Children of Blood and Bone - Tomi Adeyemi Page 0,13
me of Binta’s summoning. If the roles were reversed, Binta would not have wasted a heartbeat.
Oh skies, I curse, pushing myself past the slender vases of red impala lilies in the foyer, past the portraits of my royal ancestors glaring at me from generations past. Please be okay.
I hold on to the silent hope as I round the corner into the main hall. The air is thick with heat, making it even harder to breathe. My heart beats in my throat as I slow before Father’s throne room, the room I fear most. The first place where he ordered Inan and me to spar.
The home of so many of my scars.
I grip the velvet curtains hanging outside the black oak doors. My sweat-covered hands soak into the rich fabric. He may not listen. I gave up the bangle. Father could punish me in Binta’s stead.
A pulse of fear travels down my spine, numbing my fingers. Do this for Binta.
“For Binta,” I whisper out loud.
My oldest friend. My only friend.
I have to keep her safe.
I take a deep breath and wipe the sweat from my hands, savoring my last few seconds. My fingers barely graze the handle glistening behind the curtains when—
“What?”
Father’s voice booms through the closed doors like the roar of a wild gorillion. My heart pounds against my chest. I have heard Father yell before but never like this. Am I too late?
The door swings open and I jump back as a stream of guards and fanners sprint from the throne room like thieves on the run. They grab the remaining nobles and servants milling around the main hall and pull them away, leaving me all alone.
Go. My legs throb as the door starts to close. Father’s mood has already soured. But I have to find Binta. For all I know, she could be trapped inside.
I can’t let her face Father alone.
I lunge forward, catching the door just before it slips shut. I wedge my fingers into the frame and pull the door open a crack, peering through the slit.
“What do you mean?” Father shouts again, spittle flying onto his beard. Veins pulse under his mahogany skin, stark against the red agbada he wears.
I pull the door open a hair wider, fearing I’ll catch sight of Binta’s slender frame. But instead I see Admiral Ebele cowering before the throne. Beads of sweat gather on his bald head as he stares at everything except Father. Beside him, Commander Kaea stands tall, her hair falling down her neck in a tight, glossy braid.
“The artifacts washed ashore in Warri, a small village off the coast of the sea,” Kaea explains. “Their proximity activated latent abilities in a few of the local divîners.”
“Latent abilities?”
Kaea swallows; her muscles tense against her light brown skin. She gives Admiral Ebele a chance to talk, but the admiral stays silent.
“The divîners transformed.” Kaea winces, as if the words cause her physical pain. “The artifacts awakened their powers, Your Highness. The divîners became maji.”
I gasp but quickly cover my mouth to stifle the sound. Maji? In Orïsha? After all this time?
A dull spike of fear travels up my chest, making each breath tight as I open the door a hair wider to get a better view. That cannot be, I wait for Father to say. That would be—
“Impossible,” he finally says, voice barely above a whisper. He grips the pommel of his black majacite blade so hard his knuckles crack.
“I am afraid not, Your Highness. I saw it with my own eyes. Their magic was weak, but it was there.”
Skies … What does this mean for us? What shall happen to the monarchy? Are the maji already planning an attack? Will we have any chance of fighting back?
Memories of Father before the Raid play in my head, a paranoid man with grinding teeth and forever graying hair. The man who ordered Inan and me into the palace cellar, placing swords in our hands though we were far too young and weak to lift them.
The maji will come for you, he warned. The same words every time he forced us to spar. When they do, you must be prepared.
The memory of pain stabs my back as I study Father’s blanched face. His silence is more intimidating than his rage. Admiral Ebele all but trembles.
“Where are the maji now?”
“Disposed of.”
My stomach clenches and I hold my breath, forcing the luncheon’s tea back down. Those maji are dead. Slaughtered.