I brought the fire to Ilorin.
Their blood stains my hands.
I grip my shoulders to keep everything inside as Mama Agba dresses our injuries with cloth ripped from her skirt. Though we made it through the flames, small burns and blisters dot our skin. But that pain is welcome; almost deserved. The sears on my skin are nothing compared to the guilt that scalds my heart.
A sharp pressure clamps my stomach as the memory of a burnt corpse crystallizes behind my eyes. Charred skin peeling from every limb, the stench of burning flesh still coloring my every breath.
They’re in a better place, I try to ease my guilt. If their spirits have ascended to the peace of alâfia, death would almost be a gift. But if they suffered too much before they died …
I close my eyes and try to swallow the thought. If the trauma of their deaths was too much, their spirits won’t rise to the afterlife. They’ll stay in apâdi, an eternal hell, reliving the worst of their pain.
When we land on the rocky stretch of sand, Tzain helps Amari while I tend to Baba. I promised I wouldn’t mess this up. Now our entire village is in flames.
I stare at the jagged rocks, unable to meet my father’s eyes. Baba should’ve sold me to the stocks. If he had, he’d finally have peace. Baba’s silence only intensifies my misery, but when he bends down to meet my gaze, tears soften his eyes.
“You can’t run from this, Zélie. Not now.” He takes my hands. “This is the second time these monsters took our home. Let it be the last.”
“Baba?” I can’t believe his fury. Since the Raid, he hasn’t whispered a single curse against the monarchy. I thought he’d given up all fight.
“As long as we don’t have magic, they will never treat us with respect. They need to know we can hit them back. If they burn our homes, we burn theirs, too.”
Tzain’s mouth falls open and he locks eyes with me. We haven’t seen this man for eleven years. We didn’t know he was still alive.
“Baba—”
“Take Nailah,” he orders. “The guards are close. We don’t have much time.”
He points across the shore to the northern coast, where five figures in royal armor herd the survivors together. The flickering light of the flames illuminates the seal on one soldier’s helmet. The captain … the same one who chased me and Amari.
He burned my home to the ground.
“Come with us,” Tzain argues. “We can’t leave you behind.”
“I can’t. I’ll only slow you down.”
“But Baba—”
“No,” he cuts Tzain off, rising to place a hand on his shoulder. “Mama Agba told me about her vision. It’s you three who will lead the fight. You need to get to Chândomblé and figure out how to bring magic back.”
My throat tightens. I clutch Baba’s hand. “They already found us once. If they’re after us, they’ll come after you, too.”
“We’ll be long gone by then,” Mama Agba assures me. “Who better to evade the guards than a Seer?”
Tzain looks back and forth between Mama Agba and Baba, his jaw clenching as he fights to keep his face even. I don’t know if he can leave Baba behind. Tzain doesn’t know his place without keeping others safe.
“How’ll we find you?” I whisper.
“Bring magic back for good,” Mama Agba says. “As long as I have my visions, I’ll always know where to go.”
“You have to leave,” Baba presses, forceful as a new round of screams rings out. One guard grabs an elderly woman by her hair and holds a sword to her throat.
“Baba, no!”
I try to pull him forward, but he overpowers me, kneeling down to wrap his arms around my shaking frame. He holds me tighter than he has in years. “Your mother…” His voice cracks. A small sob escapes my throat. “She loved you fiercely. She would be so proud right now.”
I cling to Baba so hard that my nails dig into his skin. He squeezes me back before rising to embrace Tzain. Though Tzain towers over Baba in height and might, Baba matches the ferocity of his hug. They hold each other for a long moment, as if they never have to let go.
“I’m proud of you, son. No matter what. I’ll always be proud.”
Tzain hurriedly wipes his tears away. He’s not one to show his emotions. He saves his pain for the isolation of night.
“I love you,” Baba whispers to us both.
“We love you, too,” I croak.
He gestures at Tzain to mount Nailah. Amari follows, silent tears leaking onto her cheeks. Despite my grief, a prickle of anger flares. Why is she crying? Once again, her family is the reason mine is being torn apart.
Mama Agba kisses my forehead and wraps her arms around me tight.
“Be careful, but be strong.”
I sniffle and nod, though I feel everything but strength. I’m scared. Weak.
I’m going to let them down.
“Take care of your sister,” Baba reminds Tzain as I mount the saddle. “And Nailah, be good. Protect them.”
Nailah licks Baba’s face and nuzzles his head, a sign of a promise she’ll always keep. My chest seizes when she walks forward, traveling away from my heart and my home. When I turn back, Baba’s face shines with a rare smile.
I pray we’ll live to see that smile again.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
INAN
“COUNT TO TEN,” I whisper to myself. “Count. To. Ten.”
Because when I finish counting, this horror shall end.
The blood of the innocent will not stain my hands.
“One … two…” I grip Father’s sênet pawn with a shaking hand, so tight the metal stings. The numbers rise, but nothing changes.
Like Ilorin, all my plans have gone up in flames.
My throat tightens when the village falls in a fiery blaze, taking the homes of hundreds with it. My soldiers drag the corpses through the sand, bodies charred beyond recognition. The shrieks of the living and the injured fill my ears. My tongue tastes nothing but ash. So much waste. Death.
This was not my plan.
Amari should be in one hand, the divîner thief chained in the other. Kaea should’ve retrieved the scroll. Only the divîner’s hut need have burned.
If I had succeeded in returning the scroll, Father would’ve understood. He would’ve thanked me for my discretion, praised my shrewd judgment in sparing Ilorin. Our fish trade would be protected. The only threat to the monarchy would be crushed.
But I’ve failed. Again. After begging Father for another chance. The scroll is still missing. My sister at risk. An entire village wiped away. Yet I have nothing to show for it.
The people of Orïsha are not safe—
“Baba!”
I grab my blade as a small child hurls his body to the ground. His cries cut through the night. It’s only then I discover the sand-covered corpse at his feet.
“Baba!” He grasps at the body, willing it to wake. The blood of his father stains the skin of his small brown hands.
“Abeni!” A woman trudges through the wet sand. She gasps at the sight of the approaching guards. “Abeni, no, you must be quiet. B-baba wants you to be quiet!”
I turn away and squeeze my eyes shut, forcing my bile down. Duty before self. I hear Father’s voice. The safety of Orïsha before my conscience. But these villagers are Orïsha. They’re the very people I’m sworn to protect.