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.