The young laborer doesn’t spare a second. She drinks the water hungrily, no doubt savoring her first drink in days. When she finishes a hearty swig, she passes the canteen down to the divîner shackled in front of her. With reluctance, I hand the two remaining canteens over to the other laborers.
“You’re too kind,” the girl whispers to Zélie, licking the last droplets off her lips.
“I’m sorry I can’t do more.”
“You’ve done more than enough.”
“Why are there so many of you?” I ask, trying to ignore my dry throat.
“The stockers send us here for the arena. The girl nods toward a spot just barely visible beyond the clay wall. At first nothing sticks out against the red dunes and waves of sand, but soon the amphitheater fights its way through.
Skies …
I’ve never seen a structure so vast. A collection of weathered arches and pillars, the arena spreads wide across the desert, covering much of its arid land.
“You’re building it?” I scrunch my nose. Father would never approve of the stockers building an edifice like this out here. The desert is too arid; there are only so many people this land can hold.
The girl shakes her head. “We compete in it. The stockers say if we win, they’ll pay off all our debts.”
“Compete?” Zélie wrinkles her brow. “For what? Your freedom?”
“And riches,” the laborer in front of the girl pipes up, water dripping down his chin. “Enough gold to fill a sea.”
“That’s not why they have us compete,” the girl cuts in. “The nobles are already rich. They don’t need gold. They’re after Babalúayé’s relic.”
“Babalúayé?” I ask.
“The God of Health and Disease,” Zélie reminds me. “Every god has a legendary relic. Babalúayé’s is the ohun èṣ3 aiyé, the jewel of life.”
“Is it actually real?” I ask.
“Just a myth,” Zélie answers. “A story maji tell divîners before they go to sleep.”
“It’s not a myth,” the girl says. “I’ve seen it myself. It’s more of a stone than a jewel, but it’s real. It grants eternal life.”
Zélie tilts her head and leans forward.
“This stone.” She lowers her voice. “What does it look like?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
ZÉLIE
THE ARENA BUZZES with the drunken chatter of nobles as the sun dips below the horizon. Though night falls, the amphitheater glows with light; lanterns hang against the pillared walls. We push past the hordes of guards and nobles filling the stone-carved stands. I grip Tzain for support, stumbling as we make our way through the weathered sand steps.
“Where’d all these people come from?” Tzain mutters. He forces his way through two kosidán wrapped in dirt-covered kaftans. Though Ibeji can’t boast more than a few hundred residents, thousands of spectators fill the stands, a surprising number of them merchants and nobles. Everyone stares at the deep basin of the arena floor, united in their excitement for the games.
“You’re shivering,” Tzain says when we sit. Goosebumps travel up and down my skin.
“There are hundreds of spirits,” I whisper. “So many died here.”
“Makes sense if laborers built this place. They probably died by the dozens.”
I nod and sip from my canteen, hoping to wash the taste of blood from my mouth. No matter what I eat or drink, the copper tang won’t go away. There are too many souls around me trapped in the hell of apâdi.
I was always taught that when Orïshans died, the blessed spirits rose to alâfia: peace. A release from the pain of our earth, a state of being that exists only in the gods’ love. One of our sacred duties as Reapers was to guide the lost spirits to alâfia, and in exchange, they would lend us their strength.
But spirits weighed down by sin or trauma can’t rise to alâfia; they can’t rise from this earth. Bound to their pain, they stay in apâdi, reliving the worst moments of their human memories again and again.
As a child, I suspected that apâdi was a myth, a convenient warning to keep children from misbehaving. But as an awakened Reaper, I can feel the spirits’ torture, their unyielding agony, their never-ending pain. I scan the arena, unable to believe all the spirits trapped in the hell of apâdi within these walls. I’ve never heard of anything like this. What in the gods’ names happened here?
“Should we be looking around?” Amari whispers. “Search the arena for clues?”
“Let’s wait for the competition to start,” Tzain says. “It’ll be easier when everyone’s distracted.”
As we wait, I look past the ornate silks of the nobles to inspect the arena’s deep metal floor. It’s a curious sight among the sand bricks filling the cracked arches and steps. I search for a sign of bloodshed in the iron: the strike of a sword, the cut of giant claws from wild ryders. But the metal is untouched and untarnished. What kind of competition is this—
A bell rings through the air.
My eyes snap up as it incites cheers of excitement. Everyone rises to their feet, forcing Amari and me to stand on the steps just to see. The cheers grow louder when a masked man shrouded in black ascends a metal staircase, rising to a platform high above the arena floor. There’s a strange aura about him, something commanding, something golden.…
The announcer removes his mask to reveal a smiling, light brown face tanned by the sun. He brings a metal cone to his lips.
“Are you ready?”
The crowd roars with a ferocity that makes my eardrums ring. A deep rumble thunders in the distance, growing louder and louder until—
Metal gates fly open on the sides of the arena floor, and an endless wave of water rushes in. This has to be a mirage. Yet liter after liter flows in. The water covers the metal ground, crashing with the expanse of a sea.
“How is this possible?” I hiss under my breath, remembering the laborers, no more than skin and bone. So many dying for water and they waste it on this?
“I can’t hear you,” the announcer jeers. “Are you ready for the battle of a lifetime?”
As the drunken crowd screams, metal gates open on the arena’s sides. One by one, ten wooden vessels float in, sailing through the waves of the makeshift sea. Each ship spans almost a dozen meters, masts high, sails unfurled. They float as their crews take position, manning the rows of wooden rudders and cannon lines.
On every ship, an elaborately dressed captain stands at the helm. But when I look at the crews, my heart stops.
The laborer in white sits among dozens of rowers with tears in her dark eyes, the girl who told us of the stone. Her chest heaves up and down. She grips a paddle for life.
“Tonight ten captains from all over Orïsha battle for wealth greater than a king’s. The captain and crew who win will bathe in a sea of glory, an ocean of endless gold!” The announcer raises his hands and two guards roll in a large chest of glittering gold pieces. An echo of awe and greed ripples through the stands. “The rules are simple—to win, you must kill the captain and crew of every other boat. Over the past two moons, no one has survived an arena fight. Will tonight finally be the night we crown a victor?”