Enoba’s rule was long, and soon peaceful. His Ray caused him to outlive Wuraola, and though he mourned her, his pride scrubbed her story from the earth.
Under the Treaty, monsters from the Underworld disappeared from the continent. Redemptor children were born in every realm. But after years of parents wailing in the streets, weeping as their children were taken from them, the Arit people began to resent their emperor.
“Why should we sacrifice our children for peace,” the Arit people began to rumble, “when the emperor need not sacrifice his own?” For Enoba had made the abiku promise that Oluwani children would never be born as Redemptors.
Enoba feared a rebellion. Hoping to mollify his subjects, he returned to the ehru and demanded his last wish: a way to ensure that only children from Songland, and never children from Aritsar, would be selected as Redemptors. Reluctantly, the ehru bestowed a new power on Enoba’s Ray: the ability to make a sacred council, and unite eleven souls to his own.
The Treaty, the ehru explained, was sealed by blood—one drop from every ruler. He compared it to drawing straws in a game: So long as the blood was equal, no realm drew the short straw. The Redemptor curse favored no realm; all sacrificed equally. But now that Enoba had united eleven souls to his own, his blood held the power of twelve realms. He had added, so to speak, longer straws to the game. When the continent gathered again to renew the Treaty, Enoba’s blood supplemented the power of the twelve Arit rulers, stacking the odds against Songland. Ever after, no Redemptors were born in Aritsar.
Suspecting foul play, the Songlanders rebelled, refusing at first to give up their children. But the abiku retaliated, ravaging the land with monsters and plagues until, with rage and grief, Songland submitted. The children were sent—three hundred each year.
Enoba’s secret died with him. But every one hundred years, his curse on Songland is restored at the Treaty Renewal, when Enoba’s descendants spill their blood into Enoba’s shield.
Now the voice showed me another scene: not the past, but a premonition. I saw the Imperial Hall, lavishly decorated for the renewal ceremony. I saw Enoba’s shield being carried up to the dais. I saw Dayo in emperor’s regalia, wearing his dead father’s sun crown, and surrounded by a semicircle of rulers. I felt Woo In’s haunted gaze, heard Ye Eun’s screaming parents, and saw thousands of children thrown into a cold, yawning pit from which they would never return—as Dayo leaned over the shield, slit his hand, and let his blood fall.
“No,” I screamed. “No!”
What story do you live for, Heir of Wuraola?
Then the scene faded to white.
Woo In’s face came into focus, inches above mine. “You’re awake,” he sighed, shoulders sagging. “You were barely breathing. I feared …”
He trailed off, helping me sit up, and his hands felt hot against my clammy skin. My vision was uneven, as though part of me still floated above my body. The glyphs had disappeared from my skin, returning to the wall. But nothing looked quite the same—least of all Woo In, whose geometrically patterned features filled me with fresh horror.
“You’re cursed,” I croaked. “You, Ye Eun, the Redemptors—the Kunleos cursed all of you.”
Woo In grew still as death. “I knew it,” he whispered. The world spun as he helped me up. “You can tell me more when we get back to the refuge. Let’s go—the mountain is draining our energy. Try not to nod off. If you sleep while we’re still in range of the cave, it will be hard to wake up.”
We returned to the house in the Redemptor village, collapsing on the heated schoolroom floor. After Ye Eun restored our strength with steamed fish and broth, I told Woo In everything. His back grew more rigid with every word, and when I finished he rasped, “She knew.” He was white with fever, tears of rage pooling. “The whole time,” he yelled, “The Lady knew that the Treaty would curse Songland, and she was still going to renew it.”
Children scattered from the schoolroom in fright. I pressed a damp cloth to Woo In’s brow, and then to my own, remembering lines from my mother’s journal. I will pay the price of peace, as my ancestors have before me.
I frowned in disbelief, then sat up straight. “Wait. Maybe Mother was trying to right the scale. She anointed you, didn’t she? The Storyteller’s memory