Olugbade continued to chuckle, though it sounded forced. “Don’t be absurd, Thaddace.”
“It’s not absurd. It’s brilliant.” The man called Thaddace shook his head. “Consider: The Lady knew each child must be found pure of heart. So she raised a child in complete ignorance of the Imperial Councils. Unless we can prove she’s faking her innocence, the law requires us to let her meet Prince Ekundayo. A diabolical plan, to be sure—but brilliant all the same.”
“She will meet the prince over my dead body,” hissed a lady seated at Olugbade’s side. Her face reminded me of a spearhead: long with a pointed chin, beady eyes darting from me to the emperor. Her accent was from Nyamba, Oluwan’s neighboring realm, where people read futures in the stars. “Olugbade. You will not let this girl, this thing anywhere near our son.”
“It’s the law,” Thaddace interjected. “Divine law, Nawusi. She washed in the basin. We at least have to check if she has a Hallow; we can’t get rid of her without breaking the rules—”
“Hang the rules,” snapped Nawusi. “If Ekundayo anoints this brat onto his council, his Ray won’t be able to protect him. We might as well sign his death warrant.”
“And you know this to be fate?”
The woman paused, pressing her lips together. “I did not see it in the stars,” she admitted. “But the girl is that woman’s spawn.”
Thaddace sighed. “If we deny her a chance, we profane holy rites. Dayo’s council could be cursed forever. Is that your suggestion?”
Nawusi gripped the arms of her chair, fixing me with her spearhead stare. “Murder is in that child’s blood,” she whispered, and I shivered.
“It seems,” said a fluting voice, “we must determine if this girl is truthful. Shall I examine her?”
The speaker was lounging on a couch in front of Thaddace. She was Swanian, and the loveliest person I had ever seen. Her coily curls were shorn close to her scalp, and gold powder shimmered on high, dark cheekbones. Dots of white paint adorned the bridge of her nose and arched above each eyelid, and the pelican pendant worn by priests of Am twinkled on her willowy neck.
“I am Mbali,” she said. “Come here, Tarisai.”
A tattooed line on her chin marked Mbali as a griot. I had only ever heard of them in story scrolls—griots were singers of histories and stories, the most sacred of Arit priests. As I approached, Thaddace’s hands closed protectively on Mbali’s shoulders.
She tilted my chin so her mirror-black eyes poured into mine. I warmed, as I always did when touched. Then my head swam, and my vision blurred. Scrambling for control, I placed my hand over Mbali’s and tried to steal her story. But the priestess’s mental shields were made of adamant. Her mind pushed back … and won.
Calm flooded my thoughts like smoke over a beehive. My arms hung limp at my sides.
“Now,” intoned Mbali, “we shall have the truth. Tarisai, did your mother send you here to kill the emperor?”
I could not lie, even if I wished to do so. “No,” I said.
A relieved murmur rippled through the room. “Very well,” she continued. “Did your mother send you here to kill Ekundayo, Crown Prince of Aritsar?”
“I’ve never heard of him,” I said truthfully. “Not until today.”
Mbali beamed and stroked my cheek. “Am be praised,” she sighed. “I ached to imagine that The Lady might have corrupted a child. If your soul is pure, we shall strive to keep it so.”
I glanced around the room. Apparently Mbali’s power could convince a room full of skeptics. Previously hostile faces had now softened with interest … except for Olugbade’s and Nawusi’s, which looked as wary as ever.
“It doesn’t matter how innocent she is,” Nawusi said, perking up. “She can’t join the Prince’s Council without a Hallow.”
Olugbade nodded, looking relieved. “The Lady could not have force-bred a Hallowed child. That would be an act of the gods.” He leaned forward with a pitying smile. “There is a difference between a talent and a Hallow, you see. Hallows are unteachable: an ability so vast, it could only be bestowed at birth. Few children qualify, but to please the law, we will let you try. Did The Lady train you to recite epic poems? That’s a popular one.” He chuckled. “Or let me guess: You’re a juggler, or a master hyena-tamer.”
“Mother didn’t teach me anything,” I retorted. “I can see your memories.”
Again the room fell silent. Fear returned to the courtiers’ faces.
“You mean,” Olugbade said slowly, “that you can imagine what you think happened years ago. Memories that your mother has fed you.”
I shook my head. “I told you—The Lady doesn’t tell me anything. And I don’t like going back years; it makes my head hurt.”
“Why don’t you demonstrate?” said Mbali.
I touched her cheek, as she had touched mine. Her skin was smooth and cool, though the tattoo on her chin thrummed with heat. I closed my eyes. The first memory was from early this morning. Thaddace’s face leaned toward Mbali. He smiled warmly, his beard prickling her cheek—then his lips were on Mbali, and then—
I jerked back from her, my eyes wide as moons.
“Well?” She cocked her head.
“I … didn’t see anything that time,” I stuttered. “I’ll try again.” I touched her tentatively, hoping the next memory would not include the strange games adults played. I was lucky. “You were at a banquet last night,” I told Mbali. “A party with just your council and the emperor. There was lots of food. You told a story.” I snuck a glance at Olugbade. “The story made His Imperial Highness angry.”
The griot priestess froze, and the pulse at her temple quickened.
“She could have learned that from servants talking,” Nawusi said quickly. “This proves nothing.”
“But no one else heard the story,” Mbali whispered. “No one but our council.”
“Let’s see her repeat it,” demanded Nawusi.
I touched Mbali’s face again, reliving the private banquet. The griot priestess had accompanied herself on a talking drum, holding the goatskin-covered gourd in the crook of her arm. The drum’s pitch had risen and fallen with Mbali’s voice. My hips swayed with the pulsing beat as I repeated the story.
“There is a farmer’s son with a mango tree, aheh. He keeps it in a pot by his sleeping mat. So frail, his tree! He whispers to it day and night. He enjoys the perfume of its branches, ashe, ashe. Most children keep dogs, goats, chickens. But not our farmer’s son. For he fears any beast that can bark, aroo, or bite, gnatche.
“His tree has no mouth. His tree has no claws. His tree depends on him, only him, for water, wishe, for light, ra.
“‘Poor tree,’ he murmurs. See him caress the branches. ‘You are too small for fruit. You are useless for the farm. You are useless for the market. You are useless to everyone but me.’
“But the branches thicken and grow, aheh! Up, up, up, in one night! ‘Poor tree,’ scoffs our farmer’s son. He plucks the single mango. ‘I am surprised you can blossom at all.’