Children of Blood and Bone - Tomi Adeyemi Page 0,167
in me shrivels.
“It doesn’t matter.” I speak so quickly it all blurs together. “I was infected, but it’s going away. I did it. I killed magic.”
Father kicks the mercenary over with his feet. He claws at the turquoise crystals left in the assailant’s hair. He stares down at his hands, and his face twists. I can see him putting the pieces together. These are the same crystals he held in the fortress.
The same crystals they plucked from Kaea’s corpse.
Father’s eyes flash. He grips the hilt of his sword.
“Wait—”
His blade rips into me.
Father’s eyes pound red with rage. My hands clutch at the sword, but I’m too weak to pull it out.
“Father, I’m sorry—”
He pulls out his sword with a mangled scream. I drop to my knees, clutching the gushing wound.
Warm blood spills from the cracks between my fingers.
Father brings his sword up again, this time for the final blow. There’s no love in his eyes. No hint of the pride that flashed just moments ago.
The same fear and hatred that burned in Kaea’s final gaze stains Father’s now. I’m a stranger to him. No. I’ve given up everything to be his son.
“Father, please,” I wheeze. I beg for his forgiveness as I pant. My vision blacks out—for a moment, all of Zélie’s pain leaks in. The destroyed fate of the maji. The death of her father. Her heartache mixes with my own; a sickening reminder of everything I’ve lost.
I’ve sacrificed too much for it to end this way. All the pain I caused in his name.
I reach out to him with a shaking hand. A hand covered in my own blood. It can’t be for nothing.
It can’t end like this.
Before I touch him, Father crushes my hand under the heel of his metal boot. His dark eyes narrow.
“You are no son of mine.”
CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO
AMARI
THOUGH A DOZEN MEN barrel forward, they are no match for the vengeance of my blade. By my side, Tzain tears through the guards with his ax, fighting though tears stream down his face. It is through his pain I fight, through his, through Binta’s, through every poor soul ended by Father’s life. All this blood and death—an endless stain on every breath.
I rip through the guards with my blade, striking first with a debilitating attack.
A guard tumbles when I slice through a tendon.
Another falls as I slash at his thigh.
Fight, Amari. I spur myself onward, forcing myself to see past the Orïshan seals that adorn their armor, past the faces that fall from my sword. These soldiers are sworn to protect Orïsha and its crown, yet they betray their sacred vow. They come for my head.
One swings a sword at me. I duck and it plunges into his fellow soldier instead. I prepare to strike the next when—
“No!”
Zélie’s cries from across the temple force me to pivot just as my blade pierces another soldier. She falls on her knees, shaking, ash spilling between her fingers. I run to help her but skid to a halt as Father raises his sword and plunges it into the stomach of one of his own soldiers. As the boy falls to his knees, his helmet slips off. Not a soldier.
Inan.
Everything inside me runs cold as blood spills from my brother’s lips.
It is a sword through my own gut. It is my blood that spills. The brother who carried me through the palace halls on his shoulders. The brother who snuck me honey cakes from the kitchen when Mother took my dessert away.
The brother Father forced me to fight.
The brother who cut me in the back.
It can’t be. I blink, waiting for the image to correct itself. Not him …
Not the child who gave up everything to be everything Father wanted.
But as I watch, Father raises his sword again, prepared to remove Inan’s head. He’s taking him away.
Just like he took Binta.
“Father, please,” Inan cries, reaching out with his dying breath.
But Father steps on his hand and crushes it. “You are no son of mine.”
“Father!”
My voice does not sound like my own as I dash forward. When Father spots me, his rage explodes.
“The gods have cursed me with you children,” he spits. “Traitors who stink of my blood.”
“Your blood is the true curse,” I snap back. “It ends today.”
CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE
AMARI
FATHER’S FIRST CHILDREN were loved, but they were frail and weak. When Inan and I were born, Father would not allow us to be the same.
For years he forced Inan and me to trade blows and bruises under his watchful eye, never