Orïsha waits for no one, Amari.
The ghost of Father’s voice rings through my head. I drove my sword into his chest to free Orïsha from his tyranny, but now the kingdom’s in chaos. There’s no time to grieve. No time to wipe my tears. I vowed to be a better queen.
If Mother is no longer here, fulfilling that vow now falls on me.
“I’ll address the public,” I decide. “Take control of the kingdom. Bring back stability and end this war.” I get back on my feet, pushing my plans above my grief. “Roën, I know I’m in the red with you, but if I could just ask for a little more of your help—”
“I hope you’re joking.” All compassion disappears from the mercenary’s tone. “You realize that no contact with your mother means you still owe me my weight in gold?”
“I gave you this ship!” I shout.
“The ship you’re still squatting on?” Roën arches his brow. “The ship my men and I stole? I have families waiting to escape across the sea. This ship isn’t payment. It’s driving up what you owe me!”
“When I claim the throne, I’ll get access to the royal treasuries,” I say. “Help me set up a rally, and I’ll pay you double what I owe. Just a few more days, and the gold is yours!”
“You have one night.” Roën pulls up the hood on his rain cloak. “Tomorrow this ship sets sail. If you’re not off it, you’re going in the ocean. You lot can’t afford the fare.”
I intercept his path, but it doesn’t stop him from blowing out the door. The grief I attempt to push down threatens to break as Roën’s footsteps disappear under the trickling rain.
“We don’t need him.” Tzain comes to my side. “You can take the throne on your own.”
“I don’t have a gold piece to my name. In what world will anyone believe I have a legitimate claim?”
Tzain pauses, stumbling back as Nailah passes between our feet. Her wet nose sniffs the grated floor, searching for more fish meat. I think of the meal Roën gifted her and look to Zélie, but Zélie shakes her head.
“He already said no.”
“Because I asked!” I nearly sprint across the room. “You convinced him to take a crew of men to a mythical island in the middle of the sea. You can persuade him to help us out with a rally.”
“We already owe him gold,” she says. “We’re lucky enough to be leaving Jimeta with our heads!”
“Without his help, what other choice do we have?” I ask. “If Lagos fell when magic came back, Orïsha has been without a ruler for almost a moon. If I don’t gain control now, I won’t be able to take the throne at all!”
Zélie rubs the back of her neck, fingers passing over the new golden marks along her skin. The ancient symbols have been there since the ritual, each curved line and delicate dot shimmering like it was tattooed by the smallest needle. Though they’re beautiful, Zélie covers them the same way she covers her scars. With shame.
As if the very sight of either causes her pain.
“Zélie, please.” I kneel before her. “We have to try. The military’s hunting maji—”
“I can’t be expected to carry the plight of my people forever.”
Her coldness catches me off guard, but I don’t give up. “Then do it for Baba. Do it because he gave his life for this cause.”
Zélie’s shoulders slump and she closes her eyes, taking a deep breath. The pressure lifts in my chest when she rises to her feet.
“I’m not making any promises.”
“Just try your best.” I cover her hand with mine. “We’ve sacrificed far too much to lose this fight.”
CHAPTER THREE
ZÉLIE
JIMETA’S NIGHT RAINS wash away the weight of the day as Nailah and I leave the warship. The howling winds hit us with the sweet scent of brine and seaweed; all I could smell in those cramped quarters was burning wood and ash. Nailah’s meaty paws leave imprints in the sand as we exit the wooden docks and enter Jimeta’s winding streets. Her large tongue flops from her mouth when we run. I don’t remember the last time we galloped with nothing above us but the full moon and open air.
“That’s it, Nailah.” I hold her reins tight as we make our way through the nooks and valleys of Jimeta’s sandstone cliffs. The homes nestled within the towering bluffs go black as villagers put their lanterns out, preserving what precious oil they have. We turn a corner as sailors lock up the wooden lifts that transport them up and down the cliffs. My eyes widen at a new mural painted in red against a cave wall. The crimson pigment gleams in the moonlight, forming an I created out of an assortment of different-size dots.
They’re calling themselves the Iyika. Roën’s words run through my head. The ‘revolution.’ The maji stormed Lagos when their powers came back. Word is their attack made it all the way to the palace.
I pull on Nailah’s reins, picturing the maji who painted this. The way Roën talked, the Iyika didn’t sound like a band of rebels.
They sounded like a true army.
“Mama, look!”
A small girl steps into the street as I approach a cluster of battered tents. She clutches a black porcelain doll to her chest, its painted face and silk dress the only mark of the girl’s noble heritage. The child’s only one of the new residents to fill Jimeta’s thinning streets, dirt paths narrowed by the rows of pitched tents that line their edges. As she walks further into the rain, I wonder what noble life the girl had before this. What misery she had to escape to get here.
“I’ve never seen a lionaire.” She stretches her small hand toward Nailah’s massive horns. I smile at the twinkle in the girl’s gaze, but when she nears, I see the white streak in her hair.
Another tîtán.
Resentment curls in me at the sight. According to Roën’s reports, roughly one-eighth of the population has magic now. Of those, about a third have the magic of tîtáns.
Marked by white streaks, the tîtáns appeared in the nobility and military after the ritual, displaying magic similar to one of the ten maji clans. But unlike us, their powers require no incantation to come forth. Like Inan, their raw abilities are quite strong.
I know their awakened magic must come from something I did wrong in the ritual, but the sight of them always makes my throat tight.
It’s hard to see their white streaks and not see him.
“Likka!” The girl’s mother runs into the rain, pulling a thick yellow shawl over her head. She grabs her daughter’s wrist, muscles tensing when she spots my white hair.
I click my tongue and ride off, dismounting Nailah when I reach the end of the path in front of Roën’s den. Her own daughter may have magic now, yet somehow she can still hate me for mine.
“Would you look at that.” A raspy voice greets me when I near the entrance of the hideout where Roën’s crew resides. I roll my eyes as the mercenary slides down his black mask, revealing Harun—Roën’s enforcer. The last time the mercenary and I met, I threw him to the ground. Roën told me I broke his ribs. Harun hasn’t approached me since that day, but now danger dances in his gaze.