Children of Blood and Bone - Tomi Adeyemi Page 0,86

fingers touch the polished surface, I know nothing could have prepared me for this.

Like the awakening, touching the stone fills me with a force more powerful than anything I’ve ever known. The sunstone’s energy warms my blood, electrifying the ashê surging through each vein.

The crowd gasps in amazement as the stone’s light shines between the gaps in my fingers. Even the announcer backs up; as far as he knows, the stone was only a part of his hoax.

The surge continues to fill me, bubbling up like steam. I close my eyes and Sky Mother appears, more glorious than anything I’ve ever imagined.

Her silver eyes shine bright against her ebony skin, framed by the crystals dangling from her headdress. Tight white coils fall around her face like rain, twisting with the power radiating from her being.

Her spirit swells through me like lightning breaking through a thunder cloud. It’s more than the feeling of breathing.

It’s the very essence of life.

“4mí àwọn tí ó ti sùn—” I whisper the first few words of the incantation under my breath, relishing a rush like no other. With the sunstone’s power, I could call hundreds of animations from the dead. I could command an unstoppable army.

We could rip through the arena, take down the announcer, punish every spectator who cheered on the slaughter for sport. But that’s not what Sky Mother wants. It’s not what these spirits need.

One by one, the shrieking dead race through me, not to become animations, but to escape. It’s just like the cleanse Mama led every full moon. A final purge to help the spirits pass on to alâfia.

As the souls escape their trauma for the peace of the afterlife, the image of Sky Mother in my mind begins to fade. A goddess with skin like the night takes her place, clothed in waves of red, beautiful with her dark brown eyes.

My gods.

Oya shines in my mind like a torch against the dark. Unlike the chaos I glimpsed when I used blood magic, this vision holds an ethereal grace. She stands still, but it’s like the entire world shifts in her presence. A triumphant smile spreads across her lips—

“Ugh!” My eyes fly open. The sunstone glows so brightly in my hands, I have to look away. Though the initial rush of its touch has passed, I can feel its power humming in my bones. It’s like Sky Mother’s spirit has spread through my body, stitching every wound left by the blood magic’s destruction.

With time, the blinding light fades and Oya’s stunning image disappears from my head. I stumble backward, clutching the stone as I fall into Tzain’s arms.

“What just happened?” Tzain whispers, eyes wide with amazement. “The air … It felt like the whole arena was shaking.”

I press the sunstone to my chest, trying to hold on to the images that danced in my mind. The light that glinted off the crystals in Sky Mother’s headdress; the way Oya’s skin shimmered, dark and enchanting like the queen of the night.

This is how Mama must’ve felt.… The realization makes my heart swell. This is why she loved her magic.

This is how it feels to be alive.

“The Immortal!” a man from the crowd shouts, and I blink, reorienting myself to the arena. The cry travels throughout the stands until everyone joins in. They chant the false title, rabid in their praise.

“Are you alright?” Amari asks.

“More than alright,” I reply with a smile.

We have the stone, the scroll, the dagger.

And now we actually have a chance.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

AMARI

IT TAKES HOURS for the celebrations to die down, though I don’t understand how anyone can feel like celebrating. Such a tremendous waste of life. One stolen by my own hand.

Tzain tries to guard us from the masses, but even he can’t overpower the force of the spectators as we pour out of the arena. They parade us through the streets of Ibeji, creating titles to commemorate the occasion. Zélie becomes “the Immortal,” while Tzain reigns as “the Commander.” When I pass, the spectators shout the most ridiculous name of all. I cringe as it rings once more: “The Lionaire!”

I want to yell of their mistake; replace “lionaire” with a more fitting title like “coward” or “impostor.” There is no ferocity behind my eyes, no vicious beast hidden inside. The name is nothing more than a lie, but fueled by liquor, not one of the spectators cares. They just need something to shout. Something to praise.

When we near our rented ahéré, Tzain finally breaks us free. With his