“The next morning, three mangoes greet him: za, za, za! ‘You will never make fruit for the market,’ says our farmer’s son.
“Up, up—our tree, she grows in the night. See her branches make shadows, long and thick. The boy watches and his knees shake, didun, didun. ‘It’s just my little tree,’ he says. ‘It would be dead without me.’
“The next morning, there are twenty mangoes.
“Ka! Ka! The farmer’s son hacks off every branch. ‘It is for the tree’s own good,’ he says. ‘The weight would strain its little boughs.’ But the tree keeps growing: gung-gung, gung-gung. ‘I will move it to a smaller pot,’ he says. The roots creep over the tiny clay pot. See them burrow deep, deep into the dirt floor. ‘I will stop watering it,’ says our farmer’s son.
“But the tree, she has learned to blossom on her own.
“The boy hacks—ka! ka!—but the tree grows, gung-gung, gung-gung. See her branches fill the boy’s room! See him cower in her shadow!
“Ehmm-ehmm, the neighbors smell the mango perfume. They come to gape at the boy’s tree. ‘Aheh! What wonder! The fruit will feed the whole village!’
“Krah! Krah! The boy cuts the tree down.
“Rra! He burns her branches.
“‘The neighbors were wrong,’ he says as the blaze grows high. ‘The tree could never be useful without me.’
“How peacefully he sleeps now, ashh, ashh. There are no branches. There are no shadows. But smell …
“Was that a hint of mango?
“Perhaps we imagine it, kye, kye!
“Or perhaps a seed survived the flames. Whish—see it drift on the wind, and fly where the boy cannot find it. See it take root in the earth. See children lounge in its shadow.
“See as the boy’s name is forgotten.
“Aheh: my story is done.”
My voice had grown hoarse by the ending line. When my hand fell at last from Mbali’s cheek, the griot priestess was trembling. Confused, I followed her gaze to Olugbade.
The emperor of Aritsar was staring at me with cold, simmering hatred.
Mbali’s arm slipped around me protectively. Energy vibrated through the room, and the men and women exchanged looks, speaking without words. Their mouths remained closed, but the faint voices floated in the air, like chattering leaves on overhead branches.
“It doesn’t matter whether or not she wants to kill Dayo,” Nawusi finally said out loud. “If this brat has that woman’s power, then she is just as dangerous as any assassin.”
“The girl does not have power,” Olugbade insisted. “And neither does her mother. That woman is an imposter. I will not hear any speculation of her legitimacy.”
“Olu.” Mbali sighed. “No matter how we examine this, the safest place for Tarisai is on Dayo’s council.”
“Have you lost your mind?” shrilled Nawusi.
“We already know she has a Hallow,” Mbali insisted. “If Tarisai has another power—”
“She doesn’t,” Olugbade said.
“If she does,” Mbali persisted, “this is the only way we can guarantee she never uses it against Dayo. The Children’s Palace is secure, isolated from the outside world. On Dayo’s council, we could shield her from The Lady’s influence more effectively than anywhere else.”
After a long deliberation, several begrudging voices spoke around the room: “Dayo’s council … Mbali’s right … Her memory gift could be useful … Strict surveillance … Give it a try …”
“Fine,” Nawusi said finally, rigid in her chair. “She can meet the prince. But only after we have tried our last option.” She stood and approached me, back straight as a palace spire. Her face twitched as she tried, unconvincingly, to look friendly. “Are you hungry, child?”
“I don’t know.” I fidgeted. “A little.”
She reached into her robe pocket and produced a shiny red fruit. The room tensed immediately.
“Nawusi …” Thaddace growled. “Don’t be rash—”
“Do you know what this is, Tarisai?” Nawusi cooed. “No, you don’t have these in Swana. But in Oluwan City, we eat delicacies from all over the empire. This is called an apple. They grow far to the north. Won’t you take a bite?”
“No!” Mbali exclaimed, rising to her feet. “Nawusi, how could you?”
“You’re the one who’s so sure of her power, Mbali,” Nawusi retorted. “If you’re right, then perhaps she has nothing to fear from me.”
“We must obey the law, Nawusi,” Thaddace objected. “And for Am’s sake, she’s a child.”
“Olugbade?” Nawusi turned to the emperor, raising an expectant eyebrow.
Olugbade leaned back in his chair, tenting his hands over the obsidian mask. At last, he said weakly, “Give it to her.”
Mbali’s face slackened with horror. “Olu.”
But the emperor ignored the priestess, wincing at me. “I fear we are frightening you, little one. Sometimes, adults argue over silly things. But you need not fear. Take the apple.”
A small voice in my head told me to run.
But where would I go? There were guards outside the door, and these people were powerful in ways I dared not guess. What if they chased me? Besides … Arit emperors were good. They were perfect.
I took the apple. Everyone in the room held their breath. I raised the smooth-skinned fruit, opened my mouth, and …
Mbali reached me in two strides, knocked the apple out of my hand, then kneeled and pressed me to her chest.
“Am will punish us for this,” she whispered. “Poisoning a child is an unclean game to play. No matter how powerful that child may be.”
I recoiled, staring at the apple on the floor with horror. What was this place, where adults tried to kill children? Why had The Lady sent me here?
I began to cry. Mbali made a soothing noise, pushing a wayward coil from my face. “Let us start again,” she said. “I am the High Priestess of Aritsar. Everyone in this room is a member of Olugbade’s Eleven. And really—it’s lovely to meet you, Tarisai.”
“I don’t understand,” I hiccupped.
“Aritsar is ruled by twelve people. When the emperor is a young boy, he anoints eleven children, one from each realm, to rule beside him until death. These children are gifted, special, and loyal only to the emperor.”
“And,” Thaddace murmured, “to each other.”
Mbali shot him what appeared to be a warning look … but she nodded. “A child on the council gains not only power, but a family.”
Curiosity crept into my fear. I remembered Kirah’s joke on the stairs: If we both pass the trials, we’re stuck together for life. My whole life, I had longed for friends who stayed. For the people I loved to never disappear. I glanced at the men and women clustered around Olugbade, faces animated in silent conversation. That was how I had always imagined being part of a family: draped across one another like a pride of lions, trading giggles and secrets.
“If I want to join the prince’s Eleven,” I said slowly, “what do I have to do?”
“Well … above all, you must love Crown Prince Ekundayo, and devote your life to his service.”