Children of Blood and Bone - Tomi Adeyemi Page 0,74
release a shuddering breath and sink to my knees, running my hand through the new waves in my hair. Had I been a maji before the Raid, our clan scholar would’ve taught me incantations when I was young. She would’ve known exactly what to do to coax my ashê out now.
“Oya, please.” I look back at the scroll, trying to discover what I’ve missed. The incantation is supposed to create an animation, a spirit of the dead reincarnated into the physical materials around me. If all goes well, an animation should form out of the dunes. But it’s been hours and I haven’t even managed to move one grain of sand.
As I run my hands over the script, the new scar across my palm makes me pause. I hold it up to the moonlight, inspecting where Lekan sliced me with the bone dagger. The memory of my blood glowing with white light still fills my mind. The surge of ashê was exhilarating, a blinding rush only blood magic can bring.
If I used that now …
My heartbeat quickens with the thought. The incantation would flow with ease. I’d have no problem getting a legion of animations to rise from the ground.
But before the thought can tempt me further, Mama’s raspy voice comes to mind. Her sunken skin. Her shallow breaths. The trio of Healers who toiled endlessly at her side.
Promise me, she whispered, squeezing my hand after she used blood magic to bring Tzain back to life. Swear it now. No matter what, you can never do it. If you do, you won’t survive.
I promised her. Swore it on the ashê that would one day run through my veins. I can’t break my vow because I’m not strong enough to perform an incantation.
But if this doesn’t work, what choice will I have? This shouldn’t be so hard. Just hours ago ashê vibrated in my blood. Now I can’t feel a damn thing.
Wait a minute.
I stare at my hands, recalling the young divîner who bled to death before my eyes. It wasn’t just his spirit I couldn’t feel. I haven’t sensed the pull of the dead in hours.
I turn to the scroll again, searching for a hidden meaning behind its words. It’s like my magic bled dry in the arena. I haven’t felt anything since—
Minoli.
The girl in white. Those large, empty eyes.
So much happened at once, I didn’t realize the girl’s spirit had passed on her name.
In death, the other spirits of the arena passed on their pain. Their hate. In their memories I felt the sting of the guards’ whips. I tasted the salt of fallen tears on my tongue. But Minoli brought me to the dirt fields of Minna, where she and her sharp-nosed siblings worked the land for autumn’s corn crop. Though the sun shone brutal and the work was hard, each moment passed with a smile, with song.
“Ìwọ ni ìgb3kànlé mi òrìshà, ìwọ ni mó gbójú lé.”
I sing the words aloud, my voice carrying in the wind. As I repeat the lyrics a soulful voice sings in my head.
It’s there that Minoli spent her final moments, forgoing the brutal arena for the peaceful farm in her mind. It’s there she chose to live.
There she chose to die.
“Minoli,” I whisper the incantation into the depths of my mind. “4mí àwọn tí ó ti sùn, mo ké pè yín ní òní. Ẹ padà jáde nínú 1yà mím0 yín. Súre fún mi p1lú 1bùn iyebíye rẹ.”
All of a sudden sand swirls before me. I flinch backward as the mist-like vortex rises and twirls in waves before settling back to the ground.
“Minoli?” I breathe the question aloud, though deep down I know the answer. When I close my eyes, the scent of earth fills my nose. Smooth corn seeds slip through my fingers. Her memory shines: vivid, vibrant, alive. If it resides in me with such force, I have to believe she does, too.
I repeat the incantation with conviction, stretching my hands out toward the sand. “Minoli, I call on you today. Come forth in this new element, bless me with your precious li—”
White sênbaría leap from the parchment and rush up my skin. The symbols dance along my arms, infusing my body with new power. It hits my lungs like the first breath of air after diving underwater. As sand swirls around me with the force of a storm, a grainy figure emerges from the whirlwind, animated with the rough carvings of life.