A wall several stories high cut through the city. Murals of crowned figures stared imposingly from the plaster, one of whom I recognized: Enoba Kunleo, the handsome, broad-nosed hero of whom statues were sculpted all over Oluwan. Painted close around him were other men and women, dressed almost as grandly as the emperor. On impulse I counted them: eleven.
Why did that number strike a chord in my memory? The number hung over my head, like a cloud threatening thunder.
Woo In didn’t let go until the streets grew quieter and the houses grander. Among the sound of trickling fountains and satiny murmurs, plump Oluwan bluebloods glided out of villas into palanquins. I noticed with curiosity that Bhekina House had been modeled after Oluwan mansions. White walls and red roofs sparkled proudly in the morning sun.
“This is Ileyoba,” Kathleen murmured, both reverent and wary. “District of the emperor and all who can afford to live near him.” On a green terraced hill, the domes of a sprawling palace rose to the sky. “And that,” Kathleen said, “is An-Ileyoba, where the emperor lives. That’s your last stop, little demon.”
“Why?” I asked, but by then I did not expect an answer. At the palace gates, our palanquin was checked for weapons. Black flags ten stories tall spilled over the sandstone walls of An-Ileyoba. The flags were emblazoned with the imperial Kunleo seal: a swirling gold sun encircled by eleven moons.
“Business?” grunted a guard.
Kathleen pointed at me. “She’s one of the candidates.”
We descended from the palanquin, and the guard waved us into a vast, noisy chamber with yellow suns chiseled into the marble floor. Children from every Arit realm filled the room in various states of undress. Some scrubbed in tubs and were inspected for lice. Others ran drills with wooden spears, or recited poems from scrolls, or plucked frantic scales on instruments. Some even preened before hand mirrors, smiling and simpering, “An honor to meet you, Your Imperial Highness.” Most of them wore black tunics, pinned at the shoulders with polished sun-and-moon clasps. Palace servants in brocaded wrappers supervised the children’s preparations, and once each boy or girl was deemed suitable—for what I didn’t know—guards ushered them into a line, which wound dizzyingly around a stone spiral staircase.
“Age,” a clerk with a large book and quill droned, looking up at me from a low kneeling desk.
“Eleven,” Kathleen replied. “Same age as His Imperial Highness. Her name is Tarisai, and she hails from Swana.”
The clerk peered up at me suspiciously. “Are you sure? She might have a Swanian name, but she looks Oluwani.”
Kathleen prodded me in the back, and I yelped and berated her. My Swanian accent convinced the clerk. He nodded to a gaggle of palace servants, who seized me. I fought back, clinging to Woo In’s hand, but he whispered, “You are on your own now, Lady’s Daughter. We can’t stay.”
“What’s going on? What will these people do to me?”
He looked uncomfortable but squeezed my hand. “You’ll be fine,” he muttered. “We will always be near, even when you can’t see us. And you have been prepared.”
“Prepared? For what?” But then Kathleen and Woo In were herded away by guards, and my last tie to home, to Bhekina House, to everything I knew—disappeared.
Five pairs of hands removed my clothes and scrubbed my skin with plantain ash soap. My hair was washed with sweet-smelling water, combed, and twisted with shea butter until every coil shined. They pinned the flowing black tunic over my shoulders and draped me with a sash representing my home realm. The cloth was rich indigo, like the Swanian sky, and patterned with elephants and herons. Within hours I had joined the file of children on the winding stairs, our sandals slapping on the stone.
Curiosity tempered my fear. I’d never stood close to people my age before. A girl with enormous hazel eyes paced ahead of me. Her hair and neck were covered by a sheer red veil, and camels patterned her sash. I guessed that she was from Blessid Valley: a desert realm of nomadic herders and craftsmen. She twisted a gold ring on her smallest finger, singing absently to herself, “Sleep, daughter; today you will leave me. Tonight I cannot sleep. Sleep and never forget your mother …”
Her voice was like a grown woman’s, deep and jangling, wrapping around me like a thick wool robe. Immediately I relaxed, but when I yawned, she stopped singing.
“Sorry,” she said, and flashed a smile. “Mama says I should be more careful. That chant puts my sister Miryam to sleep in a camel’s wink. I sing it when I’m afraid: It helps my heart remember home.”
“You must be cold,” I said politely, nodding my head at her veil.
She laughed. “This is my prayer scarf. Blessids are People of the Wing, and we all wear a covering of some sort. It shows our devotion to the Storyteller.”
My tutors had not brought me up in one of the Arit religious sects, though I knew there were four. “Can all … Wing-People do what you do? Magic with their voices?”
She snorted. “No. And it’s not magic. I just remind bodies of what they need most; it’s my Hallow.”
“A birth gift,” I murmured, echoing Woo In.
“Of course. Hallows are a requirement for all candidates. I hope mine is enough. I wonder—” She shot an anxious glance up the stairwell. “I wonder if Mama was right. Maybe I never should have left our caravan.”
Screeches pierced the air, and suddenly guards clambered down the staircase, grappling with a blond boy with the palest skin I’d ever seen.
“It is not fair! It is not fair—unhand me!” the boy railed in a thick Nontish accent, gargled and breathy. Unless he had traveled by lodestone, it would have taken him almost a year to reach Oluwan. The cold, gray realm of Nontes lay within the farthest reaches of the Arit empire. “I did not even get to meet His Highness. I will send for my father. I was born for this! It is not fair—”
The Blessid girl snickered behind her hand. “Looks like someone didn’t pass the first trial. And that’s just an interview. The hard part comes after.”
I stared after the Nontish boy as his screams grew distant and clutched at my indigo sash. The sensation of several pairs of child-size hands leeched from the cloth: recent memories. Within the last month, dozens of other Swanian children had worn the sash, donning and removing it with shaking fingers. Had they been excited or frightened? The cloth did not tell. “What are they going to do to us?”
“When we’re tested? Oh …” The Blessid girl waved a hand. “Nothing too dangerous. The real trouble is if they like us. We never get to see our parents again. Not till we’re grown up.”
“What?” I hollered.
Several other children turned and whispered. The Blessid girl shushed me, looking embarrassed. “Of course we can’t see our parents. Council members sever blood ties and swear loyalty only to the prince. Didn’t anyone tell you?” At my terrified expression, she softened. “What’s your name, Swana-girl? Mine’s Kirah.” She extended a hand, which I gaped at. She dimpled. “No point in being shy. If we both pass the trials, we’re stuck together for life.”
“I’m Tarisai,” I said after a confused pause, and my hand slid into hers. The touch, warm and calloused, felt so natural I didn’t want to let go. I stole a portion of Kirah’s story, just for a moment. Two smiling older faces flashed into my mind, their prayer scarves worn and smelling of cinnamon. Mama. Baba.