I draw back, shrinking into Tzain’s shoulders. The man looks at me with a hatred I cannot deflect.
“She’s not lying,” Zélie rushes out, voice powered with conviction. “We’re different. The gods sent us. A Seer guided us here!”
Mama Agba … I think back to her parting words. We’re meant to do this, I want to cry out. But how can I argue that when right now all I wish was that I had never laid eyes on this scroll?
The sêntaro’s nostrils flare. He raises his arms and the air thrums with the threat of magic. He’s going to kill us.… My heart thrashes against my chest. This is where our journey ends.
Father’s old warnings ring in my head: Against magic, we don’t stand a chance. Against magic, we are defenseless.
Against magic, we die—
“I saw what this used to be,” Zélie chokes out. “I saw the towers and temples, the sêntaros who looked like you.”
The man brings his arms down slowly, and I know Zélie’s caught his attention. She swallows hard. I pray to the skies she finds the right words.
“I know they came to your home, destroyed everything you loved. They did the same thing to me. To thousands of people who look like me.” Her voice cracks and I close my eyes. Behind me, Tzain goes rigid. My throat dries with the realization of who Zélie’s talking about. I was right.
Father destroyed this place.
I think back to all the rubble, the cracked skulls, the hard look in Zélie’s gaze. The peaceful village of Ilorin up in flames. The tears streaming down Tzain’s face.
The cascade of light that escaped Binta’s palm fills my mind, more beautiful than the sun’s own rays. Where would I be now if Father had allowed Binta to live? What would all of Or?sha look like if he had just given these maji a chance?
Shame beats down on me, making me want to crawl into myself as the man raises his arms again.
I squeeze my eyes shut in preparation for pain—
The ropes vanish into thin air; our belongings reappear by our sides.
I’m still stunned by the magic when the mysterious man walks away, leaning on his staff. As we rise, he utters a simple command.
“Follow me.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
ZéLIE
WATER DRIPS DOWN the carved walls as we travel deep into the heart of the mountain, accompanied by the rhythmic thud of our guide’s staff. Golden candles line the jagged stone, illuminating the darkness with their soft blaze. As my feet pass over the cool rock, I stare at the man, still unable to believe a sêntaro stands before my very eyes. Before the Raid, only the leaders of the ten maji clans ever got to meet them in this life. Mama Agba’ll fall out of her seat when I tell her about this.
I nudge Amari aside to step closer to the sêntaro, inspecting the marks inked onto the man’s neck. They ripple along his skin with every step, dancing with the shadows of the flame.
“They are called sênbaría,” the man answers, somehow sensing my gaze. “The language of the gods, as old as time itself.”
So that’s what it looks like. I lean forward to study the symbols that would one day become the spoken language of Yoruba, giving us the tongue to cast our magic.
“They’re beautiful,” I respond.
The man nods. “The things Sky Mother creates always are.”
Amari opens her mouth but shuts it quickly, as if thinking better of it. Something bristles inside me as she walks, gaping at things that only the most powerful maji in history have a right to see.
She clears her throat and appears to dig deep, finding her voice once again. “Pardon me,” she asks. “But do you have a name?”
The sêntaro turns around and wrinkles his nose. “Everyone has a name, child.”
“Oh, I did not mean—”
“Lekan,” he cuts her off. “Olamilekan.”
The syllables tickle the furthest corners of my brain. “Olamilekan,” I repeat. “My wealth … is increased?”
Lekan turns to me with a gaze so steady I’m convinced he sees into my soul. “You remember our tongue?”
“Bits and pieces.” I nod. “My mother taught it to me when I was young.”
“Your mother was a Reaper?”
My mouth falls open in surprise. You can’t identify a maji’s powers on sight alone.
“How did you know?” I ask.
“I can sense it,” Lekan answers. “Reaper blood runs thick through your veins.”
“Can you sense magic in people who aren’t maji or div?ners?” The question spills out of me, Inan coming to mind. “Is it possible for kosidán to have magic in their blood?”
“As sêntaros, we do not make that distinction. Everything is possible when it comes to the gods. All that matters is Sky Mother’s will.”
He turns, leaving me with more questions than answers. What part of Sky Mother’s will involves Inan’s hands wrapped around my throat?
I try to push thoughts of him away as we move. It feels like we’ve traveled a full kilometer through the tunnels before Lekan leads us into a dark and wide dome hollowed out in the mountain. He raises his hands with the same gravitas as before, making the air buzz with spiritual energy.
“ìm3lè àw?n òrìshà,” he chants, the Yoruba incantation flowing from his lips like water. “Tàn sí mi ní kíá báàyí. Tan ìm3lè sí ìpàs1 aw?n ?m? r?!”
All at once the flames lining the walls go out, just like Tzain’s makeshift torch. But in an instant, they reignite with new life, blanketing every inch of stone with light.
“Oh…”
“My…”
“Gods…”
We marvel as we enter the dome decorated with a mural so magnificent I can hardly speak. Each meter of stone is covered in vibrant paints illustrating the ten gods, the maji clans, everything in between. It’s so much more than the crude pictures of the gods that used to exist before the Raid, the occasional hidden painting, the rare woven tapestry only brought out under the cover of darkness. Those were flickering rays of light. This mural is like staring at the face of the sun.
“What is this?” Amari breathes, spinning to take in the sights all at once.
Lekan motions us over and I pull Amari along, steadying her when she stumbles. He presses his hands into the stone before answering, “The origin of the gods.”
His golden eyes spark and bright energy escapes his palm, feeding into the wall. As the light travels along the paint, the art glows and the figures slowly come to life.
“Skies,” Amari curses, gripping my wrist. Magic and light bloom as each painting’s soul animates before our eyes.