One day, I would whisper to Binta.
One day, indeed. She would smile back.
As I dreamed, I never imagined the hell of the jungle, all the mosquitoes and sweat and jagged stones. But after four days in the desert, I’m convinced there’s no limit to the hells Orïsha can hold. The desert provides no foxer meat to eat, no water or coconut milk to drink. All it gifts us with is sand.
Endless mountains of sand.
Despite the scarf wrapped so tightly around my face I can barely breathe, grains settle in my mouth, my nose, my ears. Their persistence is matched only by the scorching sun, a final touch to this bleak wasteland. The longer we travel through it, the more my fingers itch to grab Nailah’s reins and yank her the other way. But even if we turned around now, where in skies’ name would I go?
My own brother hunts me. Father probably desires my head. I can hardly fathom all the lies Mother’s spinning in my absence. Perhaps if Binta was still at the palace, I would risk crawling back with my tail between my legs. But even she’s gone.
This sand is all I have left.
Sadness swells inside me as I close my eyes and picture her face. Just a brief thought of her is almost enough to take me away from the hell of this desert. If she were here, she’d be smiling, laughing at the grains of sand that got stuck between her teeth. She’d find beauty in all of this. Binta found the beauty in everything.
Before I can stop myself, my thoughts of Binta take me further, bringing me back to our days in the palace. One morning, when we were young, I snuck her into Mother’s quarters, eager to show her my favorite jewels. As I climbed onto the vanity, I rambled on and on about the villages Inan was going to see on his military visits.
“It’s not fair,” I whined. “He’ll go all the way to Ikoyi. He’s going to see the actual sea.”
“You’ll get your chance.” Binta stayed back, hands clamped to her side. No matter how many times I motioned for her to join me, she insisted she couldn’t.
“One day.” I draped Mother’s prized emerald necklace over my head, captivated by the way it glimmered in the mirror’s light. “What about you?” I asked. “When we leave, what village do you want to see?”
“Anything.” Binta’s eyes lost focus. “Everything.” She bit her bottom lip as a smile came to her face. “I think I’d love it all. No one in my family has ever traveled past Lagos’s walls.”
“Why not?” I wrinkled my nose and rose to my feet, reaching for the case that held Mother’s antique headdress. It sat just above my reach. I leaned forward.
“Amari, don’t!”
Before Binta’s words could stop me, I lost my balance. With a jolt, I knocked the case over. It took all of two seconds before everything else came tumbling to the floor.
“Amari!”
I’ll never know how Mother arrived so quickly. Her voice echoed under the arched entrance of her room as she took in the mess I had made.
When I couldn’t speak, it was Binta who stepped forward. “My deepest apologies, Your Highness. I was told to polish your jewelry. Princess Amari was only coming to my aid. If you must punish someone, it should be me.”
“You lazy brat.” Mother snatched up Binta’s wrist. “Amari is a princess. She is not here to do your chores!”
“Mother, that’s not—”
“Quiet,” Mother snapped, snarling as she dragged Binta away. “It’s clear we’ve been too lenient with you. You’ll benefit from the teachings of a whip.”
“No, Mother! Wait—”
Nailah stumbles, pulling me from the depths of my guilt. Binta’s young face fades out of my mind as Tzain struggles to keep us from collapsing down a mountain of sand. I grip the leather stirrups as Zélie leans down and rubs Nailah’s fur.
“I’m sorry, girl,” Zélie soothes. “I promise, we’ll be there soon.”
“Are you sure?” My voice comes out dry, as brittle as the sand surrounding us. But I can’t tell if the lump in my throat is from the lack of water or the memory of Binta.
“We’re close.” Tzain turns back, squinting to keep out the sun. Even with his eyes nearly shut, his deep brown gaze holds me, making my cheeks flush. “If we don’t get there today, we’ll hit Ibeji tomorrow.”
“But what if the sunstone isn’t in Ibeji?” Zélie asks. “What if Lekan’s lead was wrong? We only have thirteen days until the solstice. If it’s not here, we’re damned.”
He can’t be wrong.…
The thought makes my empty stomach lurch. All the determination I felt in Chândomblé crumbles. Skies. All of this would be so much easier if Lekan were still alive. With his guidance and magic, Inan pursuing us wouldn’t be a threat. We’d have a chance to find the sunstone. We might already be on our way to the sacred island to perform the ritual.
But with Lekan gone, we’re no closer to saving the maji. If anything, we’re just running out of time. Marching toward our deaths.
“Lekan wouldn’t lead us astray. It’s here.” Tzain pauses, craning his neck. “And unless that’s a mirage, so are we.”
Zélie and I peer past Tzain’s broad shoulders. Heat bounces off the sand in waves, blurring the horizon, but in time a cracked clay wall crystallizes into view. To my surprise, we’re only three of many travelers making their way into the desert city from all directions. Unlike us, several of the migrating parties travel in caravans crafted from reinforced timber and embellished with gold, vehicles so adorned they have to belong to nobles.
A pulse of excitement travels through me as I narrow my eyes to get a closer look. When I was a child, I once overheard Father warn his generals about the dangers of the desert, a land overpowered with Grounders. He claimed their magic could transform every single grain of sand into a lethal weapon. Later that night I told Binta what I learned as she combed through the tangles of my hair.
That’s not true, she corrected me. The Grounders in the desert are peaceful. They use their magic to create settlements from the sand.
In that moment I pictured what a sand city could look like, unrestrained by the laws and materials governing our architecture. If Grounders really did rule the desert, their magnificent cities have crumbled, disappearing alongside them.
But after four days in the ghastly desert, the meager settlement of Ibeji shimmers. The first sign of hope in this wretched wasteland. Thank the skies.
Perhaps we shall survive after all.
Shanty tents and clay ahérés greet us when we make our way past the wall. Like the slum dwellings of Lagos, the sand huts are stout and square, soaking in the rays of the sun. The largest of the ahérés looms in the distance, bearing a seal I know all too well. The carved snow leopanaire flickers in the sun, its sharp fangs bared to bite.
“A guard post,” I croak, tensing in Nailah’s saddle. Though the royal seal is etched into the clay wall, it waves in my mind like the velvet banners in Father’s throne room. After the Raid, he abolished the old seal, a gallant bull-horned lionaire that always used to make me feel safe. Instead, he proclaimed that our power would be represented by the snow leopanaires: ryders who were ruthless. Pure.