Kitabı oku: «Kingdom of Souls», sayfa 3

CHAPTER 4

It’s never easy returning to Tamar after spending time in the tribal lands. I’m bone-tired and more than a little cranky from sleeping in a tent the entire time. The whole trip had taken a month. Eight days of travel each way with the caravan and two weeks at the festival. We arrive in the middle of the night, and I’m so relieved to be back home that I go straight to bed. Mere hours later, I wake buried in pillows and sheets that smell of lavender and coconut. They were fresh and cool last night, but now they’re ruffled and sweat-stained. The curtains around my bed keep out most of the sunlight, but some slips between the gaps and I can’t fall back asleep.

This was supposed to be my year – the year that I can finally say that I have magic too. The year that I hold a light in my mother’s shadow. Even an ember would’ve been enough for me. I tell myself for the one-hundredth time that there’s still a chance, that I can’t give up. But hope is a fleeting thing when met with repeated failure.

Since the first night of the blood moon, I’ve dreamed about magic. The good dreams always end with some version of me possessing Heka’s gift. I step out of the sacred circle so powerful that the edam name me a witchdoctor on the spot. I glide on a cloud like the Aatiri in the opening ceremony. I leave my body to wander the spirit world and find Heka waiting for me underneath a palm tree. I come back to Tamar and tell Rudjek, and for once he’s speechless. When I wake up, still on the edge of sleep, a sense of peace settles over me. But the moment never lasts.

In the bad dreams, I step into the sacred circle and the edam stop their dance. The valley falls silent and one by one they turn their backs to me. Or the Litho boys drag me out of the circle, kicking and screaming because I don’t belong. Or as punishment a witchdoctor turns me into a ndzumbi to live out the rest of my life doing their bidding.

I shake my head. Dreams aside, Heka’s magic rejected me. That was real. And that’s the hardest thing to wrap my mind around. Yes, I have gifts, but what good are they if I can’t use magic? What will these gifts do to protect me from the green-eyed serpent if she decides to show herself again? What if next time she can’t be sent away? Seeing how powerful she’d been against Grandmother – it’s possible that she’s the reason my magic hasn’t shown.

I pull the sheet up to my neck and screw my eyes shut. Terra is shuffling around my bedroom, so I pretend I’m still asleep. She usually hums to herself while she prepares my bath, but this morning she’s quiet. Ty, our matron, along with Nezi, our porter, have been with our household all my life. Nezi bought Terra’s indenture contract two years ago, after her father’s debtors caught up with him. Terra told me that they would’ve cut off his hands had she not agreed to work off his debt.

Before I can bury my face in a pillow, she pulls the curtains back and the full brunt of the sun blinds me. In Tamar, the sun is also called the eye of Re’Mec, but right now more colourful names cross my mind.

‘Twenty-gods,’ I curse, shielding my eyes. ‘Is it eighth morning bells already?’

Someone clears her throat and I sit bolt upright – it’s not Terra. A short, stout woman with grey cornrows stands at the foot of my bed with her fists on her hips. She purses her lips in that way that leaves no doubt that she means business.

‘Ty!’ I slip out of bed in an instant. ‘Pardon my language. I thought you were Terra.’

She stares at me and blinks twice, and I brush the wrinkles out of my nightgown and stand a little straighter. Ty never comes herself. This isn’t her domain. She does all the cooking, and Terra takes care of the rest of the chores.

She shakes her head and taps her foot, a sign that she wants me to hurry up.

My cheeks warm as I rush into the washroom where my bath is waiting. I don’t linger long. Then I slip into a fresh cotton robe that smells like home. I inhale deeper, taking it in, trying to push the tribal lands out of my mind. When I return to my room, it’s pristine. The white sheets are as smooth as stretched papyrus, the pillows stacked in a neat row. Cold stabs through my slippers as I pad across the stone floor to my vanity in search of my favourite balm.

Ty sorts through the shelves of clothes in the armoire next to the window. When she doesn’t find what she’s looking for, she crosses the room to the closet by the door. On the way, she fluffs one of the velvet pillows on the settee in the centre of the room. She’s not the most cheerful person, but today she’s more somber than usual. It isn’t one of her bad days, but definitely not one of her good days either.

While she’s searching through my clothes, I go to the shrine next to the bed. Dust coats my collection: my very first bone charm, the one that my father gave me at Imebyé. The Kes necklace made of crystal beads to bring good luck. Two clay dolls, which Oshhe and I made to honour two of his favourite aunts, long since passed. In the right hands, these things amplify magic and our connection to the ancestors. But in my hands, they are only trinkets. No one touches my shrine, as is the Aatiri custom, so the whole lot of it needs cleaning after weeks away. I reach for a rag, but Ty clears her throat behind me again.

‘Yes, you’re right.’ I sigh. ‘I can do that after my lessons with the scribes.’

I mean after I see Rudjek. I wrote him a letter before we reached the city and gave it to Terra to deliver. If all goes well, he’ll meet me after my lessons in our secret place by the river.

When I turn to face Ty, she holds up a flowing teal sheath. It’s breathtaking, the way the sun catches on the beads and gathers on the fine silk. Essnai and her mother gave it to me on my last birth day. Ty may not usually help with my clothes, but she should know the sheath is too formal for lessons with the scribes.

‘I don’t think that’s quite appropriate,’ I say, heading to the armoire. I dig through piles of folded clothes and pull out my sea-blue tunic and matching trousers. Ty shakes her head and lays the sheath on the bed alongside a beaded belt and jewelled slippers.

Before I can protest again, my mother sweeps into my room, her gold Ka-Priestess’s kaftan rustling in her wake. The space between us feels too small and I cringe, as if caught doing something wrong. The morning light glows against her honey-golden skin, and her amber eyes shine like rare gemstones. When Oshhe and I got back last night, Arti was at the Almighty Temple. The seers sometimes hold vigils for days, so it’s never a surprise if she’s not home. I’ve always counted myself lucky then. It’s easier to avoid her.

My mother is the definition of beauty. Her ebony hair flows down her back in loose curls, threaded through with pale crystals. She bears Tribe Mulani’s softness and curves and small stature compared to the Aatiri. I am somewhere in the middle, taller than my mother, but much shorter than my very tall cousins. Although the resemblance between us is unmistakable, next to her, I might as well be a squat mule.

She never comes to visit me here. I can’t guess the meaning of this – unless she’s talked to my father already, and she knows.

Arti peers around the room, examining its condition, before her eyes land on Ty. The two women exchange a look – one of understanding that I’ve seen shared between them many times before.

Ty has never spoken to me, nor to anyone for that matter. I’ve heard her mumbling in the kitchen when she’s alone, but she stops as soon as someone else comes near. I don’t know why she doesn’t talk. My childhood questions about it always went unanswered. No different from Grandmother hesitating to answer my questions about the green-eyed serpent.

‘You may leave us, Ty,’ Arti says, tilting her head to show respect.

When Ty is gone, Arti’s sharp amber eyes fall upon me. ‘I trust that you’re well.’

‘I am, Mother,’ I say, resisting the urge to glance away. ‘Thank you for asking.’

‘Your father told me what happened at the Blood Moon Festival.’ Her attention shifts to the altar, and she wrinkles her nose. I can’t tell if she disapproves of the mix of tribal trinkets or the dust. ‘It’s time to let go of this foolish dream of having magic. Mulani show their gifts at a very young age. If it hasn’t happened by now, it won’t happen at all.’

My mother speaks in a matter-of-fact tone that sets my teeth on edge. She might as well be talking to a stranger on the street. Her words sting in my chest and leave me speechless.

She brushes her hand across the sheath. The luminous pearl of her Ka-Priestess’s ring shimmers in the sunlight. As her hand glides over the fabric, the colour of the pearl changes from onyx to slate to cyan. ‘It’s a shame to come from two powerful bloodlines and have no magic at all. No Mulani in my family has ever been without. But there is nothing to be done about it.’

‘There’s still a chance.’ My words come out feeble and desperate.

‘What makes you think so?’ Arti says in a voice devoid of any emotion. ‘This year the Aatiri chieftain positioned you directly in Heka’s path, and he didn’t see fit to give you magic. It was a bold gesture, and commendable, but has anything changed?’

Warmth creeps up my neck at the slight. She very well knows the answer, but she wants me to say it. ‘Grandmother had a vision,’ I say, rallying my nerves. ‘A demon could be blocking my magic.’ That wasn’t exactly what Grandmother saw, but it’s the most plausible reason for my magic not showing.

‘I do wish your grandmother would stop giving you false hope,’ Arti says after a deep sigh. ‘And this talk about demons?’ She laughs. ‘That’s the stuff of old wives’ tales, Arrah. They’ve been gone for five thousand years, and if they were back, what would one want with you? A girl without magic.’

Her words are a well-honed slap to the face – yet another reminder how much of a disappointment I am to her. What can I say? How can I fight back, when she’ll have an answer for everything? I believe Grandmother, but it’s not worth arguing. There’s no winning with my mother – no convincing her of anything other than what she chooses to believe.

‘I know that magic is important to you, daughter,’ Arti says, her words softer. ‘But don’t be so obsessed that you’d do something foolish for a taste of it.’

I bite my tongue as fire spreads through my belly. She’s eyeing the bone charm on the altar now. Does my mother think I would stoop so low, that I would consider trading my years for magic? Yes, I want it, but I’m not a fool. I’m not that desperate either. My mind falls on the night of Imebyé and the woman writhing in the sand. That was her choice. There are moments in your life that leave lasting impressions. The woman’s sallow skin and rotten teeth, the way magic came to her, the way it was destroying her – every detail has stayed with me over the years.

I didn’t know at the time what she’d done, but my father explained it to me after we returned home. In his shop one day, I asked if the charlatans in the market were like the woman in the desert. The ones who looked like they had one foot in life and the other in death. He said that some tribal people without magic had learned how to trade years of their lives to possess it. Upon finding this out, I bounced on the balls of my feet with excitement, because it meant I could have magic too. Oshhe squeezed my cheeks between his big hands. ‘No magic is worth your life, Little Priestess. That is not our way.’

He stared into my eyes, his expression so serious and grave that the excitement fled as fast as it had come. ‘Promise me you’ll never do anything like that, no matter what.’ His deep voice echoed in his shop. ‘Promise me, daughter.’

‘But why, Father?’ I said, jutting out my bottom lip.

My father sighed, his patience waning. ‘When you barter your years for magic, it takes of you what it will. It does not matter the complexity of the ritual, spell, or charm. There’s no way to tell until it’s too late. Even I cannot reverse the damage that comes from such foolishness.’

Magic has a price if you’re willing to pay.

I, in fact, am not willing to pay. If I can’t have magic gifted to me, I’ll do without. I still have my pride, and that means something. I lift my chin and face Arti.

‘Is there a reason you’ve come to see me this fine morning, Mother?’ I say, my jaw set. ‘I need to get ready for my lessons.’

Arti glances up at that, her face impassive. It’s a wonder my parents ended up together. Oshhe is full of stories and laughter while my mother is sharp-tongued and efficient. I have to believe that once she was warmer, long before she became the third-most powerful person in the Kingdom.

‘Suran plans to name his youngest son his heir at the assembly today.’ Arti folds her arms behind her back and begins to pace. ‘Not that he has much choice, since the other two are an embarrassment to the so-called Omari legacy.’

I clutch the tunic against my chest as if it can protect me from the animosity in her voice. It’s no secret that the Vizier and my mother hate each other. ‘Is that so?’ I say, forcing my voice to sound bored and uninterested.

The Vizier is the right hand of the Almighty One. He governs the Kingdom. As head of the Almighty Temple, my mother is the voice of the orishas. It’s said that Re’Mec himself visits the seers on occasion – when the mood strikes – but Arti never speaks of it. Because the seers come from the tribes, she also oversees trade with the tribal lands. Relations with all other countries, such as Estheria, Yöom, and the North, fall under the Vizier’s domain.

‘Two can play Suran’s game,’ Arti says. ‘You will attend the assembly with me.’

‘But why?’ I swallow the bitter taste on my tongue. It goes without saying that I have no place or reason to be there. I’ve never dreamed of being Ka-Priestess one day. Even so, it hurts knowing that without magic I’d never even be considered.

The Almighty One hand-picks the Vizier and Ka-Priestess. The title of Vizier always falls to an Omari, close cousins of the royal family. As for the Ka-Priest or Ka-Priestess, the Almighty One chooses the most powerful of the seers. It’s a small mercy that my mother’s position isn’t a birthright, or I’d be an embarrassing end to our family legacy. ‘We will make a statement of our own,’ Arti says on her way out. ‘Be ready at half bell to ten.’

‘But …’ I protest.

My mother pauses in the doorway with her back to me. ‘Did you say something, Arrah?’

What’s one more slight to add to a treasure trove of them? ‘No, Mother.’

Once a month, the leaders of the Kingdom meet to debate taxes and tariffs and new decrees. The Almighty One and his two sons, Crown Prince Darnek and his younger brother, Tyrek, the Vizier and his four guildmasters, and my mother with the four other seers from the Temple. When I go to the assembly with Essnai and Sukar, it’s fun, but I dread attending with my mother.

With Arti gone, I slip into the sheath, admiring the splash of bright beads that run from the neckline to the hem. It’s fitted through the hips, flaring just below my knees. I loop the belt low around my waist and toe on the sandals. Although it’s quite pretty, I prefer my trousers. They have pockets.

While I’m adjusting the sheath in the mirror, Terra strolls into my room with a jewelled box tucked under her arm. She smiles, her freckles standing out against her tan skin. She looks regal with her golden hair done up in braids. It’s nice to have someone my age in the villa. There’s never a dull moment with her. She collects gossip like some people collect figurines.

‘I bet Ty gave you a scare,’ Terra says, her voice bright and musical.

‘You could’ve warned me,’ I grumble. ‘She was in a mood this morning.’

At that, Terra descends upon me with a little too much gleam in her eyes, like I’m a plaything to mould to her wishes. She massages oil into my scalp before twisting my braids into an elaborate crown with strings of pearls woven between the strands. While I can’t deny it’s beautiful, it’s also very heavy. Terra spends what feels like forever powdering my face in shades of golds and silvers. When she’s done, she grins at her handiwork and rushes me outside. Nezi has already opened the gate, and the litter waits in front of it. Eight men stand with their eyes downcast, the sun glistening off their brown skin.

The red curtains are half-drawn, and my mother waits inside. I swallow hard and join her. The compartment is cool and smells of wood polish laced with her sweet perfume. We sit facing each other, but Arti doesn’t see me. Her eyes are vacant as she stares into a corner. She’s so lost in thought that she doesn’t stir when Nezi commands the labourers to proceed.

‘Get going now,’ our porter yells, ‘and take care with them.’ There’s a subtle ‘or else’ in Nezi’s voice, a warning. I wouldn’t put it past her, if an accident were to befall us, to personally seek retribution.

The men lift on three, and we’re on our way. Our villa sits on the north edge of the district, among other fine estates owned by families of import in Tamar. I steal glimpses of the city between the curtains, soaking in the bright colours. We travel down back roads to avoid the crowds of the West Market. Most people will go about their regular business today. It’s only those with influence that attend the assembly. My father never comes, citing his allergy to politics.

After a long silence between us, Arti says, voice low and calculating, ‘When we arrive, follow my lead. Do not speak, do not smile, do not sit until after I’ve taken my place on the first tier. Do you understand?’

I startle at the sudden fire in her words.

‘Yes,’ I say, knitting my fingers together.

Long before we reach the coliseum, we hear the roar of the crowd. Towering orisha statues stand in a row guarding the most prominent families of the city. Soon the crowd is as thick as bees, as scholars, scribes, and heads of families clamber into the coliseum. The building is a honeycomb-shaped mammoth with doors large enough to accommodate giants. When people see our litter, they slink to the side, the labourers never slowing.

Tenth morning bells strike when we are mere moments from entering the dome, which means we’re late. There’s no mistaking that my mother’s up to something.

She’s got a scheme brewing in her eyes.