which could also mean the effort is going nowhere. But instead of finishing the phrase, which ended on three high notes, the drum made a low bong, followed by a throaty gun godo. I frowned, trying the phrase again. This time, all the notes came out wrong. “Tuning must be damaged,” I said.
But as I continued to play, Kirah grew very still. My mouth went dry. No matter how many phrases I tried, the drum made the same sequence of pitches, over and over. Bong, gun, godo godo gun.
I released the gourd, letting it tumble to the grass as a chill rushed up my spine.
Kirah croaked, “You don’t think …”
My palms were sweating. “I think it’s talking to us. It’s happened before. Aiyetoro’s drum saved me in the Bush.”
I racked my brain for the drum phrases Mbali had taught us as children. The first bong-gun matched the pitches for eternity, which could also mean always. The last half, godo-godo-gun, sounded like the all clear, come now phrase miners used in quarries. “Always come here?” I guessed.
Kirah shook her head. “It’s the wrong pitch for a command. And the note goes down at the end, so it’s talking about the past. Not come here … more like, I was here. I was inside.”
I frowned. In drum language, I could just as easily be she, or they or it. “Always … it … was inside,” I said. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
After a pause, I took up the drum again, half-hoping our ears had been playing tricks on us. But again the drum intoned: It was always inside. It was always inside. Bong, gun, godo godo gun.
“We should stop,” I said, glancing down at the garden stage. “We’ll distract the warriors.”
We sat on the terrace farthest from the stage, shielded from view by ferns that needed trimming. From our hiding spot, I could still make out the scene below.
During festivals, griots performed in the Theatre Garden, declaiming praise poems about the emperor and his council. This afternoon, however, the lower terraces were crowded with Imperial Guard warriors. Nearly naked and glistening with sweat, they drilled in groups as Sanjeet barked orders from the stage.
“Hyena Cohort, shields up!” His voice was hoarse and joyless. “Hold. Shoulders square. Hold your position, I said. Lion Cohort, charge. Again. Again.”
Repeatedly, a group rushed forward as the other stood its ground. A wall of shields braced against the onslaught of shoulders and spears. The men and women were training, I realized, to contain riots.
Anointed Honor Wagundu, Olugbade’s High Lord General, observed the drills with stern approval. Then a gangly young man rushed onstage, bobbing apologies for being late.
Kirah stiffened. “Tar—”
I dove behind the terrace’s hanging ferns, blocking my view. My vision blurred and reddened, but before kill, kill began to pulse through my veins, I fumbled with the neckline of my wrapper and seized the sunstone.
The murderous lust still burned in my throat, but my mind cleared. “Hold my arms,” I whispered to Kirah. “I need to see how bad it gets.” She complied, and I steeled my jaw and peered through the curtain of ferns.
It was the first time I had seen Dayo since leaving him in the keep, still bleeding from my knife wound.
I drank him in, blessing his legs for standing, his side for being whole. From this distance, I couldn’t tell if his torso had a scar. But he looked healthy, albeit awkward, shifting from foot to foot as he nodded at the warriors. My heart brimmed with sympathy. Dayo had always shrunk from violence. But he was required to watch the Imperial Guard with Sanjeet and help design their drills. His face looked wan and sleepless. After a day of studying with his council, he probably spent his nights helping Olugbade prepare for the Treaty Renewal, which was two days after my First Ruling.
“Get strong,” I murmured, gripping the sunstone until it cut into my palm. “Stay safe from me.”
Kirah helped me stand and we hurried away, leaving our confused handmaidens to fetch the prayer mats and scurry after. “He misses you,” Kirah whispered, threading my arm firmly through hers until the Theatre Garden was out of sight. “He barely sleeps unless I sing, or Thérèse makes one of her teas. If you won’t see him, you could at least write.”
I had refused the notes Dayo sent daily to my tower, worried they would weaken my resolve to stay away. “Studying is better than writing,” I said. “If I find a purpose