“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.