“Gods,” Zélie curses under her breath, pausing as her shivers worsen. Although the sun beats down with a fury, her teeth chatter as if she’s in an ice bath. Since her awakening, she shakes more and more, recoiling whenever she senses that the spirits of the dead are near.
“Are there that many?” I whisper.
She pants when one shiver stops. “It’s like walking through a burial ground.”
“With heat like this, we probably are.”
“I don’t know.” Zélie looks around, yanking her scarf close. “Every time one hits, I taste blood.”
A chill rocks through me, though sweat leaks from every pore. If Zélie can taste blood, I don’t want to know why.
“Perhaps—” I pause, stalling in the sand as a pack of men flood into the street. Though they’re obscured by capes and masks, their dust-covered clothes bear Or?sha’s royal seal.
Guards.
I grab on to Zélie as she reaches for her staff. Each soldier reeks of liquor; some stumble with every step. My legs quake as if made of water.
Then, quick as they came, they disperse, disappearing among the clay ahérés.
“Get yourself together.” Zélie shoves me off her. I fight not to tumble into the sand. There is no sympathy in her gaze; unlike Tzain, her silver eyes rage.
“I just—” The words are weak, though I will them to be strong. “I apologize. I was caught off guard.”
“If you’re going to act like a little princess, turn yourself in to the guards. I’m not here to protect you. I’m here to fight.”
“That’s not fair.” I wrap my arms around myself. “I’m fighting, too.”
“Well, seeing as your father created this mess, if I were you, I’d fight a little harder.”
With that Zélie turns, kicking up sand as she storms off. My face burns as I follow, careful to keep my distance this time.
We continue toward Ibeji’s central square, a collection of tangled streets and square huts crafted from red clay. As we near, we see more nobles gathering, conspicuous with their bright silk kaftans and their trailing attendants. Although I don’t recognize anyone, I adjust my scarf, worried that even the smallest slip will give my identity away. But what are they doing here, so far from the capital? There’re so many nobles, they’re only outnumbered by the laborers in the stocks.
I pause for a moment, aghast at the number of them filling the narrow path. Before today, I caught only glimpses of the laborers brought in to staff the palace—always pleasant, clean, groomed to Mother’s satisfaction. Like Binta, I thought they lived simple lives, safe within the palace walls. I never considered where they came from, where else they might have ended up.
“Skies…” It’s almost too hard to bear the sight. Mostly div?ners, the laborers outnumber the villagers by hordes, dressed in nothing but tattered rags. Their dark skin blisters under the scorching sun, marred by the dirt and sand seemingly burned into their beings. Each is hardly more than a walking skeleton.
“What’s going on?” I whisper, tallying the number of children in chains. Almost all of them are young—even the oldest still appears younger than me. I search for the resources they must be mining, the freshly laid roads, the new fortress erected in this desert village. But no sign of their efforts appear. “What are they doing here?”
Zélie locks eyes with a dark girl who has long white hair like hers. The laborer wears a tattered white dress; her eyes are sunken, devoid of almost all life.
“They’re in the stocks,” Zélie mutters. “They go where they’re told.”
“Surely it isn’t always this bad?”
“In Lagos, I saw people who looked even worse.”
She moves toward the guard post at the central square while my insides twist. Though no food fills my stomach, it churns with the truth. All those years sitting silent at the table.
Sipping tea while people died.
I reach forward to fill my canteen at the well, avoiding the guard’s leering eyes. Zélie reaches to do the same—
The guard’s sword slashes down with a fury.
We jump back, hearts pounding. His sword cuts into the wooden rim where Zélie’s hand rested just seconds before. She grips the staff in her waistband, hand trembling with rage.
My eyes follow the sword up to the glaring soldier who wields it. The sun has darkened his mahogany skin, but his gaze shines bright.
“I know you maggots can’t read,” he spits at Zélie, “but for skies’ sake, learn how to count.”
He smacks his blade against a weathered sign. As sand falls from the grooves in the wood, its faded message clears: ONE CUP = ONE GOLD PIECE.
“Are you serious?” Zélie seethes.
“We can afford it,” I whisper, reaching into her pack.
“But they can’t!” She points to the laborers. The handful carrying buckets drink water so polluted it might as well be sand. But this isn’t time for rebellion. How can Zélie not see that?
“Our deepest apologies.” I step forward, calling forth my most deferential tone. I almost sound believable. Mother would be proud.
I place three gold coins in the guard’s hand and take Zélie’s canteen, forcing her to step back as I fill it.
“Here.”
I press the canteen into her hand, but Zélie clicks her tongue in disgust. She grabs the canteen and walks back to the laborers, approaching the dark girl in white.
“Drink,” Zélie urges. “Quick. Before your stocker sees.”
The young laborer doesn’t spare a second. She drinks the water hungrily, no doubt savoring her first drink in days. When she finishes a hearty swig, she passes the canteen down to the div?ner shackled in front of her. With reluctance, I hand the two remaining canteens over to the other laborers.
“You’re too kind,” the girl whispers to Zélie, licking the last droplets off her lips.
“I’m sorry I can’t do more.”
“You’ve done more than enough.”
“Why are there so many of you?” I ask, trying to ignore my dry throat.
“The stockers send us here for the arena. The girl nods toward a spot just barely visible beyond the clay wall. At first nothing sticks out against the red dunes and waves of sand, but soon the amphitheater fights its way through.
Skies …
I’ve never seen a structure so vast. A collection of weathered arches and pillars, the arena spreads wide across the desert, covering much of its arid land.
“You’re building it?” I scrunch my nose. Father would never approve of the stockers building an edifice like this out here. The desert is too arid; there are only so many people this land can hold.
The girl shakes her head. “We compete in it. The stockers say if we win, they’ll pay off all our debts.”
“Compete?” Zélie wrinkles her brow. “For what? Your freedom?”
“And riches,” the laborer in front of the girl pipes up, water dripping down his chin. “Enough gold to fill a sea.”
“That’s not why they have us compete,” the girl cuts in. “The nobles are already rich. They don’t need gold. They’re after Babalúayé’s relic.”
“Babalúayé?” I ask.
“The God of Health and Disease,” Zélie reminds me. “Every god has a legendary relic. Babalúayé’s is the ohun è?3 aiyé, the jewel of life.”
“Is it actually real?” I ask.