“How terrifying. Orïshans who exist to do more than serve you.”
Amari inhales sharply but swallows any retort. I almost feel bad. Where’s the fun if she doesn’t fight back?
“Skies, look at that!” Amari slows as we pass a couple setting up their tent. The man uses vines to bind dozens of long, thin branches into a cone while his partner creates a protective layer by piling on moss. “Can people really sleep in those?”
Part of me itches to ignore her, but she stares at the simple tent as if it’s made of gold. “We used to build those all the time when I was young. Do it right and it’ll even keep out snow.”
“You get snow in Ilorin?” Again her eyes sparkle, like snow is an ancient legend about the gods. How strange that she was born to rule a kingdom she’s never even seen.
“In Ibadan,” I answer. “We lived there before the Raid.”
At the mention of the Raid, Amari goes quiet. The curiosity vanishes from her eyes. She grips her cloak tighter and keeps her focus on the ground.
“Is that what happened to your mother?”
I stiffen; how can she be bold enough to ask this when she can’t even ask for food?
“I apologize if that is too forward … it’s just that your father mentioned her yesterday.”
I picture Mama’s face. Her dark skin seemed to glow in the absence of sun. She loved you fiercely. Baba’s words echo in my mind. She would be so proud right now.
“She was a maji,” I finally answer. “A powerful one, at that. Your father’s lucky she didn’t have her magic during the Raid.”
My mind returns to the fantasy of Mama wielding her magic, a lethal force instead of a helpless victim. She would’ve avenged the fallen maji, marching on Lagos with an army of the dead. She’d be the one to wrap a black shadow around Saran’s neck.
“I know this won’t change anything, but I’m sorry,” Amari whispers so quietly I can barely hear her. “The pain of losing a person you love, it’s…” She squeezes her eyes shut. “I know you hate my father. I understand why you hate me, too.”
As grief breaks through Amari’s face, the very hatred she speaks of cools inside me. I still don’t understand how her handmaiden could’ve been anything more than another servant to her, but there’s no denying her sorrow.
No. I shake my head as guilt swells in the space between us. Grieving or not, she doesn’t get my pity. And she’s not the only one who gets to pry.
“So has your brother always been a heartless killer?”
Amari turns to me, brows raised in surprise.
“Don’t think you can ask about my mother and hide the truth about that awful scar.”
Amari steadies her vision on the merchant carts, but even so, I see the past playing out behind her eyes. “It wasn’t his fault,” she finally answers. “Our father forced us to spar.”
“With actual swords?” I jerk my head back. Mama Agba made us train for years before we were allowed to pick up a staff.
“Father’s first family was coddled.” Her voice grows distant. “Weak. He said they died because of it. He wouldn’t allow the same thing to happen to us.”
She speaks as if this is normal, like all loving fathers spill their children’s blood. I always pictured the palace as a safe haven, but my gods, is this what her life has been like?
“Tzain would never do that.” I purse my lips. “He’d never hurt me.”
“Inan didn’t have a choice.” Her face hardens. “He has a good heart. He’s just been led astray.”
I shake my head. Where does her loyalty come from? All this time I thought those of noble blood were safe. I never imagined what cruelty the monarchy could inflict on their own.
“Good hearts don’t leave scars like that. They don’t burn villages down.”
They don’t wrap their hands around my throat and try to bury me in the ground.
When Amari doesn’t reply, I know that’s the last we’ll talk about her brother. Fine. If she won’t tell the truth about Inan, neither will I.
I swallow his secret into silence, instead focusing on the roasted antelopentai meat as we near the merchant carts and wagons. We’re about to approach an elderly trader with a robust supply when Amari tugs on my pack.
“I never thanked you for saving my life. Back in Lagos.” She shifts her gaze to the ground. “But you did try to kill me twice … so perhaps it all cancels out?”
It takes me a second to realize she’s joking. I’m surprised when I grin. For the second time today, she smiles and I get a glimpse of why it was so hard for Tzain to look away.
“Ah, two lovely ladies,” an elderly kosidán says, beckoning us closer. He steps forward, his gray hairs glinting under the sun.
“Please.” The merchant’s smile widens, carving wrinkles into his leathery skin. “Come in. I promise you’ll find something you like.”
We walk around to the front steps of his wagon, pulled by two cheetanaires so large we stand eye to eye. I run my hands along their spotted fur, stopping to finger the grooves in the thick horn protruding from one’s forehead. The ryder purrs and licks my hand with its serrated tongue before I step inside the extensive space of wares.
The musk of old fabrics hits me as we pass through the crowded wagon. On one end, Amari fingers through old clothes while I stop and inspect a pair of suede mongix-hide canteens.
“What are you in the market for?” the merchant asks, holding an array of sparkling necklaces. He leans in, magnifying the deep-set eyes that mark those from Orïsha’s northern border. “These pearls come from the bays of Jimeta, but these glittering beauties come from the mines of Calabrar. Sure to turn any fella’s head, though I’m sure you have no problem in that department.”
“We need traveling supplies.” I smile. “Canteens and some hunting gear, maybe flint.”
“How much do you have?”
“What can we get for this?”
I hand him Amari’s dress and he unfolds it, holding it up to the light outside. He runs his fingers along the seams like a man who knows his cloth, taking extra time to inspect the burns around the hem. “It’s well made, no denying that. Rich fabric, excellent cut. I could do without the burns, but nothing a new hem can’t fix.…”
“So?” I press.
“Eighty silver pieces.”
“We won’t take any less than—”
“I’m not in the business of haggling, dear. My prices are fair and so are my offers. Eighty is final.”
I grit my teeth, but I know there’s no talking him up. A merchant who’s traded all over Orïsha can’t be swindled like an insulated noble.
“What can we get with eighty?” Amari asks, holding up a pair of yellow draped pants and a black, sleeveless dashiki.
“With those clothes … these canteens … a skinning knife … a few pieces of flint…” The merchant begins filling up a woven basket, gathering supplies to get us on our way.
“Is it enough?” Amari whispers.
“For now.” I nod. “If he throws in that bow—”
“You can’t afford it,” the merchant cuts in.