“You were tasked to destroy them,” he hisses. “How did this happen?”
“I tried, Your Highness! After the Raid, I tried for moons. I did everything I could to destroy them, but the artifacts were hexed.” Ebele’s eyes dart to Kaea, but she stares straight ahead. He clears his throat again. Sweat pools in the folds beneath his chin.
“When I ripped the scroll, it pieced itself back together. When I burned it, it formed again from the ashes. I had my strongest guard take a mace to the sunstone, and it did not even sustain a scratch! When those wretched artifacts wouldn’t break, I locked them in an iron chest and sank them in the middle of the Banjoko Sea. They could never have washed up on the coast! Not without mag—”
Ebele catches himself before uttering the word.
“I promise, Your Highness. I did what I could, but it would appear the gods have other plans.”
The gods? I lean in. Has Ebele’s mind gone to the skies? Gods don’t exist. Everyone in the palace knows that.
I wait for Father to react to Ebele’s foolishness, but his face remains even. He rises from his throne, calm and calculating. Then quick as a viper, he strikes, grabbing Ebele by the throat.
“Tell me, Admiral.” He raises Ebele’s body into the air and squeezes. “Whose plans do you fear more? The gods’? Or mine?”
I flinch, turning away as Ebele chokes for air. This is the side of Father I hate, the side I try so hard not to see.
“I—I promise,” Ebele wheezes. “I will fix it. I promise!”
Father drops him like a rotten piece of fruit. Ebele gasps and massages his neck, bruises already darkening his copper skin. Father turns back to the scroll in Kaea’s hand.
“Show me,” he commands.
Kaea gives a signal, motioning to someone outside my line of sight. Boots clank against the tiled floor. That’s when I see her.
Binta.
I clutch my chest as she’s dragged forward, tears gathering in her wide silver eyes. The bonnet she takes so much care to tie every day sits askew, revealing locks of her long white hair. Someone has gagged her with a scarf, making it impossible for her to shout. But if she could, who would help her? She’s already in the guards’ grasps.
Do something, I order myself. Now. But I cannot bring my legs to move. I cannot even feel my hands.
Kaea unrolls the scroll and walks forward slowly, as if approaching a wild animal. Not the sweet girl who has wiped my tears for so many years. The servant who saves all her palace rations so her family can enjoy one good meal.
“Raise her arm.”
Binta shakes her head as the guards yank up her wrist, her muffled cries breaking through the scarf. Though Binta resists, Kaea pushes the scroll into her grip.
Light explodes from Binta’s hand.
It coats the throne room in its magnificence—brilliant golds, shining purples, sparkling blues. The light arcs and shimmers as it cascades, a never-ending stream erupting from Binta’s palm.
“Skies,” I gasp, terror at war with the awe bubbling inside my chest.
Magic.
Here. After all these years …
Father’s old warnings of magic bloom inside my head, tales of battle and fire, darkness and disease. Magic is the source of all evil, he would hiss. It will tear Or?sha apart.
Father always taught Inan and me that magic meant our deaths. A dangerous weapon threatening the existence of Or?sha. As long as it existed, our kingdom would always be at war.
In the darkest days following the Raid, magic took hold inside my imagination, a monster without a face. But in Binta’s hands, magic is mesmerizing, a wonder like no other. The joy of the summer sun melting into twilight. The very essence and breath of life—
Father strikes fast. Quick like lightning.
One moment Binta stands.
In the next, Father’s sword plunges through her chest.
No!
I clasp my hand to my mouth before I can scream, nearly falling onto my back. Nausea rises to my throat. Hot tears sting my eyes.
This isn’t happening. The world starts to spin. This isn’t real. Binta is safe. She’s waiting with a loaf of sweet bread in your room.
But my desperate thoughts do not change the truth. They do not bring back the dead.
Scarlet seeps through the scarf binding Binta’s mouth.
Crimson flowers stain her light blue dress.
I choke back another scream as her corpse thuds to the ground, heavy like lead.
Blood pools around Binta’s innocent face, dyeing her white locks red. Its copper smell wafts through the crack in the door. I stifle a gag.
Father yanks off Binta’s apron and uses it to clean his sword. Completely at ease. He doesn’t care that her blood stains his royal robes.
He doesn’t see that her blood stains my own hands.
I scramble backward onto my feet, tripping over the hem of my dress. I rush up the stairwell at the corner of the main hall, my legs shaking with every step. My vision blurs as I fight to make it to my quarters, but it’s all I can do to rush over to a vase. I grab onto the ceramic rim. Everything inside me comes back up.
The bile stings something fierce, bitter with acid and tea. The first sob breaks free as my body collapses. I clutch my chest.
If Binta were here, she would be the one to come to my rescue. She would take my hand and guide me to my quarters, sit me on my bed, and wipe my tears. She would take all the shattered pieces of my heart and find a way to make them whole again.
I choke back another sob and cover my mouth, salty tears leaking through my fingers. The stench of blood fills my nose. The memory of Father’s blade stabs again—
The throne room doors slam open. I jump to my feet, fearing it’s Father. Instead, one of the guards who restrained Binta leaves.
The scroll sits in his hands.
I stare at the weathered parchment as he climbs the stairs toward me, recalling how just one touch made the world explode with light. Light trapped inside my dear friend’s soul, unbelievably beautiful, eternally bold.
I turn away as the soldier nears, hiding my tearstained face.
“Forgive me, I’m unwell,” I murmur. “I must have eaten some rotten fruit.”
The guard barely nods, distracted as he continues ascending. He grips the scroll so hard his knuckles darken, as if afraid of what the magical parchment will do if he doesn’t. I watch as he walks to the third floor and pushes a painted black door open. Suddenly I realize where he’s headed.
Commander Kaea’s quarters.
Seconds ache by as I watch the door, waiting, though I do not know why. Waiting will not bring Binta back. It shall not allow me to enjoy her melodic laugh. But still I wait, freezing when the door reopens. I turn back to the vase and retch once more, not stopping until the guard passes me again. His metal-soled boots clink as he heads back down to the throne room. The scroll is no longer in his grip.
With shaking hands, I wipe my tears, no doubt smearing the paints and powders Mother forced onto my face. I run my palm over my mouth, taking any remnants of vomit away. Questions fill my mind as I rise and approach Kaea’s door. I should continue to my quarters.