“The children of Earth and Fire multiply throughout the realm, fierce and strong. Volcanoes! Dragons! Rubies and mountains of coal. Water realizes the children are not his own. He abandons Earth in anger, and her lakes dry up, hasse, hasse. Her fields turn to desert. See Earth begin to die. Who shall come to aid her?” The Pelican. “Yes, the Pelican hovers over Earth. See it pierce its own breast to nourish her! Shaa, shaa—watch the Pelican’s blood fall, filling the parched places. And what now? New children are born. Fashioned from the clay of Earth, and brought to life by the blood of the Pelican.” Humankind. “Yes, the first living people. Water reconciles with Earth, promising to raise her new children as his own. Are the children strong?” Yes, and clever. “Aheh. But Fire is jealous. He is angered by Earth’s union with Water and her friendship with the Pelican. So he curses humankind with thirteen ways to die. Once gods, they are mortals now, weak as beasts. What shall they do? Who will lead them? Tell me.” The Raybearer! “Aheh! See the Pelican steal Rays from the sun, blessing the first emperor with wisdom and compassion. ‘You must choose eleven brothers and sisters,’ it tells the emperor, shaking oil from its wings. ‘For every brow you anoint, you will gain immunity to one of the thirteen deaths. Choose well, Emperor—for to the world, you will be as a god, but to your council, you will yet be a mortal man.’ Aheh, aheh.” It is done.
The myth was ancient—except for the Raybearer part, which had been added only five hundred years ago, when the Kunleos formed the empire. After finishing the story, the priests made us recite the thirteen causes of mortal death. Poison, contagion, gluttony, we chanted. Burning, drowning, suffocation. Bleeding, beast mauling, disaster. Organ-death, witches’ hexes. Battery, old age. Raybearers were blessed with only one immunity at birth. But after anointing a full council of eleven, only old age could kill them—unless, of course, one of their council members turned traitor.
“Hear the duties of the future emperor’s sacred council,” intoned the male priest after the lesson. My fingers drummed the side of my thigh: I had been made to hear these words hundreds of times before. “The Eleven must wield their titles of power fairly and without bias. The Eleven must serve the emperor first, then the empire, and then their realms of origin. Outside the council, they must form no attachments. Inside the council, no attachment may outweigh their loyalty to the future emperor. Carnal relations are prohibited, except with the future emperor.” Titters rippled across the room. Involuntarily, I remembered the hollow of a russet back, glistening with sweat and clay. I shook my head to clear it, grateful, for the first time that afternoon, that Sanjeet was absent.
“Hear the duties of the future emperor,” the priest continued, bowing to Dayo. “His Highness is not permitted to marry. Instead, His Highness must anoint and protect a trusted council, through which he shall serve the empire. His Highness must select his council sisters with special care”—the priest leered over the female candidates—“for they will birth all future Raybearers.”
I grimaced. The priest made us sound more like a harem than a sacred council. I raised my hand and blurted, “What happens when there’s an empress?”
Several lines wrinkled the priest’s protruding brow. “As I have said: Arit emperors do not marry. Such a union would interfere with the balance of council power—”
“No,” I cut in. “I meant, what about when the Raybearer’s a girl?”
The priest inhaled, summoning patience, then smiled. “There are no female Raybearers, child. Am has always chosen a man. That does not mean, of course, that female council members have no value. After all, you might bear a Raybearer.” He winked at me. “The empire would be forever in your debt.”
BEFORE I COULD RESPOND, MY CHEST BEGAN to burn.
Someone had heaped coals over my heart. The heat came from inside, a dragon, a demon throbbing to get out. I gasped, clutching at my heart and sweating, glancing around and hoping no one noticed.
The moment the priest looked away, I ran from the Hall of Dreams, sandals pounding the stone until I reached the banquet chamber. Pitchers of water and cordial from our last meal still rested on the long, low tables. I seized one and poured out the water, careful to keep the ice in the pitcher. Then I lay