Children of Blood and Bone - Tomi Adeyemi Page 0,70

realization haunts me, challenging everything I believe. But the alternative is far worse. Duty before self. Orïsha first.

Taking a deep breath, I release every last restraint bit by bit. The ache in my chest decreases. With time, the sting of magic rises to my skin.

I hope the scent of the sea will hit me first, but like every day thus far, only the scent of timber and coal fills the narrow halls.

When I turn a new corner, the scent becomes overwhelming; a turquoise cloud hangs in the air. I pass my hand through it, allowing Lekan’s lingering consciousness to break in.

“Lekan, stop!”

Shrieks of laughter ring when I turn another corner. I press against the cool stone as the sêntaro’s memories overtake me. Phantom children pass, each squealing and painted and naked. Their joy bounces and echoes, sharp against the rock walls.

They’re not real, I remind myself, heart pounding against my chest. But even as I try to hold on to the lie, the mischievous glint in a child’s eyes champions the truth.

Torch in hand, I move on, rushing through the temple’s narrow halls. For a moment a whiff of sea salt hangs in the air, shrouded in the scent of coal. I turn the corner and another turquoise cloud appears. I race to it, teeth clenching as the new flash of Lekan’s consciousness takes hold. His timber scent becomes overwhelming. The air shifts. A soft voice sounds.

“But do you have a name?”

My body goes rigid. Amari’s timid form materializes before my eyes. My sister stares at me in apprehension, fear clouding her amber gaze. An acidic scent wafts into my nostrils. My nose wrinkles at the burn. “Everyone has a name, child.”

“Oh, I did not mean—”

“Lekan,” his voice booms in my head. “Olamilekan.”

I almost laugh when I see Amari; she looks ridiculous in commoner clothes. But even after all this, she’s the same girl I’ve always known: a web of emotions spinning behind a wall of silence.

My own memory breaks in—the brief look we shared across the broken bridge. I thought I’d be her savior; instead I was the cause of her pain.

“My wealth … is increased?”

Lekan’s memory of the maji girl emerges. She flickers to life in the burn of the torchlight.

“You remember our tongue?”

“Bits and pieces.” She nods. “My mother taught it to me when I was young.”

Finally. After all these days, the scent of the sea hits me like a gust of wind. Yet for the first time since our paths collided, the girl’s image doesn’t make me reach for my sword. Through Lekan’s gaze she is soft yet striking. Her dark skin seems to glow in the torchlight, highlighting the ghosts behind her silver eyes.

She is the one. Lekan’s thoughts ring in my mind. Whatever happens, she must survive.

“The one for what?” I wonder out loud. Only silence answers.

The images of the girl and Amari fade away, leaving me staring after where they used to be. Her scent disappears. Though I try to reach for the flash again, nothing happens. I’m forced to move on.

As my footsteps echo through the temple’s nooks and crannies, I feel the change in my body. Suppressing my curse has become a constant drain. A draw on every breath. Though the buzz of magic in my head still makes my stomach clench, my body revels in its new freedom. It’s as if I’ve spent years drowning underwater.

For a moment, I get to suck in air.

With deep breaths, I press on through the temple, traversing the halls with a new vigor. I chase after the ghosts of Lekan, searching for answers, hoping to find the girl again. When I turn another corner, the scent of his soul overwhelms me. I enter the domed room. Remnants of Lekan’s consciousness pulse stronger than they have all week. A turquoise cloud seems to encompass the entire space. Before I can brace myself, the room flashes in white.

Though I stand in the shadows, Lekan’s consciousness bathes the jagged walls in light. My jaw drops as I study the stunning mural of the gods. Each portrait floods with brilliant color.

“What is this?” I breathe, in awe of the magnificent sight. The paintings are so expressive they appear to come to life.

I lift my torch to the gods and goddesses, to the maji who dance at their feet. It’s imposing. Invading. It unravels everything I’ve been taught to think.

Growing up, Father led me to believe that those who clung to the myth of the gods were weak. They