Children of Blood and Bone - Tomi Adeyemi Page 0,24

places to be? Go to the market, flush out the slums. Make sure this never happens again!”

Soldiers, nobles, and servants clear the hall at once, tripping over one another in their haste. When they’re gone, Mother grabs my wrist and yanks me toward the throne room doors.

“No.” I’m not prepared for Father’s wrath. “I don’t have any news—”

“And you never will again.”

Mother throws open the large wooden doors and drags me across the tiled floors.

“Leave the room!” she barks. Like mice, the guards and fanners scatter.

The only soul brave enough to defy Mother is Kaea. She looks unusually handsome in the black chest plate of her new uniform.

Admiral? I stare at the decorated seal denoting her elevated rank. There’s no mistaking it. She’s moved up. But what about Ebele?

The harsh smell of spearmint stings my nose as we near the throne. I scan the tiles and sure enough, two distinct patches of fresh blood stain the cracks.

Skies.

Father’s already in a mood.

“That includes you, Admiral,” Mother hisses, folding her arms across her chest.

Kaea’s face tightens; it always does when Mother addresses her with ice. Kaea glances at Father. He gives a reluctant nod.

“My apologies.” Kaea bows to Mother, though there is no apology in her tone. Mother trails Kaea with a scowl until she exits the throne room doors.

“Look.” Mother pulls me forward. “Look what the maggots did to your son. This is what happens when you send him to fight. This is what happens when he plays captain of the guard!”

“I had them cornered!” I yank my wrist out of Mother’s hand. “Twice. It’s not my fault my men broke position after the explosion.”

“I am not saying it’s your fault, my love.” Mother tries to grab my cheek, but I slip away from her rose-scented hand. “Just that it’s too dangerous for a prince.”

“Mother, it’s because I am a prince that I must do this,” I press. “It’s my responsibility to keep Orïsha safe. I can’t protect my people if I hide inside the palace walls.”

Mother waves me away, shooing my words as she turns back to Father. “He’s the next king of Orïsha, for skies’ sake. Gamble with some peasant’s life!”

Father’s expression remains blank. As if he’s blocked Mother out. He stares out the window as she speaks, twisting the royal ruby that sits on his finger.

Beside him, his majacite blade stands tall in its golden stand, the snow leopanaire carved into its pommel gleaming with Father’s reflection. The black sword is like an extension of Father, never more than an arm’s length from his side.

“You said ‘them,’” Father finally says. “Who was the fugitive with? When she left the palace, she was alone.”

I swallow hard, forcing myself to meet Father’s eyes as I step forward. “We don’t know her identity at the moment. We only know she isn’t native to Lagos.” But I know she has eyes like the moon. I know the faded scar that nicks her eyebrow.

Once again the divîner’s face floods my mind with such clarity it could be a painting hung on the palace wall. Her full lips part in a snarl; her muscles tense against her lean build.

Another prick of energy pulses under my skin. Sharp and burning, like liquor over an open wound. The searing throbs beneath my scalp. I shudder, forcing the vile sensation away.

“The royal physician is reviving the checkpoint guards,” I continue. “When they come to, I will have her identity and origin. I can still track them down—”

“You will do no such thing,” Mother says. “You could have died today! And then what? Leave Amari to take the throne?” She walks forward—fists clenched, headdress high. “You must stop this, Saran. Stop it this instant!”

I jerk my head back. She called Father by his name.…

Her voice echoes against the red walls of the throne room. A harsh reminder of her gall.

We both look at Father. I can’t fathom what he’ll do. I begin to think Mother’s actually won for once when he speaks.

“Leave.”

Mother’s eyes widen. The confidence she wore so proudly drips off her face like sweat. “My king—”

“Now,” he orders, even in his tone. “I require a private word with my son.”

Mother grabs my wrist. We both know how Father’s private words usually end. But she can’t interfere.

Not unless she wants to face Father’s wrath herself.

Mother bows, stiff as a sword. She catches my gaze as she turns to leave. New tears streak the powder caked onto her cheeks.

For a long while Mother’s departing footsteps are the only