I raised an eyebrow. “Love the prince? That’s it?”
“In summary.” Mbali waved a hand. “There are other tests, to be sure. But what matters most is your connection with the Ray: the power of Kunleo emperors. It allows them to join eleven minds to their own. If you succeed, the prince will offer you both the Ray and his hand in councilhood. Your choice is permanent. Nothing is more important than your love—than your loyalty. Do you understand, Tarisai?” She stood and reached for me. “Good. I think you’ll like the prince. He’s—”
“Wait,” I said. “How do you all know Mother? Has she been here before?”
Another pause from Mbali. “The Lady lived at the Children’s Palace a long time ago, when Emperor Olugbade was a boy. It would be best, Tarisai, if you do not speak of your mother while at An-Ileyoba. Few people are old enough to remember when she lived here, but those who do may not look … kindly on your connection. If anyone asks, your parents are middling gentry, prosperous farmers from the Owatu region in Swana. Can you remember that?”
I nodded reluctantly. Then I scanned the room with new interest, trying to imagine The Lady as a child. “Was my mother a candidate? Did she fail?”
“She failed in every way,” Olugbade intoned. “She was not aspiring to be a council member.”
“Oh. Then why did she—”
“It’s no use bringing up the past,” Mbali said briskly. “You write your story, not the people who came before you. Come.”
We crossed the room to a gilded set of doors behind Olugbade’s Eleven. My hand in hers, we entered a place that made me dizzy from gazing.
“Welcome to the Children’s Palace,” said Mbali. “The happiest place in An-Ileyoba.”
Sunlight streamed into a high-domed chamber of blue and gold. Rays glinted off a mountain of toys and a menagerie of rideable wooden animals from every Arit realm. Children on zebras and tigers scooted past me, jeering and screaming in chase. Servants in brocade wrappers bustled about, holding fruit trays and water pitchers.
Mbali caught a child by the arm: the girl I had met on the stairs. I smiled at Kirah, relieved that she had passed the mysterious trial. She beamed back and curtsied to Mbali. “Anointed Honor! Is it time for another test?”
“Not yet, my dear,” Mbali replied. “But can you help me find Ekundayo? I can’t pick him out in this crowd.”
Kirah’s round face flushed. “None of us can, Your Anointed Honor. He’s been hiding since I got here.” She gestured at a large group of children, who were throwing open cabinets and peeking under tables. As the groups of searchers disemboweled the room, shrieking the prince’s name … I felt a pang of familiarity.
My tutors had often searched for me in Bhekina House. I had hidden for hours, plugging my ears to the sound of my name as it echoed through every hall. My tutors feared The Lady, and so their lives had revolved around me: my every success and failure.
Empathy surged inside me for this prince I had never met.
“He’s not in here,” I said.
Mbali looked down at me in surprise. “How do you know?”
I shrugged, scanning the room. “Too many people. And the cabinets would be too easy.”
Mbali’s mouth twitched. “Then we had better look somewhere else.”
We left Kirah and passed through the brightly painted halls of the Children’s Palace. It was a miniature version of An-Ileyoba’s central wing, Mbali told me, and in one room, the floor was a giant marble checkerboard, where giggling children stood in place of the pieces. In another, dining tables brimmed with oranges, fried plantains, sticky fig cakes, and mountains of treats I couldn’t name. The wing even had a mock throne room—a chamber with mirrored ceilings and twelve child-size thrones. At last, I lingered in a large, airy room with a dais in the center. Murals of long-dead councils glittered overhead, depicted as flower-crowned children, smiling beatifically as they danced in a circle.
“This is the Hall of Dreams,” said Mbali. “You will conduct much of your training here during the day, and sleep here at night.” Rolled sleeping mats lay stacked in neat piles against the walls. Tied‑up mosquito nets hung in gauzy festoons from the ceiling, and embroidered constellations shimmered in silver and blue across the netting. When the nets were let down, they would look like the heavens, tumbling to the bodies of children below.
“At night, a screen separates the boys from the girls. The prince sleeps there, in the middle.” She pointed to the raised platform. “Someday, his council will sleep close beside him.”
Lofty unglazed windows sank into arches along one wall, shielded by white damask curtains, which glowed with sunlight and shuddered in the breeze.
“Here,” I murmured. “He’s in here.”
Mbali raised an eyebrow. “How do you know?”
“It’s where I would hide. It’s so open that no one would look very hard.” One of the curtains wrinkled more than the others. I approached it, spying dark brown toes and the tips of golden sandals at the curtain’s edge.
“Don’t worry,” I said softly. “I won’t tell the others.” Then I drew back the curtain. A young Oluwani boy stood before me, parting his full lips into a curious, familiar smile.
I saw red. Heat tore through me, and my pulse thrummed with the same word, over and over and over.
Kill.
I WANTED TO WRING HIS NECK. I WANTED TO smother his mouth and soft broad nose. I wanted the light to vanish from those naive, curious eyes.
Another part of me, struggling for breath, reeled in horror. I didn’t want this. I didn’t hate this boy; I’d never met him in my life. What was happening to me? My ehru half, the part born of wishes and fire, calmed down as The Lady’s voice echoed in my ear.
When he anoints you as his own.
My shoulders sagged in relief. It wasn’t time yet. Something else had to happen before I could hurt this boy. Perhaps I could escape before it did.
“Dayo,” said Mbali, “this is Tarisai of Swana, your newest candidate. Tarisai, this is His Imperial Highness Ekundayo Kunleo of Oluwan, Crown Prince of Aritsar.” She added gently, without accusation, “You will be watched.”
Then she made to leave. I clutched at her, afraid to be left alone with this stranger. Afraid of what I might do to him.
Mbali chuckled, misunderstanding my fear. “He won’t bite, dear. Sometimes, I wonder if our Dayo has any teeth at all.” Fondly, she ruffled the boy’s tightly curled hair. “Have fun.” Then she slipped a key from her neck, unlocked a subtle door painted into the chamber wall, and slipped through without a sound. Strangely, Mbali’s gaze still pressed on me even after she had disappeared.
Ekundayo and I stared at each other. I was taller than him, though he drowned in robes of blue-gold wax-dyed cloth. He shifted from foot to foot, looking as awkward as I felt.
“Well,” he said. “Aren’t you going to try and touch me?”
I blinked. “Why would I?”
“The rest of them do. They all try to hug me or kiss my fingers and sandals. They say—” He shrugged. “They say they love me.”
“Well, I don’t love you.”