Doesn’t take magic to tell this fool’s lying.
I walk around the small wagon, searching, knocking over goods to get a rise. I spot a tear-shaped bottle of black dye and slip it into my pocket.
For a while the merchant stays still. Too still for someone with nothing to hide. He tenses when I near a crate, so I kick down with my foot. Wooden splinters fly. An iron safe is revealed.
“Don’t—”
Kaea pushes the merchant against the wall and searches him, tossing a ring of keys my way. I test each in the lock of the hidden safe. How dare he lie to me.
When the right key fits, I slam open the vault, expecting to find an incriminating clue. But then I spot the jewels of Amari’s headdress. My breath catches in my throat.
The sight takes me back, bringing me to the days when we were kids. The day she first wore this. The moment I hurt her …
I wrap myself in the curtains of the palace infirmary. It’s a fight to stifle my cries. As I cower, the physicians tending to Amari’s wounds expose her back. My stomach twists when I see the sword’s slash. Red and raw, the cut rips across her spine. More and more blood leaks by the second.
“I’m sorry,” I cry into the curtains, wincing every time the doctor’s needles make her scream. “I’m sorry.” I ache to shout, “I promise, I’ll never hurt you again!”
But no words leave my mouth.
She lies on the bed. Screaming.
Praying for the agony to end.
After hours, Amari lies numb. So drained, she can’t even speak. As she moans, her handmaiden Binta slips into her bed, whispering something that somehow draws a smile from Amari’s lips.
I listen and watch intently. Binta comforts Amari in a way none of us can. She sings her to sleep with her melodic voice, and when Amari slumbers, Binta takes Mother’s old dented tiara and places it on Amari’s head.…
Not a day passed when Amari didn’t wear that tiara. The only fight with Mother she ever won. It would take a gorillion to rip it off her head.
For this to be here, my sister would have to be dead.
I shove Kaea aside and thrust my blade against the merchant’s neck.
“Inan—”
I silence Kaea with my hand. This isn’t the time for rank or discretion. “Where did you get this?”
“Th-the girl gave it to me!” the merchant croaks. “Yesterday!”
I grab the parchment. “Her?”
“No.” The merchant shakes his head. “She was there, but it was another girl. She had copper skin. Bright eyes—eyes like yours!”
Amari.
That means she’s still alive.
“What did they buy?” Kaea interrupts.
“A sword … some canteens. It seemed like they were going on a trip, like they were heading into the jungle.”
Kaea’s eyes widen. She rips the parchment out of my hands. “It has to be the temple. Chandomblé.”
“How close is it?”
“A full day’s ride, but—”
“Let’s depart.” I grab the headdress and make for the door. “If we ride fast, we can catch them.”
“Wait,” Kaea calls. “What shall we do with him?”
“Please,” the merchant trembles. “I didn’t know it was stolen! I pay my taxes on time. I’m loyal to the king!”
I hesitate, staring at the pitiful man.
I know what I’m supposed to say.
I know what Father would do.
“Inan?” Kaea asks. She puts her hand on her blade. I need to give the order. I can’t show weakness. Duty before self.
“Please!” the merchant begs, latching onto my hesitation. “You can take my cart. You can take everything I have—”
“He’s seen too much—” Kaea cuts in.
“Just hold on,” I hiss, pulse pounding in my ears. The burnt corpses of Ilorin flash into my mind. The seared flesh. The crying child.
Do it, I push myself. One kingdom is worth more than one life.
But too much blood has already been spilled. So much of it by my hands—
Before I can say anything, the merchant sprints for the exit. One hand makes it to the door. Crimson explodes in the air.
Blood splatters across my chest.
The merchant tumbles to the ground, collapsing with a dense thud.
Kaea’s throwing knife sticks out of the back of his neck.
After a shuddered breath, the merchant bleeds in silence. Kaea eyes me as she bends down, extracting her knife as if pulling the perfect rose from a garden.
“You mustn’t tolerate those who get in your way, Inan.” Kaea steps over the corpse, wiping her blade clean. “Especially those who know too much.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
AMARI
A HAZE LIFTS from my mind as I blink into consciousness. My vision blurs the past and the present. For a moment, the silver of Binta’s eyes shines.
But when the hallucination passes, the flicker of candle flames dances along jagged stone walls. A rodent scurries by my feet and I jolt back. It’s only then that I realize I’m bound, tied to Tzain and Zélie with unyielding ropes.
“Guys?” Zélie stirs at my back, sleep dripping from her voice. She twists and turns, but no matter how much she writhes, the ropes do not give.
“Wha’appened?” Tzain’s words slur together. He pulls, but even his considerable might doesn’t loosen the ropes’ hold. For a while his grunts are the only sounds in the cavern. But in time another sound grows louder; we freeze as footsteps near.
“Your sword,” Zélie hisses. “Can you reach it?”
My fingers brush against Zélie’s as I reach backward for my hilt, but I grasp only air.
“It’s gone,” I whisper back. “Everything is!”
We scan the dimly lit cave, searching for the brass of my hilt, the gleam of Zélie’s staff. Someone’s taken all our things. We don’t even have the—
“Scroll?” a deep voice booms.
I tense as a middle-aged man appears in the candlelight, dressed in a sleeveless suede robe. White swirls and patterns dot every inch of his dark skin.
Zélie sucks in a quick breath.
“A sêntaro…”
“A what?” I whisper.
“Who’s there?” Tzain growls, straining against the ropes to see. He bares his teeth in defiance.
The mysterious man doesn’t even blink.
He leans against a staff carved from stone, gripping the face sculpted into its handle. An undeniable fury burns behind his golden eyes. I begin to think he won’t move at all when suddenly he lurches forward; Zélie jumps as the man grasps a lock of her hair.
“Straight,” he mutters with a hint of disappointment. “Why?”
“Get your hands off her!” Tzain yells.
Though Tzain poses no threat, the man steps back, releasing Zélie’s hair. He pulls the scroll from the band of his robe, and his golden eyes narrow.
“This was taken from my people years ago.” His accent hums thick and heavy, different than the Or?shan dialects I’ve heard. I stare at the unraveled scroll in his hand, recognizing a few symbols on the parchment inked onto his skin. “They stole it from us.” His voice takes a violent turn. “I will not let you do the same.”
“You are mistaken,” I blurt out. “We are not here to steal!”
“Exactly what they said before.” He wrinkles his nose at me. “You stink of their blood.”