Kirah had parents who loved her. They hadn’t wanted her to come here: She had chosen this strange, chaotic place for herself.
Why? I wanted to ask, but we had reached the staircase landing. Two intricately carved doors rose up before us, guarded by warriors on either side. I had seen very few wooden doors in my life. In warm Arit realms, cloth door flaps allowed airflow, and therefore were more convenient than wood—unless one was very wealthy, private, or both. One of the warriors nodded brusquely at Kirah, and she gulped as the door swung inward. Before disappearing through the opening, she pressed my hand.
“Don’t be scared, Tarisai,” she murmured. Her gaze was starry. “It might be hard at first, but if they pick us … think of what we could learn. All the books in the world. No lodestone port closed. Just think: We’ll practically rule the world.”
Then she was gone.
Hours could have passed before the door creaked open again, and it still would have felt too soon. The guard nodded at me. When my legs didn’t budge, I was unceremoniously pushed inside. The door boomed shut behind me.
I stood in an antechamber hung with purple tapestry. A cluster of men and women sprawled on divans and high-backed chairs, murmuring softly. Matching gold circlets gleamed on their brows. Their accents were as different as their complexions, but they gave the impression of a family, or something closer.
Much closer.
When I entered, they turned their heads in eerie unison. I shrank into the entryway shadows, expecting them to rise as one, like a multiheaded beast. But only one of them moved. A man with broad nostrils and deep laugh lines sat in the room’s center, enthroned on a cushioned chair. The wax-dyed cloth of Oluwan, geometric patterns of red, black, and gold, draped across his solid frame. A mask hung from a cord over his chest. It was too small for anyone to wear, and I wondered at its purpose. It was black obsidian, carved in the shape of a lion with a mane of twelve stripes, each shimmering a different color.
The man reclined, examining me. “Well? Who is this?” His baritone was cheery, intended to put me at ease. His crown, an upright disc of solid gold, encircled his face like a rising sun. Over his head, three words were carved into the back of his chair: KUNLEO—OBA—ETERNAL.
In a violent flood, years of lectures filled my head. This was Olugbade Kunleo. The Olugbade Kunleo, from my tiresome months of genealogy lessons. The direct descendent of Enoba the Perfect.
The King of Oluwan, and High Emperor of Aritsar.
My tongue turned to lead.
“Don’t be afraid, little one,” sighed the emperor. “Wash your hands in the bowl. It is custom.”
A gilded basin stood at my elbow, smelling strongly of herbs. The basin was engraved with pelicans, the sacred avatar of Am the Storyteller, and the birds’ eyes gleamed with sapphires. I dipped my hands in the water, which was amber, like the enchanted pool near Bhekina House. My fingers tingled and I wiped them on my tunic, shrinking back into the shadows.
“Good,” said Olugbade Kunleo. But as he squinted from across the room, his face drained of cheer. “Come into the light, child.”
There was something familiar about his voice: a melodious timbre that drew me to obey without question. My feet advanced. The light from a tall, unglazed window fell full across my face … and the room gave a collective gasp.
“Am’s Story,” one of the courtiers swore. “She’s her spitting image.”
Another courtier scoffed, “It can’t be. Not even The Lady would be reckless enough to send us her child.”
“You know my mother?” I asked.
The strangers jumped, as if surprised I could speak. Why was everyone always so afraid of me?
“I’m Tarisai,” I said awkwardly when their silence continued. “My home is Bhekina House, Swana. Excuse me, but—why am I here?”
Another echoing pause. “You tell us,” the emperor replied dryly.
“I don’t know, Your Imperial Majesty,” I stammered. “My guardians brought me to Oluwan, and my mother said she’d come for me when …”
Emperor Olugbade leaned forward, his tone ominously calm. “When … what?”
“When the time is right,” I whispered. “That’s all she said.”
Olugbade tented his hands, considering me with a stillness that made my palms sweat. Then he laughed, a startling bark. His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Come here, Tarisai of Swana.”
I crept forward, staring warily at the emperor’s companions, some of whom placed hands on their weapon hilts. The emperor smelled of palm oil and oranges. The folds of his wax-dyed robe rustled, and the obsidian mask dangled from his neck as he leaned down to my ear.
“Here’s what I think,” he said evenly, like a father telling a bedtime story. “I think that The Lady sent you to kill me. But first, she would have you kill my son, Crown Prince Ekundayo, heir to the imperial throne.”
“What?” I stared at him in horror. “Your Imperial Majesty, I don’t want to—”
“I think you should try,” he said, drawing a knife from his robe and thrusting it into my hand. “Go on. Try to kill me.” I trembled, but he clenched my fingers around the knife hilt and brought the blade to his neck. “Try,” he repeated, with a smile that warned me not to disobey. The blood drained from my face. Squeezing my eyes shut, I put pressure on the blade.
It didn’t budge.
At Olugbade’s urging, my hand pressed the knife hilt harder, then with all my strength. But the knife did not touch the emperor’s neck. A hair’s width of space lay between the blade and his skin: a thin, invisible barrier that no amount of force would make yield.
Olugbade chuckled, releasing my hand. The knife clattered to the floor.
“Do you know what this is, Tarisai?” he asked, gesturing to the lion on his chest. After my reluctant attack, one of the stripes in the lion’s mane had begun to pulse with lurid light.
“It’s a mask,” I stammered. “Is that—is that why I couldn’t hurt you?”
“No.” Olugbade laughed. “This mask is merely proof of my right to rule Aritsar. Proof of the power inside me. Every stripe in the lion’s mane is a death I cannot die. The only people in Aritsar who may kill me,” he said, “the only people in the entire universe—are here in this room.” He gestured to the group of eleven men and women, who clustered protectively around him. “I will not die until this body crumbles with old age. That is the power of the Ray, child. That power filled my father before me, and fills my son now. Only a Raybearer’s Council of Eleven may kill him. Such is the divine protection of heaven. And none shall thwart it.” He smiled tightly. “Not even your clever, clever Lady.”
THE RHYME FROM THE SWANIAN CARAVANS echoed in my head:
Eleven danced around the throne,
Eleven moons in glory shone,
They shone around the sun.
“Eleven what?” I blurted. “What are the Eleven? Why does everyone keep talking about them?”
I could have heard a feather drop. The courtiers of the purple chamber stared, mouths agape.
Then Olugbade’s laugh boomed. “You are a good mummer, Tarisai of Swana.”
“I don’t think she’s acting,” said a Mewish man. A tartan mantle draped across his pale chest, and he stroked a short red beard. He examined me with deep-set green eyes, alert with humor. “Am’s Story. The Lady is a genius.”