Children of Blood and Bone - Tomi Adeyemi Page 0,133

throat when she nuzzles my hand back.

“I think they took her,” I say as delicately as I can. “It’s what my father would’ve ordered. She’s far too important to kill.”

I hope this will give him hope, but Tzain’s expression stays even. He stares at the bodies on the ground, his breaths escaping in short spurts.

“I promised.” His voice cracks. “When Mama died, I promised. I said I’d always be there. I swore I’d take care of her.”

“You have, Tzain. You always have.”

But he’s lost in his own world, a place far beyond where my words could go.

“And Baba…” His body seizes; he clenches his fists to try and stop the trembling. “I told Baba. I—I told him I would…”

I lay my hand on Tzain’s back, but he retreats from my touch. It’s as if every tear Tzain has ever fought back comes pouring out of his body at once. He crumples into the dirt, pressing clenched fists against his head so hard I worry he’ll get hurt. His heartache bleeds raw, breaking through his every wall.

“You cannot give up.” I drop to Tzain’s side to wipe away his tears. Despite everything, he has always stayed strong. But this loss is too much to bear. “We still have the scroll, the stone, and the dagger. Until my father has retrieved the artifacts, his men will keep her alive. We can save her and get to the temple. We can still make this right.”

“She won’t talk,” Tzain whispers. “Not if we’re at risk. They’ll torture her.” His hands clench the earth. “She’s as good as dead.”

“Zélie is stronger than anyone I know. She’ll survive. She’ll fight.”

But Tzain shakes his head, unconvinced no matter how hard I try. “She’ll die.” He squeezes his eyes shut. “She’ll leave me all alone.”

Nailah’s whimpers grow as she nuzzles Tzain, attempting to lick his tears away. The sight crushes everything inside me, destroying the last fragments that were whole. It’s like watching the magical light explode from Binta’s palms only for Father’s sword to rip through her chest. How many families has Father left like this, broken beyond repair, mourning their dead? How many times will I allow him to do it again?

I stand on the hill and turn toward the town of Gombe, a speck of pluming smoke before the Olasimbo Range. The map in Father’s war room reappears inside my mind, crystallizing the Xs that marked his military bases. As the layout forms in my head, a new plan falls into place. I cannot let Tzain endure this loss.

I will not let Father win.

“We need to move,” I say.

“Amari—”

“Now.”

Tzain lifts his head from the ground. I reach down and grab his hand, wiping the dirt sticking to the tearstains on his face.

“There is a guard fortress outside Gombe. That has to be where they took her. If we can get in, we can get her out.”

We can bring Father’s tyranny to an end.

Tzain stares at me with broken eyes, fighting the spark of hope that tries to light. “How would we get in?”

I turn back to the silhouette of Gombe against the night sky. “I have a plan.”

“Will it work?”

I nod, for once not fearing the fight. I was the Lionaire once.

For Tzain and Zélie, I shall be her again.

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

ZÉLIE

MAJACITE CUFFS SCALD my skin, searing straight through my wrists and ankles. The black chains suspend me above the floor of my jail cell, making it impossible for me to cast an incantation. Sweat drips down my skin as another warm blast funnels through the vent. The heat must be intentional.

Heat will make the coming pain worse.

Live … Lekan’s words echo, a taunt as I face my death.

I told him it was a mistake. I told him, I told everyone. I begged them not to waste this chance on me; now look what I’ve done. I laughed and spun and kissed as the king prepared our slaughter.

Metal-soled boots clank outside. I flinch as they near my door. It would be easier if my cell had bars. At least then I could prepare myself. But they’ve locked me in an iron box. Only two burning torches keep me from being left in the dark.

Whatever they plan to do, they intend to hide it even from the guards.

I swallow hard, a feeble attempt to quench my dry mouth. You’ve done this before, I remind myself, more times than you can count. For a moment I ponder whether Mama Agba’s constant lashings weren’t to punish, but to prepare.