“Except she got to kiss her mother that night. We didn’t.”
I turn to mount Nailah, positive I’ve given Amari enough time. But when I glance over, her bare back is still exposed.
“Oh my gods…”
My heart lurches as I take in the gruesome scar carved along Amari’s spine. The mark ripples across her skin, so ghastly it makes my own skin tingle with pain.
“What?”
Tzain turns just before Amari whips around, sucking in his breath at the mark. Even the scars lining Baba’s back don’t look half as hideous as hers.
“How dare you!” Amari scrambles to cover herself with the cloak.
“I wasn’t trying to peek,” I say quickly. “I promise, but—gods, Amari. What happened?”
“Nothing. A-an accident when my brother and I were young.”
Tzain’s jaw drops. “Your brother did that to you?”
“No! Not on purpose. It wasn’t … he didn’t—” Amari pauses, trembling with an emotion I can’t place. “You wanted my dress, you have it. Let us trade and be on with it!”
She holds her cloak close and mounts Nailah, keeping her face hidden. With nothing more we can say, Tzain and I have no choice but to follow suit.
He mumbles an apology before urging Nailah ahead. I try to apologize as well, but the words stall when I look at her cloaked back.
Gods.
I don’t want to imagine what other scars hide along her skin.
*
THE WEATHER WARMS as we reach the forest clearing that marks the settlement of Sokoto. Kosidán children run along the bank of the crystal clear lake, squealing with delight when one young girl falls in. Travelers set up camp between the trees and muddy patches; merchant carts and wagons line up their wares along the rocky shore. One cart’s aroma of spiced antelopentai meat envelops me, making my stomach rumble.
I was always told that before the Raid, Sokoto was home to the best Healers. People traveled from all over Or?sha, hoping to be cured by the magic of their touch. As I survey the travelers, I try to imagine what that might look like. If Baba were still with us, he might’ve liked this. A moment of refuge after losing our home.
“So peaceful,” Amari breathes, clutching her cloak as we slide off Nailah.
“You’ve never been here before?” Tzain asks.
She shakes her head. “I barely left the palace.”
Though crisp air fills my lungs as we walk, the sight reawakens the memory of burning flesh. In the lake I see the calm waves of the floating market back home, the coconut boat I should be in as I fight with Kana for a hand of plantain. But like Ilorin, the market’s gone, all burnt at the bottom of the sea. The memories sit among the charred lumber.
Another piece of me taken by the monarchy.
“You two trade the dress,” Tzain says. “I’ll take Nailah to get a drink. See if you can find a few canteens.”
I chafe at the prospect of trading with Amari, but I know she won’t leave my side until she gets new clothes. We part ways with Tzain, traveling through the campsites toward the row of merchant carts.
“You can relax.” I arch my eyebrow. Amari flinches whenever someone so much as looks her way. “They don’t know who you are, and no one cares about your cloak.”
“I know that.” Amari speaks quickly, but her stance softens. “I’ve just never been around people like this.”
“How terrifying. Or?shans who exist to do more than serve you.”
Amari inhales sharply but swallows any retort. I almost feel bad. Where’s the fun if she doesn’t fight back?
“Skies, look at that!” Amari slows as we pass a couple setting up their tent. The man uses vines to bind dozens of long, thin branches into a cone while his partner creates a protective layer by piling on moss. “Can people really sleep in those?”
Part of me itches to ignore her, but she stares at the simple tent as if it’s made of gold. “We used to build those all the time when I was young. Do it right and it’ll even keep out snow.”
“You get snow in Ilorin?” Again her eyes sparkle, like snow is an ancient legend about the gods. How strange that she was born to rule a kingdom she’s never even seen.
“In Ibadan,” I answer. “We lived there before the Raid.”
At the mention of the Raid, Amari goes quiet. The curiosity vanishes from her eyes. She grips her cloak tighter and keeps her focus on the ground.
“Is that what happened to your mother?”
I stiffen; how can she be bold enough to ask this when she can’t even ask for food?
“I apologize if that is too forward … it’s just that your father mentioned her yesterday.”
I picture Mama’s face. Her dark skin seemed to glow in the absence of sun. She loved you fiercely. Baba’s words echo in my mind. She would be so proud right now.
“She was a maji,” I finally answer. “A powerful one, at that. Your father’s lucky she didn’t have her magic during the Raid.”
My mind returns to the fantasy of Mama wielding her magic, a lethal force instead of a helpless victim. She would’ve avenged the fallen maji, marching on Lagos with an army of the dead. She’d be the one to wrap a black shadow around Saran’s neck.
“I know this won’t change anything, but I’m sorry,” Amari whispers so quietly I can barely hear her. “The pain of losing a person you love, it’s…” She squeezes her eyes shut. “I know you hate my father. I understand why you hate me, too.”
As grief breaks through Amari’s face, the very hatred she speaks of cools inside me. I still don’t understand how her handmaiden could’ve been anything more than another servant to her, but there’s no denying her sorrow.
No. I shake my head as guilt swells in the space between us. Grieving or not, she doesn’t get my pity. And she’s not the only one who gets to pry.
“So has your brother always been a heartless killer?”
Amari turns to me, brows raised in surprise.
“Don’t think you can ask about my mother and hide the truth about that awful scar.”
Amari steadies her vision on the merchant carts, but even so, I see the past playing out behind her eyes. “It wasn’t his fault,” she finally answers. “Our father forced us to spar.”
“With actual swords?” I jerk my head back. Mama Agba made us train for years before we were allowed to pick up a staff.
“Father’s first family was coddled.” Her voice grows distant. “Weak. He said they died because of it. He wouldn’t allow the same thing to happen to us.”
She speaks as if this is normal, like all loving fathers spill their children’s blood. I always pictured the palace as a safe haven, but my gods, is this what her life has been like?
“Tzain would never do that.” I purse my lips. “He’d never hurt me.”
“Inan didn’t have a choice.” Her face hardens. “He has a good heart. He’s just been led astray.”
I shake my head. Where does her loyalty come from? All this time I thought those of noble blood were safe. I never imagined what cruelty the monarchy could inflict on their own.
“Good hearts don’t leave scars like that. They don’t burn villages down.”