* * *
A COLLECTIVE GASP spreads through the crowd as Amari descends the iron ramp on Nailah’s back. Even I marvel at the sight. Behind me, Tzain blinks away the tear that wells in his eye.
Shining rays bounce off Amari’s suit of armor, glimmering every time Nailah moves. With her hands wrapped around my lionaire’s horns, she looks like more than a queen.
She looks magical.
“Stay sharp,” Roën whispers in my ear. “This isn’t a coronation.”
I follow his gaze to a thin soldier in the crowd, his hand wrapped tight around the hilt of his sword. He pushes through the nobles and kosidán along Amari’s path, sunlight bouncing off his breastplate’s royal seal. With a nod from Roën, Harun intercepts the guard, dragging him away before he can close in.
“I don’t understand,” I say. “I thought we only had to worry about the Iyika?”
“Not everyone was happy to find out their queen still lives,” Roën explains. “The military knows she’s a maji sympathizer. Most liked her better when she was dead.”
My body tenses and I glance up, hoping Amari didn’t see. Though the other soldiers don’t grab their swords, they don’t exactly bow before their new queen. Pairs patrol the crowd on both sides of the white sand path, nodding to each noble tîtán they encounter. But they watch the maji with beady eyes, hands hovering above the majacite blades in their swords.
The military’s hunting maji like dogs. The new admiral’s all but declared war.
Roën’s words return as I look back to my people at the edge of the crowd, too afraid to get close. Though the hot sun beats down from above, most hide beneath patterned cloaks. Our gifts have returned, yet my people still cower.
“Almost there.” Roën nods to a large sand dome a few dozen meters down the coast. The structure sits along the flowing tides. Waves foam white as they crash against the rectangular pattern carved into its sides. The towering dome is so large, it almost blocks out the sun.
“It’s perfect,” Amari whispers from above. A flash of joy lights her from within, but it flickers out when we near the smudged streaks of red along the dome’s side, the smeared paint still showing the shadow of an I.
Amari catches my eye and I give her ankle a supportive squeeze. “Don’t worry. No members of the Iyika are getting past me.”
“Jagunjagun!”
I glance down to find a young maji with large ears and a mole on his chin. Unlike the others, he stands at the front of the crowd, hood obscuring his small white coils. Though he whispers the Yoruba for “soldier,” he doesn’t seem to refer to the royal seal on my breastplate. I smile at him, and his eyes become so wide I worry they’ll fall from his sockets.
Baba wanted this for him, the realization sets in as we pass. Him and everyone like him. No more hiding after today. It’s time for my people to stand in the sun.
Amari stops Nailah at the cracked archway of the dome’s entrance and slips into the sand. She takes a deep breath before stepping forward.
I guard her close as we enter the rally.
CHAPTER SIX
AMARI
WHEN WE ENTER the dome, the sight is so brilliant it steals my words. There are so many people, more than I’ve ever addressed at once.
A sculpted mural fills the dome’s sand walls, carved bodies intertwined in dance and song. A large opening in the dome’s side allows a view of the sea. The tides kiss the sand at our feet.
“Wow,” Tzain mutters under his breath, walking by my side. I lift my head to the sunlight spilling in from the large oculus in the ceiling. It bathes the crowd below in its warm rays, illuminating a wooden stage erected by Roën’s men.
The sea of people parts as I march toward the platform in the center of the dome. They part for me the way they parted for Father.
Strike, Amari.
I hear his voice as I ascend the steps of the stage. In Father’s eyes, this was never my destiny, yet it’s almost like he trained me for this day. He was the one who taught me I must cut through every opponent in my way, even if that opponent was someone I loved.
Fight, Amari.
I take a deep breath, squaring my shoulders and lifting my chest. I made Father a vow when I drove that sword through his chest. Now it’s time for me to secure my throne or lose it.
“My name is Amari Olúborí.” The declaration booms against the curved walls. “Daughter of your fallen king. Sister to the late crown prince.”
Someone moves toward me in the crowd and my pulse spikes; I brace myself for their attack. But when the young kosidán kneels, my lips part.
I’m not prepared for him to bow.
“Your Majesty.” He dips so low, his head touches the sand. His bow starts a wave throughout the dome as more people fall to their knees. A warm wave radiates through my skin as others bow along Zaria’s coast.
There’s something sacred in the way they arc. Something I want so desperately to deserve. I left the palace a scared princess on the run.
Now I’m one speech away from taking the throne.
“Two moons ago I sat at a palace luncheon as my father murdered my best friend. Her name was Binta, and she was a divîner whose only crime was the magic that coursed through her skin.” I clear my throat, forcing myself on though the pain of that day returns with each word. “My father forced Binta to awaken her gift against her will. Then, when her powers revealed themselves, he killed her where she stood.”
Murmurs of dissent pass through the crowd. A few tears, some shakes of the head. In the back of the dome, a group of maji push their way in. Across the room, two burly soldiers exchange glares.
Our peace feels as fragile as glass, but I cannot shy away from the truth anymore. The maji have been silenced for far too long. If I don’t speak for them, who will?
“You may not have known Binta’s name before this moment, but I know you know her story. It is the tale countless Orïshans have faced, an unjust persecution that has plagued our divîners and maji for decades. For generations the story of Orïsha has been the story of divide. A story of violence and persecution that must end today.”
The timbre in my voice surprises me; I can almost see it ripple through the dome. Someone shouts in agreement, and others join in. I blink as more cheers erupt.
The small show of faith emboldens me as I walk the length of the platform. The Orïsha I dream of is within my grasp.
Then I see a member of the Iyika.
The rebel stands in the middle of the room, a thick scar running down her left eye. Unlike the other maji in the dome, her forest of white coils is on full display, spilling onto her soft brown shoulders. Red paint stains her hands, the same color as the paint smeared outside the dome’s walls. Though she stands still, the snarl on her face tells me everything I need to know.
She doesn’t want me to take this throne.
Sweat gathers beneath my helmet as I scan the crowd, looking for more rebels like her. I reach to make sure the metal still hides my streak, but looking back at the maji forces me to pause.
She doesn’t hide from my sight. She doesn’t conceal who she is. Why should I?
Strike, Amari.
My fingers tense as I grab my helmet, preparing for what I might cause. Revealing my transformation is far from the smart move. But if I cower and hide the truth, I’m no better than Inan.