Perhaps I made a mistake.
Maybe a lionaire lives in me after all.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
INAN
THE DESERT AIR is lifeless.
It cuts with each inhale.
Without Kaea’s steady instruction, every breath blurs together, marred by the magic that took her away.
I never realized how riding alongside Kaea passed the time. Traveling alone, minutes merge into hours. Days blend into nights. The food supply dwindles first. Water follows close behind.
I grab the canteen hooked to the saddle of my stolen panthenaire and squeeze the last droplets out. If Orí is really watching me from above, he must be laughing now.
Maji attack.
Kaea killed.
Pursuing the scroll.
—I
The message I sent home with the soldiers should arrive soon.
Knowing Father, he’ll dispatch guards the moment he receives it, order them to return with the culprit’s head or not at all. Little does he know the monster he hunts is me.
Guilt rips at my insides like the magic I fight back. Father’ll never understand the extent to which I’m already punishing myself.
Skies.
My heads rings as I push my magic down. Deep into my bones, further than I ever knew it could go. Now it’s not just an ache in my chest or a winded breath that I fight, it’s a constant tremor shaking my hands. The burning hatred in Kaea’s eyes. The venom in her final word.
Maggot.
I hear it again and again. A hell I can’t escape. With that one foul word, Kaea might as well have declared me unfit to be king.
The slur disparages everything I’ve ever worked for. The duty I fight to fulfill. The destiny Kaea herself forced upon me.
Dammit. I close my eyes against the memories of her that day. It was Kaea who found me after I hurt Amari, tucked in the darkest corner of my room, clutching the bloodied blade.
When I threw the sword to the floor, Kaea placed it back into my hands.
You’re strong, Inan. She smiled. Do not let that strength scare you. You will need it all your life. You’ll need it to be king.
“Strength,” I scoff. It’s that very strength I need now. I only used magic to protect my kingdom. Kaea of all people should’ve understood that.
Sand whips at my face as I pass the clay walls of Ibeji. I force thoughts of Kaea away. She’s dead. I can’t change that.
The threat of magic still lives.
Kill her. In the dead of night, I’d expected the desert settlement to be asleep, but the streets of Ibeji swell with the remnants of some celebration. Low-ranking nobles and villagers pull generous swigs from their cups, each drunker than the last. At times they cry out mythic names, cheering for “the Lionaire,” “the Commander,” or “the Immortal.” None pay any mind to the disheveled soldier who rides in their midst, or waste a glance at the dried blood coating my skin. No one realizes that I am their prince.
I pull on my panthenaire’s reins, stopping before a villager who looks sober enough to remember his own name. I reach to pull out the wrinkled poster.
Then I catch the scent of the sea.
Though I’ve pushed every part of my curse down, it hits. Distinct, like an ocean breeze. It strikes me like the first drop of water in days. Suddenly it all comes together.
She’s here.
I yank on the reins and urge the panthenaire toward the scent.
Kill her. Kill magic.
Get my life back.
I slide to a stop in an alleyway lined with sand ahérés. The smell of the sea is overpowering now. She’s here. Hiding. Behind one of these doors.
My throat tightens as I dismount the panthenaire and unsheathe my sword. Its blade catches the moonlight.
I kick down the first door.
“What’re you doing?” a woman cries. Even with the haze slowing my thoughts, I can see it’s not her.
Not the girl.
Not what I need.
I breathe deep and search again, letting the sea-salt scent guide my way. It’s this door. This ahéré. The only thing standing in my way.
I kick down the clay door and run forward, teeth bared in a growl. I raise my sword to fight— No one is here.
Folded sheets and old clothes line the walls. All stained with blood. But the hut is empty, filled only with shed lionaire fur and the unmistakable scent of the girl.
“Hey!” a man shouts from outside. I don’t turn to look.
She was here. In this city. In this hut.
And now she’s gone.
“You can’t just—” A hand grips my shoulder.
In an instant, my own hands are around the man’s throat.
He lets out a yelp as I point my blade at his heart.
“Where is she?”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” he cries.
I draw my blade across his chest. A thin line of blood appears. His tears almost look silver in the moonlight.
Maggot, the girl whispers with Kaea’s voice. You’ll never be king. You can’t even catch me.
I tighten my grip on the man’s neck.
“Where is she?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
ZéLIE
AFTER THE SIX DAYS traveling through the hell of the desert, the lush forests of the Gombe River Valley are a welcome sight. The hilly land breathes with life, filled with trees so wide one trunk could fit an entire ahéré. We weave in and out of the towering giants, moonlight spilling through their leaves as we travel toward a winding river. Its quiet roar hits my ears like a song, soft like the crash of ocean waves.
“This is so soothing,” Amari purrs.
“I know. It’s almost like being back home.”
I close my eyes and take in the trickling sound, letting it fill me with the calm that came in the early mornings spent drawing the fishing net with Baba. That far out at sea, it was like we lived in our own world. It was the only time I truly felt safe. Not even the guards could touch us.
My muscles relax as I settle into the memory. I haven’t felt this still in weeks. With the sacred artifacts scattered and Inan’s sword at our backs, every second felt stolen, borrowed at best. We didn’t have what we needed for the ritual, and the chances of us getting the artifacts were far smaller than the chances of getting killed. But now, we have it all: the scroll, the sunstone, and the bone dagger are safe in our grasp. For once, I feel more than at ease. With six days until the centennial solstice, I finally feel that we can win.
“Do you think they’ll tell stories about this?” Amari asks. “About us?”
“They better.” Tzain snorts. “With all the dung we’ve had to wade through for this magic, we better get a whole festival.”
“Where would the story even start?” Amari chews on her bottom lip. “What would they call it? ‘The Magic Summoners’? ‘The Restorers of Magic and the Sacred Artifacts’?”
“That doesn’t have a ring to it.” I scrunch my nose and recline on Nailah’s furry back. “A title like that will never withstand the test of time.”
“What about something simpler?” Tzain offers. “‘The Princess and the Fisherman’?”
“That sounds like a love story.”