Do something, I order myself. Now. But I cannot bring my legs to move. I cannot even feel my hands.
Kaea unrolls the scroll and walks forward slowly, as if approaching a wild animal. Not the sweet girl who has wiped my tears for so many years. The servant who saves all her palace rations so her family can enjoy one good meal.
“Raise her arm.”
Binta shakes her head as the guards yank up her wrist, her muffled cries breaking through the scarf. Though Binta resists, Kaea pushes the scroll into her grip.
Light explodes from Binta’s hand.
It coats the throne room in its magnificence—brilliant golds, shining purples, sparkling blues. The light arcs and shimmers as it cascades, a never-ending stream erupting from Binta’s palm.
“Skies,” I gasp, terror at war with the awe bubbling inside my chest.
Magic.
Here. After all these years …
Father’s old warnings of magic bloom inside my head, tales of battle and fire, darkness and disease. Magic is the source of all evil, he would hiss. It will tear Orïsha apart.
Father always taught Inan and me that magic meant our deaths. A dangerous weapon threatening the existence of Orïsha. As long as it existed, our kingdom would always be at war.
In the darkest days following the Raid, magic took hold inside my imagination, a monster without a face. But in Binta’s hands, magic is mesmerizing, a wonder like no other. The joy of the summer sun melting into twilight. The very essence and breath of life—
Father strikes fast. Quick like lightning.
One moment Binta stands.
In the next, Father’s sword plunges through her chest.
No!
I clasp my hand to my mouth before I can scream, nearly falling onto my back. Nausea rises to my throat. Hot tears sting my eyes.
This isn’t happening. The world starts to spin. This isn’t real. Binta is safe. She’s waiting with a loaf of sweet bread in your room.
But my desperate thoughts do not change the truth. They do not bring back the dead.
Scarlet seeps through the scarf binding Binta’s mouth.
Crimson flowers stain her light blue dress.
I choke back another scream as her corpse thuds to the ground, heavy like lead.
Blood pools around Binta’s innocent face, dyeing her white locks red. Its copper smell wafts through the crack in the door. I stifle a gag.
Father yanks off Binta’s apron and uses it to clean his sword. Completely at ease. He doesn’t care that her blood stains his royal robes.
He doesn’t see that her blood stains my own hands.
I scramble backward onto my feet, tripping over the hem of my dress. I rush up the stairwell at the corner of the main hall, my legs shaking with every step. My vision blurs as I fight to make it to my quarters, but it’s all I can do to rush over to a vase. I grab onto the ceramic rim. Everything inside me comes back up.
The bile stings something fierce, bitter with acid and tea. The first sob breaks free as my body collapses. I clutch my chest.
If Binta were here, she would be the one to come to my rescue. She would take my hand and guide me to my quarters, sit me on my bed, and wipe my tears. She would take all the shattered pieces of my heart and find a way to make them whole again.
I choke back another sob and cover my mouth, salty tears leaking through my fingers. The stench of blood fills my nose. The memory of Father’s blade stabs again—
The throne room doors slam open. I jump to my feet, fearing it’s Father. Instead, one of the guards who restrained Binta leaves.
The scroll sits in his hands.
I stare at the weathered parchment as he climbs the stairs toward me, recalling how just one touch made the world explode with light. Light trapped inside my dear friend’s soul, unbelievably beautiful, eternally bold.
I turn away as the soldier nears, hiding my tearstained face.
“Forgive me, I’m unwell,” I murmur. “I must have eaten some rotten fruit.”
The guard barely nods, distracted as he continues ascending. He grips the scroll so hard his knuckles darken, as if afraid of what the magical parchment will do if he doesn’t. I watch as he walks to the third floor and pushes a painted black door open. Suddenly I realize where he’s headed.
Commander Kaea’s quarters.
Seconds ache by as I watch the door, waiting, though I do not know why. Waiting will not bring Binta back. It shall not allow me to enjoy her melodic laugh. But still I wait, freezing when the door reopens. I turn back to the vase and retch once more, not stopping until the guard passes me again. His metal-soled boots clink as he heads back down to the throne room. The scroll is no longer in his grip.
With shaking hands, I wipe my tears, no doubt smearing the paints and powders Mother forced onto my face. I run my palm over my mouth, taking any remnants of vomit away. Questions fill my mind as I rise and approach Kaea’s door. I should continue to my quarters.
Yet I step inside.
The door shuts behind me with a loud thud and I jump, wary that someone will seek out the source of the sound. I have never set foot in Commander Kaea’s quarters. I don’t even think the servants are allowed in here.
My eyes comb the burgundy walls, so different from the lavender paint that covers my own. A royal cloak lies at the foot of Kaea’s bed. Father’s cloak … He must have left it behind.
On another day the realization that Father was in Kaea’s quarters would’ve made my throat tight, but I can barely feel anything now. The discovery of Father’s cloak pales in comparison to the scroll sitting on Kaea’s desk.
I step toward it, legs throbbing as if approaching the edge of a cliff. I expect to feel some aura in the scroll’s presence, yet the air surrounding it remains dead. I reach out, but pause, swallowing the fear that begins to swell. I see the light that exploded from Binta’s hands.
The sword that pierced through her chest.
I push myself, reaching out again with the very ends of my fingertips. When they brush the scroll, I close my eyes.
No magic comes forth.
The breath I did not realize I was holding rushes out as I pick up the wrinkled parchment. I unroll the scroll and trace the strange symbols, trying in vain to make sense of them. The symbols look like nothing I have ever seen, no language ever covered in my studies. Yet they are symbols that maji died for.
Symbols that might as well be written in Binta’s blood.
A breeze flutters from the open windows, stirring the locks of hair that have fallen out from my loosened gele. Underneath the flowing curtains, Kaea’s military supplies sit: sharpened swords, panthenaire reins, brass chest plates. My eyes settle on the spools of rope. I knock my gele to the floor.
Without thinking, I grab Father’s cloak.
CHAPTER FOUR
ZÉLIE
“ARE YOU REALLY NOT going to talk to me?”
I lean to the side of Nailah’s saddle to get a look at Tzain’s stone face. I expected the first hour of silence, but now it’s hour three.
“How was practice?” I try instead. Tzain can never resist a conversation about his favorite sport. “Is M’ballu’s ankle okay? Do you think she’ll be healed in time for the games?”
Tzain’s mouth opens for a split second, but he catches himself. His jaw clamps shut and he smacks Nailah’s reins, riding her faster through the towering jackalberry trees.