“I need . . . I need.” I’m hardly able to get the words out. I look around again to make sure no one else can hear my request. My parents would be so ashamed of me right now. I’m ashamed of myself. “I need to know the secret to trading years for magic.”
The man’s smile widens into a full grin, and I bite back my shame. This is for Kofi.
“I’ll pay for it.” I fumble for my coin purse. “How much?”
“For you . . .” His sly cataract-clouded eyes find my gaze again. “It’s free.”
He adjusts the sachet across his shoulder and lifts the flap. Inside, there’s a mess of bottles, trinkets, herbs, charms, and papyrus scrolls. Squinting, he sifts through them, until he finally hands me a scroll sealed with red twine. “You only have to do the ritual once to create the bridge for magic to come to you,” he explains. “After that, every ritual will take your years, so use it with care.”
I swallow the bile at the back of my throat, my belly filling with anguish. I hadn’t known or considered the full consequences of trading years. This was something my father didn’t tell me when we talked about the price of magic. If I create the bridge, then am I giving up on ever coming into my own magic? Every ritual I perform will draw from this horror bargain.
I stare down at the scroll, my hands shaking. If this isn’t something that I can take back, can I live with it? Can I live with knowing that I traded away my last chance at having gifts of my own?
I want to ask if there’s a way to burn the bridge—to disconnect it after one ritual, but I bite my tongue. It doesn’t matter if there’s a way. I made a promise to Kofi and I intend to keep it. If the bridge is for life, then it’s up to me to resist the temptation to use it again.
“Don’t make this decision lightly, child,” the man warns, snapping me out of my thoughts.
I thank him and cram the scroll into my pocket. When I turn to leave, he adds, his voice cheerful, “Next time you see one of us in the market, do try not to look down your nose.”
If there was ever a time I wished I could disappear into thin air, it’s now. I’ve never had much to do with any of the charlatans—not the ones who dare call themselves witchdoctors. It’s a prestigious title they haven’t earned, a title that I always thought was my birthright. But I haven’t earned it either and never will. I still don’t wholly agree with trading years, but who am I to judge these people now? “I’m sorry.” I bite my lip. “I’ll do better.”
I don’t so much as walk out of the alley as flee, sweat pouring down my back, struggling to catch my breath. Rudjek steps in my path and snaps me out of my panic. He frowns, his face riddled with concern. I can’t imagine how wild-eyed I must look to him right now. Can he see the fear in my expression? Can he feel it radiating from my bones?
“Tell me,” he demands, his voice a deep rumble in his chest.
I brush his concern off with a wave. “He’s given me a special ritual.”
“A ritual.” Rudjek pales and the veins in his face stand out like his mother’s. His hands go limp against the hilts of his shotels. “Twenty-gods, Arrah,” he says, his voice low. “Tell me that it isn’t what I think. I know the rumors about the charlatans . . . what they do for magic.”
It’s exactly what he thinks.
I will trade my years for magic to find Kofi and stop the child snatcher.
Eleven
On our way to my father’s shop in the West Market, the eye of Re’Mec emerges from behind the clouds. It knocks some of the chill from the air. But even under Re’Mec’s favor, Familiars still flock to the streets like flies.
As we cross the merchants’ row houses that separate the two markets, the ground turns from packed dirt to polished cobblestones. Gray walls replace the vibrant colors. Scribes and scholars hurry about their business flanked by hired guards. The chaos of the East Market hasn’t reached here, but it stirs beneath the surface, waiting to breach. Kira and Majka hang back to give us space to talk.
Rudjek steps in front of me to block my path. “You haven’t answered my question. What kind of ritual is this, Arrah? How can you perform one without magic?”
I want to tell him, but he’ll try to convince me not to do it. “Can you just trust me?”
“Funny you should ask,” he shoots back, glaring at me. “I would say the same.”
I raise my chin and meet his midnight eyes. “My father suspected a link between the green-eyed serpent and the child snatcher. Since the seers have given up, and the serpent was in a vision about me—I hope that I can use that connection to find Kofi. The ritual that the charlatan gave me should help.” I cross my arms, waiting for him to argue. “So now you know.”
“It shouldn’t be your place to do something so dangerous,” Rudjek counters, his face stark from the news. “If the seers can do nothing, they should call upon their masters. The whole city tithes to the Temple, so the least the seers can do . . . the least the orishas can do is help for once.”
People eavesdrop on our conversation—not even trying to hide it. I hiss at them, and the gossips scurry across the cobblestones like the rats they are. “I don’t have any love for the orishas.” He pauses, shifting his hands to his hips. “You saw what their barbaric Rite of Passage did to my brothers.” His voice cracks open, each word laced with his pain and sorrow for what became of Jemi and Uran. One sent away in disgrace—the other living out his life under watchful guard. “But if this child snatcher is stronger than the seers, then the orishas are our only hope.”
He palms the craven pendant around his neck, stroking the bone like it’s a soothing song. His pain isn’t only for his brothers; it’s for himself too. His father expects him to measure up to a legacy never meant for him. My heart aches, and I wish there was something I could say to make it better. I know the burden of not living up to a parent’s expectations all too well, but I need him to understand that what I do next is my choice.
“I can’t stand by while this monster steals children,” I say, my voice quiet. “I couldn’t live with knowing that I could’ve done something to save Kofi, and I didn’t try.”
“You’re right. We can’t stand by and do nothing, but . . .” His eyes are shiny black lakes of endless depth, reflecting hope and despair and something deeper, something warmer. A fire kindling. “You . . . you and Majka and Kira are my best friends. I don’t know what I would do if I lost you.”
“I’ll be careful.” I try to reassure him.
His eyebrows lift. “Can I stay with you?”
“You’re allergic to my father’s shop, remember?” I hide my own despair now, not knowing what other nasty surprises I’ll find when I read the scroll. And I want to do this alone, in case I fail again. “It wouldn’t be a good idea for you to come.”
“He could stand to dust more often”—Rudjek waves for his friends—“but I’ll manage.”
If only Majka and Kira would drag him off to another one of his father’s council meetings, then I could go in peace.
“I don’t know what you’re up to now,” Kira juts up her chin when they catch up with us, “but I’m not going to like it, am I?”