Children of Blood and Bone - Tomi Adeyemi Page 0,123

chin trembles. He drops his gaze to the ground. “She … Zél looks like Mama.”

His words rip through my heart and warm it at the same time. Tzain never speaks of Mama like this. At times, I think he’s truly forgotten her. But as our eyes meet, I realize he’s just like me; he carries Mama like the air, a passing thought of her in every breath.

“Tzain—”

“The procession’s starting.” He turns to Amari. “You should finish up.”

And with that he’s gone, wringing my heart.

Amari slips her hand in mine. “I’ll talk to him.”

“Don’t.” I ignore the bitter taste on my tongue. “He’ll just get mad at you, too.” And no matter what you say, it’ll still be all my fault.

I stand and tug the sleeves of my dress, smoothing out a crease that doesn’t exist. After a lifetime of mistakes, there are so many things I regret. But this … this is the one thing I would give anything to take back.

With a heavy chest, I move for the exit, pretending my heart doesn’t ache. But before I can leave, Amari grabs my hand again, forcing me to stay.

“You still haven’t explained why you’re not sharing the scroll.” Amari stands, studying me. “There’s a whole valley of divîners out there waiting to become maji. Why aren’t we giving that to them?”

Amari’s words hit me like Mama Agba’s smacks. Like the sword Lekan took to the chest. They gave up everything to give me a chance like this, and yet all I can do is throw it away.

When I first thought about sharing the scroll tonight, I couldn’t stop imagining all the beauty and joy the new magic would spread. For once it would feel like it did before the Raid. The maji would reign again.

But now each smiling divîner twists into all the pain that could lie in their wake: Grounders ripping the earth under our feet; Reapers losing control and unleashing waves of death. I can’t risk their magic coming back. Not without rules. Leaders. Plans.

And if I can’t do this now, how will I be able to complete the ritual?

“Amari, it’s complicated. What if someone loses control? What if the wrong person touches the sunstone? We could awaken a Cancer and all die of a plague!”

“What are you talking about?” Amari grabs my shoulders. “Zélie, where is this coming from?”

“You don’t understand.…” I shake my head. “You didn’t see what Kwame could do. If Zu hadn’t stopped him … if stockers had that kind of power or a man like your father—” My throat goes dry at the memory of the blaze. “Imagine all the people he’d incinerate if he could conjure flames!”

It all pours out of me at once, the fears, the shames that have plagued me all day. “And Tzain—” I start, but I can’t even say the words. If I can’t even trust myself to keep my magic in check, how can I expect untested maji to fare?

“For so long I thought we needed magic to survive, but now … now I don’t know what to think. We have no plan, no way to make rules or establish control. If we just bring it back, innocent people could get hurt.”

Amari stays silent for a long moment, letting my words simmer. Her eyes soften and she pulls me by the hand.

“Amari—”

“Just come.”

She drags me outside the tent, and in an instant I’m blown away. While we were inside, the settlement came alive. The valley bursts with youthful energy, glowing red with soft lantern lights. Savory meat pies and sweet plantain pass under our noses as vibrant music and thundering drums reverberate through our skin. Everyone dances to the joyous music, buzzing with the excitement of the procession.

In the festive craze I spot Inan, more handsome than anyone has a right to be in a dark blue agbada with matching pants. When he spots me, his mouth falls open. My chest flutters under his gaze. I look away, desperate not to feel anything else. He approaches, but before he can catch up, Amari pulls me through the crowd.

“Come on,” she yells back at him. “We cannot miss it!”

We zip through the crowd while the celebrants thrust and shimmy by our sides. Though part of me wants to cry, I crane my neck to take in the crowd, craving their joy, their life.

The children of Orïsha dance like there’s no tomorrow, each step praising the gods. Their mouths glorify the rapture of liberation, their hearts sing the Yoruba