gourd in the crook of her arm. The drum’s pitch had risen and fallen with Mbali’s voice. My hips swayed with the pulsing beat as I repeated the story.
“There is a farmer’s son with a mango tree, aheh. He keeps it in a pot by his sleeping mat. So frail, his tree! He whispers to it day and night. He enjoys the perfume of its branches, ashe, ashe. Most children keep dogs, goats, chickens. But not our farmer’s son. For he fears any beast that can bark, aroo, or bite, gnatche.
“His tree has no mouth. His tree has no claws. His tree depends on him, only him, for water, wishe, for light, ra.
“‘Poor tree,’ he murmurs. See him caress the branches. ‘You are too small for fruit. You are useless for the farm. You are useless for the market. You are useless to everyone but me.’
“But the branches thicken and grow, aheh! Up, up, up, in one night! ‘Poor tree,’ scoffs our farmer’s son. He plucks the single mango. ‘I am surprised you can blossom at all.’
“The next morning, three mangoes greet him: za, za, za! ‘You will never make fruit for the market,’ says our farmer’s son.
“Up, up—our tree, she grows in the night. See her branches make shadows, long and thick. The boy watches and his knees shake, didun, didun. ‘It’s just my little tree,’ he says. ‘It would be dead without me.’
“The next morning, there are twenty mangoes.
“Ka! Ka! The farmer’s son hacks off every branch. ‘It is for the tree’s own good,’ he says. ‘The weight would strain its little boughs.’ But the tree keeps growing: gung-gung, gung-gung. ‘I will move it to a smaller pot,’ he says. The roots creep over the tiny clay pot. See them burrow deep, deep into the dirt floor. ‘I will stop watering it,’ says our farmer’s son.
“But the tree, she has learned to blossom on her own.
“The boy hacks—ka! ka!—but the tree grows, gung-gung, gung-gung. See her branches fill the boy’s room! See him cower in her shadow!
“Ehmm-ehmm, the neighbors smell the mango perfume. They come to gape at the boy’s tree. ‘Aheh! What wonder! The fruit will feed the whole village!’
“Krah! Krah! The boy cuts the tree down.
“Rra! He burns her branches.
“‘The neighbors were wrong,’ he says as the blaze grows high. ‘The tree could never be useful without me.’
“How peacefully he sleeps now, ashh, ashh. There are no branches. There are no shadows. But smell …
“Was that a hint of mango?
“Perhaps we imagine it, kye, kye!
“Or perhaps a seed survived the flames. Whish—see it drift on the wind, and fly where the boy cannot find it. See it take root in the earth. See children lounge in its shadow.
“See as the boy’s name is forgotten.
“Aheh: my story is done.”
My voice had grown hoarse by the ending line. When my hand fell at last from Mbali’s cheek, the griot priestess was trembling. Confused, I followed her gaze to Olugbade.
The emperor of Aritsar was staring at me with cold, simmering hatred.
Mbali’s arm slipped around me protectively. Energy vibrated through the room, and the men and women exchanged looks, speaking without words. Their mouths remained closed, but the faint voices floated in the air, like chattering leaves on overhead branches.
“It doesn’t matter whether or not she wants to kill Dayo,” Nawusi finally said out loud. “If this brat has that woman’s power, then she is just as dangerous as any assassin.”
“The girl does not have power,” Olugbade insisted. “And neither does her mother. That woman is an imposter. I will not hear any speculation of her legitimacy.”
“Olu.” Mbali sighed. “No matter how we examine this, the safest place for Tarisai is on Dayo’s council.”
“Have you lost your mind?” shrilled Nawusi.
“We already know she has a Hallow,” Mbali insisted. “If Tarisai has another power—”
“She doesn’t,” Olugbade said.
“If she does,” Mbali persisted, “this is the only way we can guarantee she never uses it against Dayo. The Children’s Palace is secure, isolated from the outside world. On Dayo’s council, we could shield her from The Lady’s influence more effectively than anywhere else.”
After a long deliberation, several begrudging voices spoke around the room: “Dayo’s council … Mbali’s right … Her memory gift could be useful … Strict surveillance … Give it a try …”
“Fine,” Nawusi said finally, rigid in her chair. “She can meet the prince. But only after we have tried our last option.” She stood and approached me, back straight as a palace spire. Her face twitched as she tried, unconvincingly,