stone with uncharacteristic gravity.

  “I am Emperor of Aritsar,” he began, “as Tarisai is your empress. However, I am also King of Oluwan, a title the empress could not share with me, as she represents Swana on my council. This means that Tarisai, while ruler of all Aritsar, is ruler of no single realm.”

  I raised an eyebrow at him. Where are you going with this?

  He only winked. “Tarisai promised the abiku she would form a council of twelve Arit rulers—one for each realm. This includes Oluwan. As a result, I proudly claim the first place on the Empress Redemptor’s council.”

  Ignoring gasps and whispers, Dayo lifted a golden chain from his neck, dangling a vial of pelican oil—the same one he’d used to anoint me so long ago, in the Children’s Palace. He unlatched the vial and held it out to me. “I love the empress already,” he announced, grinning boyishly, “and so I require no more deliberation. Tarisai of Swana, will you accept me on your council?”

  Murmurs across the hall. I took the vial with reluctant hands, staring at him in confusion.

  I just realized something, I Ray-spoke. If I anoint you and Min Ja, I’ll have a council of thirteen. How is that even possible? Raybearers gain an immunity for every anointing. There are only twelve deaths—besides old age—and no one can be immune to that.

  Dayo grinned. Maybe you’ll become immortal.

  Don’t joke like that, I said, giddy with terror. If there’s any job I don’t want forever, it’s this one.

  In response, he leaned in and kissed my cheek, sending a pulse of courage down the bond. I guess we’re about to find out.

  My heart hammered in my chest. But when he began to kneel, I stopped him. Stay standing, I Ray-spoke.

  Why?

  I bit my lip. One reason was that every noble in this room already suspected me to be a usurping witch, controlling Dayo like a puppet master. But the other reason—the one I told him—was more important.

  Because the time for kneeling is over, I told him. The original Raybearers were always meant to be equals, Dayo. It’s time we stand shoulder to shoulder.

  He nodded, features shining.

  Now I hesitated. What in Am’s name was I supposed to say? The traditional proposal of Raybearers was Shall you be moon to the morning star—but that didn’t seem right. Not anymore. I waited, summoning that warm, mysterious spirit from the cave in Sagimsan Mountain, letting the right words fall quietly, lastingly, into place. My eyes shut, and I seemed to float above my body, watching the scene from above, and then I was everywhere at once, enveloped with a formless Someone I had met only once before.

  When I spoke, my voice was not my own, though I felt more myself than ever. A force had borrowed my lungs, filling the hall with tritoned harmonies that rang from the dais echo-stones.

  “More stars fill the sky than any soul could count,” said the interloper. “Each brighter and hotter than the last. Yet there is somehow room for all of them. So, Ekundayo of Oluwan: Will you shine beside Tarisai of Swana? Do you accept her hand in councilhood?”

  If Dayo feared the spirit possessing me, he did not show it. Instead, his broad, guileless features creased in a peaceful smile, and tears filled his pure dark eyes. “I will,” he said, “and I do.”

  Then the foreign spirit glowed, washing us both in a wave of ancient joy—and it was gone. I stood on the dais, myself again, human and trembling.

  Half the hall had fallen, prostrate on their faces. The rest were on their knees, brushing their chins in the sign of the Storyteller.

  Thank you, I thought to no one.

  In response, a low rumble shook the dais, like a grunt of laughter . . . or the throaty call of a pelican.

  “Well,” Dayo asked, “aren’t you going to offer me your Ray?”

  I straightened my stance to focus. I used Dayo’s Ray all the time, slipping into the minds of my council siblings. It was easy, like gliding into a coursing river, letting its strong current move me along. But this time, I would be the river, trying to join Dayo’s stream to mine.

  I concentrated on the heat in my chest, letting it congregate at the sunstone around my throat pendant. Focus. It rose, a pleasant, sweltering haze at the base of my neck, sending invisible tendrils across my
scalp.

  “Ekundayo of Oluwan,” I whispered, “receive your anointing.”

  Then I joined the tendrils into a single beam, aiming it at Dayo. He inhaled sharply, as if pierced . . . then relaxed.

  Well, he laughed in my head. That was easy.

  I jumped. His voice vibrated through every bone in my body, louder than it had ever been. It sounded . . . doubled. As though he spoke with two sets of vocal cords, the second one strangely feminine.

  You’re speaking with my voice, I told him, wide-eyed.

  Then he was his turn to look rattled. And you’re speaking with mine, he said. I guess this is what happens when two Rays coexist in a body. Does it . . . bother you?

  No, I said after a moment. I think it feels . . . nice. I shivered with pleasure at my new, multitoned voice. Very nice.

  Me too.

  Then I flinched, watching in fascinated horror as lacy patterns grew up my arms and splayed across my chest, azure glyphs glistening against my dark skin. My Redemptor map had grown. Once I anointed a full council, I suspected, no inch of me would be left uncovered.

  The crown of banquet guests gasped, then lapsed into fearful awe. Ai Ling took control of the room’s mood, clapping her hands. “All hail Ekundayo,” she declared, raising a chalice and grinning at us both. “Anointed One of the Empress Redemptor, first of many! To peace in Aritsar!”

  The hall surged into applause, first stunned, then manic with enthusiasm, and many raising chalices in toast. The musicians struck up a triumphant phrase, and my sprites pulsed to the rhythm. With a signal from Ai Ling, servants in the lofty rafters rained down petals and bits of shining cloth—the finale of our banquet’s spectacle.

  Dayo lifted me off my feet, spinning me in a hug until laughter bubbled from my lungs, and the joy I felt then could have given me wings. Then he set me down—

  And the hall vanished.

  Or rather, all the people in it. And I was standing in a cavernous, silent room, every coronation guest replaced with a small, unsmiling child. The smell of death rose from two thousand dirt-covered bodies, blank eyes fixed on mine.

  My heart slammed in my chest. “What are you?” I rasped, clawing at my skin, on which glyphs now burned in patterns like streams of fire ants. “Where did you all come from? What do you want?”

  The children regarded me, expressionless, for a long moment. Then they spoke in a monotone, words overlapping in a treble din.

  Justice—no one cared—should have saved us—gone, all of us gone—why don’t you care?—do more—do more—pay for all our lives—justice—have to pay . . .

  I covered my ears, but it made no difference. The glyphs on my arms gleamed, threatening to melt my skin to the bone. “What do you want?” I asked again, growing shrill. “For Am’s sake, just tell me what you want!”

  They fell silent at once. Then a sea of filthy fingers lifted to point at my chest, and the children spoke together as one:

  Redemptor. Redemptor. Empress Redemptor.

  Then I was back in the Imperial Hall, still in Dayo’s arms, ears ringing with the banquet’s cheerful music as cold sweat prickled my skin.

  “Tar?” Dayo was scanning my face, his smile cracked with worry. “You left us for a moment there. Everything all right?” I returned his stare, numb with shock. He hadn’t seen them.

  No one had seen those children but me.

  “Of course,” I said, throat bone dry, and forced a wavering smile.

  Dayo lifted our joined hands in triumph, egging on the chant of the crowd as petals flurried down from the ceiling, a cascade of crimson and bone-dust white.

  Long live the emperor.

  Long live the Empress Redemptor.

  CHAPTER 8

  When Dayo, Ai Ling, Kirah, and I returned to the imperial Suite, the usual Ray-speak whispering through the halls had gone dormant. We found our council siblings fast asleep, strewn across one another in the suite’s common salon. They snored and mumbled, clutching drained cups of honeywine and half-eaten bowls of fufu. It seemed they had tried to wait up for us. My heart twinged fondly at the sight of the sleep-softened faces of my motley family, drooped across tufted divans and rugs, their chests rising and falling in Ray-synced unison. I brushed my fingers over each of their brows, sending dreams into each one. Though I’d missed them all night, I was relieved that they slept.

  If they had been awake, I would have had to tell them I was going insane.

  The palace rumor mill would let them know soon enough. A cupbearer had seen me speak to thin air, and the entire court had watched a divine spirit possess me. The more religious of An-Ileyoba might revere me for the incident, but sanity and intimacy with gods were not known to go hand in hand. I needed Aritsar to take me seriously as empress, not cloister me like an oracle in a gilded temple.

  But that was tomorrow’s struggle. I bid good night to Dayo, Ai Ling, and Kirah, but not before noticing that one body was missing from the common room huddle.

  Jeet? I asked the air, sending the Ray-like fingers through the suite halls. Where are you?

  The answer was a mind jolted awake, and then a surge of apologetic warmth, flooding my veins.

  Here. Sorry, I meant to wait up.

  I followed the voice and found Sanjeet in my bedchamber, sitting on the raised dais platform of my bed pallet. My chamber, swiftly added to the Imperial Suite after my rise to the crown, still felt foreign to me: muraled walls and a high, domed ceiling, with slanted skylights that let me spy on my sprites among the stars. Sanjeet’s copper features were hazy in the low lamplight, and when I entered, he rose to offer a bowl-ridden tray: stew and fried plantain, gone cold but still fragrant with spices.

  “Saved it from dinner,” he mumbled, voice rough with sleep. “I know they don’t let you eat at those parties.”

  “I could kiss you,” I moaned, and sank onto a pelt-covered sofa, inhaling the feast with unrefined gratitude.

  Sanjeet chuckled and sat beside me, his molten eyes contemplative as he took in my ensemble—especially my scant top of cowrie shells. “So,” he observed in a carefully neutral voice, “I’m guessing the continent rulers swore fealty on sight?”

  I snorted and wiped plantain grease from my hands, not feeling at all captivating. My intricate face paint and gold-powdered shoulders had faded with the revelries, and my necklace and wrapper skewed in disarray . . . but still, Sanjeet’s steeply slanted eyebrows rose with appreciation.

  “Hardly,” I told him. “But at least they’re planning to stay for a while. Dayo basically offered them my head on a platter.” He recoiled, so I hurried to explain. “I have to give them all my memories. Even the bad parts. Don’t ask—it’s supposed to make them love me, or something.” I stared at my ring-covered fingers. “I don’t really want to talk about it.”

  I banished any further thoughts about my sanity. It seemed easier, while apparitions of undead children lurked in the corners.

  Sanjeet wisely asked no more questions. Instead, he reached his foot across the floor to nudge my ankle, where tiny bells jangled on a golden chain. The cowrie shell from his mother’s anklet gleamed against my skin, where I wore it always. “You know,” he said, tea-colored gaze glinting with mischief. “Amah would be disappointed if you never danced in that.”

  My face heated, and I raced to banish a smug, hateful Djbanti face from my mind. “I doubt it. My rhythm would insult your amah’s memory.”

  He shook his head. “She would have loved you.”

  Imperial Guard drums thundered from the outer palace walls, announcing the late hour. He stood and rubbed the back of his neck, glancing at the door. “I guess we should get to bed.”

  “I guess.” I played with a coil of my hair. “Where is that, tonight? The others are in the common room.” Amidst all the moving and upheaval, we hadn’t spent a night alone together since I returned from Sagimsan. Sanjeet had a private bedchamber like I did, of course, but we were too often bombarded by our affectionate wolf pack of siblings to find e
ach other there.

  “I hadn’t decided yet,” Sanjeet replied, darting a shy glance at me. “Do you want to be alone?”

  I thought of dead-eyed children scaling walls in the shadows and suppressed a shudder, smirking instead. “No,” I croaked, giving a shaky little laugh. “I’d rather you stay.”

  He nodded without a word, and I rose to undress. My room was a maze of chests, cushions, and gilded side tables, covered with cosmetics whose functions I had yet to memorize. The sparkling theater of An-Ileyoba life was a sharp contrast to the barefoot simplicity of Yorua Keep, and the military order of the Children’s Palace. I dug through several ornate chests, sneezing at perfumed sachets of myrrh and amber before finding a linen night shift, embroidered at the collar with a chain of sunbursts. Sanjeet, already in the low-necked tunic and trousers he wore to bed, stared studiously at his sandals.

  For the first time, I registered how little I was wearing . . . and how difficult it would prove to remove my cowrie necklace.

  The sparkling shells hung to just above my stomach, secured in two places, with a clasp at my neck and with an unreachable knot at the center of my back.

  “Um,” I said. “Could I have a hand?”

  I didn’t look up, only heard him cross the room. His calloused fingers brushed the small of my back as he loosened the necklace. A thrill crept up my spine as his breath warmed my neck, pinning me in place.

  He released the second clasp. The necklace fell noisily into my hands, and for a moment neither of us moved, the heat of our skin burning between us.

  Then I moved away, unwinding the wrapper from my waist and slipping the shift over my head. The hem fell to my ankles, covering me at last—though the soft chafe of linen against my hips somehow made me feel more naked.

  Shakily, I swabbed my face with rosewater from my nightstand. While I wrapped my hair in its satin scarf, Sanjeet freshened up at my washbasin. Water beaded on his curls as he raked them with his fingers.