Children of Blood and Bone - Tomi Adeyemi Page 0,52

suede robe. White swirls and patterns dot every inch of his dark skin.

Zélie sucks in a quick breath.

“A sêntaro…”

“A what?” I whisper.

“Who’s there?” Tzain growls, straining against the ropes to see. He bares his teeth in defiance.

The mysterious man doesn’t even blink.

He leans against a staff carved from stone, gripping the face sculpted into its handle. An undeniable fury burns behind his golden eyes. I begin to think he won’t move at all when suddenly he lurches forward; Zélie jumps as the man grasps a lock of her hair.

“Straight,” he mutters with a hint of disappointment. “Why?”

“Get your hands off her!” Tzain yells.

Though Tzain poses no threat, the man steps back, releasing Zélie’s hair. He pulls the scroll from the band of his robe, and his golden eyes narrow.

“This was taken from my people years ago.” His accent hums thick and heavy, different than the Orïshan dialects I’ve heard. I stare at the unraveled scroll in his hand, recognizing a few symbols on the parchment inked onto his skin. “They stole it from us.” His voice takes a violent turn. “I will not let you do the same.”

“You are mistaken,” I blurt out. “We are not here to steal!”

“Exactly what they said before.” He wrinkles his nose at me. “You stink of their blood.”

I draw back, shrinking into Tzain’s shoulders. The man looks at me with a hatred I cannot deflect.

“She’s not lying,” Zélie rushes out, voice powered with conviction. “We’re different. The gods sent us. A Seer guided us here!”

Mama Agba … I think back to her parting words. We’re meant to do this, I want to cry out. But how can I argue that when right now all I wish was that I had never laid eyes on this scroll?

The sêntaro’s nostrils flare. He raises his arms and the air thrums with the threat of magic. He’s going to kill us.… My heart thrashes against my chest. This is where our journey ends.

Father’s old warnings ring in my head: Against magic, we don’t stand a chance. Against magic, we are defenseless.

Against magic, we die—

“I saw what this used to be,” Zélie chokes out. “I saw the towers and temples, the sêntaros who looked like you.”

The man brings his arms down slowly, and I know Zélie’s caught his attention. She swallows hard. I pray to the skies she finds the right words.

“I know they came to your home, destroyed everything you loved. They did the same thing to me. To thousands of people who look like me.” Her voice cracks and I close my eyes. Behind me, Tzain goes rigid. My throat dries with the realization of who Zélie’s talking about. I was right.

Father destroyed this place.

I think back to all the rubble, the cracked skulls, the hard look in Zélie’s gaze. The peaceful village of Ilorin up in flames. The tears streaming down Tzain’s face.

The cascade of light that escaped Binta’s palm fills my mind, more beautiful than the sun’s own rays. Where would I be now if Father had allowed Binta to live? What would all of Orïsha look like if he had just given these maji a chance?

Shame beats down on me, making me want to crawl into myself as the man raises his arms again.

I squeeze my eyes shut in preparation for pain—

The ropes vanish into thin air; our belongings reappear by our sides.

I’m still stunned by the magic when the mysterious man walks away, leaning on his staff. As we rise, he utters a simple command.

“Follow me.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

ZÉLIE

WATER DRIPS DOWN the carved walls as we travel deep into the heart of the mountain, accompanied by the rhythmic thud of our guide’s staff. Golden candles line the jagged stone, illuminating the darkness with their soft blaze. As my feet pass over the cool rock, I stare at the man, still unable to believe a sêntaro stands before my very eyes. Before the Raid, only the leaders of the ten maji clans ever got to meet them in this life. Mama Agba’ll fall out of her seat when I tell her about this.

I nudge Amari aside to step closer to the sêntaro, inspecting the marks inked onto the man’s neck. They ripple along his skin with every step, dancing with the shadows of the flame.

“They are called sênbaría,” the man answers, somehow sensing my gaze. “The language of the gods, as old as time itself.”

So that’s what it looks like. I lean forward to study the symbols that would one day become the spoken language of