“Amari,” Zélie hisses, snapping me out of my thoughts. She dismounts Nailah and wraps her scarf tighter around her face, urging me to do the same.
“Let’s split up.” Tzain slides off Nailah’s back and hands us his canteen. “We shouldn’t be spotted together. You guys get water. I’ll find a place to stay.”
Zélie nods and walks off, but once again Tzain holds my gaze.
“You okay?”
I force a nod, though I cannot bring myself to speak. One glimpse of the royal seal and it’s like my throat has been filled with sand.
“Just stay close to Zélie.”
Because you are weak, I imagine him spitting, though his dark eyes are kind. Because despite the sword you carry, you cannot protect yourself.
He gives my arm a gentle squeeze before taking Nailah by the reins and walking her in the opposite direction. I stare after his broad figure, fighting my desire to follow until Zélie hisses my name.
This will be fine. I put a smile in my eyes, though Zélie doesn’t even look my way. I thought things were starting to ease between us after Sokoto, but whatever goodwill I earned was crushed the minute my brother showed up at the temple. For the past four days Zélie has barely spoken to me, as if I’m the one who killed Lekan. The only times she does seem to look at me, I catch her staring at my back.
I stay close as we continue down the empty streets, searching for food in vain. My throat screams for a cold cup of water, a fresh loaf of bread, a nice cut of meat. But unlike the merchant quarter of Lagos, there are no colorful storefronts, no displays of succulent delights. The town appears almost as starved as its surrounding desert.
“Gods,” Zélie curses under her breath, pausing as her shivers worsen. Although the sun beats down with a fury, her teeth chatter as if she’s in an ice bath. Since her awakening, she shakes more and more, recoiling whenever she senses that the spirits of the dead are near.
“Are there that many?” I whisper.
She pants when one shiver stops. “It’s like walking through a burial ground.”
“With heat like this, we probably are.”
“I don’t know.” Zélie looks around, yanking her scarf close. “Every time one hits, I taste blood.”
A chill rocks through me, though sweat leaks from every pore. If Zélie can taste blood, I don’t want to know why.
“Perhaps—” I pause, stalling in the sand as a pack of men flood into the street. Though they’re obscured by capes and masks, their dust-covered clothes bear Orïsha’s royal seal.
Guards.
I grab on to Zélie as she reaches for her staff. Each soldier reeks of liquor; some stumble with every step. My legs quake as if made of water.
Then, quick as they came, they disperse, disappearing among the clay ahérés.
“Get yourself together.” Zélie shoves me off her. I fight not to tumble into the sand. There is no sympathy in her gaze; unlike Tzain, her silver eyes rage.
“I just—” The words are weak, though I will them to be strong. “I apologize. I was caught off guard.”
“If you’re going to act like a little princess, turn yourself in to the guards. I’m not here to protect you. I’m here to fight.”
“That’s not fair.” I wrap my arms around myself. “I’m fighting, too.”
“Well, seeing as your father created this mess, if I were you, I’d fight a little harder.”
With that Zélie turns, kicking up sand as she storms off. My face burns as I follow, careful to keep my distance this time.
We continue toward Ibeji’s central square, a collection of tangled streets and square huts crafted from red clay. As we near, we see more nobles gathering, conspicuous with their bright silk kaftans and their trailing attendants. Although I don’t recognize anyone, I adjust my scarf, worried that even the smallest slip will give my identity away. But what are they doing here, so far from the capital? There’re so many nobles, they’re only outnumbered by the laborers in the stocks.
I pause for a moment, aghast at the number of them filling the narrow path. Before today, I caught only glimpses of the laborers brought in to staff the palace—always pleasant, clean, groomed to Mother’s satisfaction. Like Binta, I thought they lived simple lives, safe within the palace walls. I never considered where they came from, where else they might have ended up.
“Skies…” It’s almost too hard to bear the sight. Mostly divîners, the laborers outnumber the villagers by hordes, dressed in nothing but tattered rags. Their dark skin blisters under the scorching sun, marred by the dirt and sand seemingly burned into their beings. Each is hardly more than a walking skeleton.
“What’s going on?” I whisper, tallying the number of children in chains. Almost all of them are young—even the oldest still appears younger than me. I search for the resources they must be mining, the freshly laid roads, the new fortress erected in this desert village. But no sign of their efforts appear. “What are they doing here?”
Zélie locks eyes with a dark girl who has long white hair like hers. The laborer wears a tattered white dress; her eyes are sunken, devoid of almost all life.
“They’re in the stocks,” Zélie mutters. “They go where they’re told.”
“Surely it isn’t always this bad?”
“In Lagos, I saw people who looked even worse.”
She moves toward the guard post at the central square while my insides twist. Though no food fills my stomach, it churns with the truth. All those years sitting silent at the table.
Sipping tea while people died.
I reach forward to fill my canteen at the well, avoiding the guard’s leering eyes. Zélie reaches to do the same—
The guard’s sword slashes down with a fury.
We jump back, hearts pounding. His sword cuts into the wooden rim where Zélie’s hand rested just seconds before. She grips the staff in her waistband, hand trembling with rage.
My eyes follow the sword up to the glaring soldier who wields it. The sun has darkened his mahogany skin, but his gaze shines bright.
“I know you maggots can’t read,” he spits at Zélie, “but for skies’ sake, learn how to count.”
He smacks his blade against a weathered sign. As sand falls from the grooves in the wood, its faded message clears: ONE CUP = ONE GOLD PIECE.
“Are you serious?” Zélie seethes.
“We can afford it,” I whisper, reaching into her pack.
“But they can’t!” She points to the laborers. The handful carrying buckets drink water so polluted it might as well be sand. But this isn’t time for rebellion. How can Zélie not see that?
“Our deepest apologies.” I step forward, calling forth my most deferential tone. I almost sound believable. Mother would be proud.
I place three gold coins in the guard’s hand and take Zélie’s canteen, forcing her to step back as I fill it.
“Here.”
I press the canteen into her hand, but Zélie clicks her tongue in disgust. She grabs the canteen and walks back to the laborers, approaching the dark girl in white.
“Drink,” Zélie urges. “Quick. Before your stocker sees.”