Children of Blood and Bone - Tomi Adeyemi Page 0,103

rapists, and thieves. The only difference between them and criminals is the uniforms they wear.”

She pulls herself to her feet and palms the tears from her eyes.

“Fool yourself all you want, little prince, but don’t feign innocence with me. I won’t let your father get away with what he’s done. I won’t let your ignorance silence my pain.”

With that, she disappears. Her quiet footsteps fade into the silence.

In that moment I realize how wrong I’ve truly been.

It doesn’t matter if I’m in her head.

I’ll never understand all her pain.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

AMARI

THERE WAS A ROOM in the palace that Father disappeared into. Every day, always at half past noon.

He would rise from his throne and walk through the main hall, Admiral Ebele on one side, Commander Kaea on the other.

Before the Raid, I would trail behind them, curiosity driving my small legs. Every day I watched them disappear down those cold marble stairs until the day I decided to follow them instead.

My legs were so short I had to grip the alabaster railing, scooting from step to step. I imagined a room full of moín moín pies and lemon cakes, the shining toys that might lie in wait. But as I neared the bottom, I didn’t smell the sweet tang of citrus and sugar. I didn’t hear joy or laughter. The cold cellar only held shouts.

Only a young boy’s screams.

A loud crack rang through the air—Kaea’s fist against a servant’s face. Kaea wore sharp rings on her fingers; when she smacked the servant, the rings cut into his skin.

I must have screamed when I saw the bloodied boy. I must have screamed, because they all turned to stare. I didn’t know the servant’s name. I just knew he was the one who made my bed.

Father picked me up and rested me against his hip, carrying me out without a passing glance. “Prisons are no place for a princess,” he said that day.

Another crack rang as Kaea’s fist made contact again.

As the sun sets and the long day passes into night, I think back to Father’s words. I have to wonder what he would say if he could see me now. Perhaps he would string me up himself.

I ignore the strain in my shoulders and pull at my restraints, wriggling though the rope burns my wrists red and raw. After dragging the rope back and forth across a jagged piece of bark all day, the fibers are fraying, but I need to wear it down further to break free.

“Skies,” I sigh as sweat gathers above my lips. For the tenth time, I search the tent for something sharper. Yet the only thing in here besides Tzain is dirt.

The one time I got a glimpse of the outside was when Folake entered to bring us water. Behind the tent flap, I caught Kwame glowering. The bone dagger still sat in his hand.

A shudder runs through me and I close my eyes, forcing a deep breath. I can’t get the image of the dagger pressed against Tzain’s neck out of my head. If it weren’t for the faint whistle of his breathing, I wouldn’t be sure he was still alive. Folake cleaned and bandaged his wound, but he has yet to do so much as stir.

I need to get him out of here before they come back. I need to find a way to save him, the dagger, and the scroll. A full night has already passed. We only have five days left until the centennial solstice.

The tent flap swings open and I pause my movements. Zu has finally returned. Today she sports a black kaftan, sweet with the green and yellow beads stitched into its hem. Instead of the militant child who entered last night, she looks more like the young girl she is.

“Who are you?” I ask. “What is it you want?”

She barely spares me a glance. Instead she kneels by Tzain’s side.

“Please.” My heartbeat quickens in my chest. “He’s innocent. Don’t hurt him.”

Zu closes her eyes and lays her small hands over the bandages on Tzain’s head. My breath hitches when a soft orange light radiates from her palm. Though weak at first, it glows, brighter and brighter, creating a warmth that fills the tent. The light from her hands grows until it encompasses all of Tzain’s head.

Magic …

The same awe that struck when light escaped Binta’s hands hits me now. Like Binta, Zu’s magic is beautiful, so different from the horrors of what Father taught me to believe. But how is