The room erupted again. Djbanti candidates crowed with triumph as Dhyrmish candidates seethed, some barking that the records were rigged, while others left the room in anger and shame. Despite his good intentions, Dayo had made the problem infinitely worse.
Heat fluttered in my chest again, though this time it was invigorating, coursing through my limbs as the wheels in my head began to turn. Like the mortars and pestles of village women pounding cassava into fufu, the levers in my mind began to beat, binding sounds and facts and images.
People from Dhyrma were not stupid. Zyong’o was wrong. But Lady Adesanya had no reason to lie.
Pound, pound.
The Dhyrmish candidates failed at logic, but excelled in statecraft. That made no sense. Something was off: a rent in the pattern.
Pound, pound.
I closed my eyes. The Bhekina House tutors had shaped my brain to see puzzles everywhere. Every person, every place was a series of riddles, stories within stories, a system so plainly connected that to see the entire mural, I need only step back … and look. My eyes flew open.
“Silence,” Dayo was saying again, yelling over the crowd in desperation. “The Council of Eleven reflects all realms and social classes. When the Eleven fall, so does the Arit empire. We aren’t just being tested on our skills. We’re supposed to learn how to work together.”
It was the sleeping mats. It had to be.
Candidates from Swana and Djbanti were likely to have names later in the Arit alphabet, while Dhyrmish names occurred earlier. The sleeping mats were arranged by name. Candidates with names that came earlier slept farthest from the doors in the Hall of Dreams, making them last to reach the banquet hall. Running on virtually no food, those candidates would be exhausted for every trial administered before lunch: logic, weapons, and science. God-studies, griotcraft, and statecraft occurred after lunch and dinner—so in those trials, they performed well. The solution was so simple, it almost felt silly. I felt guilty for not noticing earlier. Dayo always invited me to eat with his Anointed Ones, and so I had never been affected.
Dayo cleared his throat, squirming beneath the unsatisfied glowers of the crowd. “I will not grant the request for unmixed teams.”
I smiled, and my shoulders relaxed. Good. Dayo knew better than to humor the Djbanti candidate’s prejudices.
“However,” he continued, “I decree that from this day forward, Dhyrmish candidates will receive additional tutoring in their failing subjects. The special treatment will continue until performance rises.”
Wrong. My pulse quickened. Dayo’s ruling would only make the Dhyrmish candidates more exhausted than they already were. It wouldn’t solve the problem at all. But as I opened my mouth to challenge his ruling … heat slammed my chest again.
It was worse than during the griots’ lesson. A poker seared beneath my ribs, burning for release. I struggled for breath with dawning horror.
Of course. The pounding, the puzzle-solving … it wasn’t a gift.
It was a trick. My intelligence was just another part of my ehru curse: a ploy to make me doubt Dayo’s right to rule. A way to bring me closer to betraying him. To hurting him.
I shuddered and brushed my thumb across my chin, the sacred sign of the Pelican. Then I banished any idea of sleeping mats from my thoughts. The throne room roiled with discontent, but I smiled up at the platform, making sure Dayo saw my support for his ruling. I had beat the evil inside me. I had submitted, and remained silent.
In the allotted free time before supper, Kirah and I slipped away to the back corridors of the Children’s Palace, as we had every evening since we were small. Using a curtain cord as rope, we wriggled through a window and climbed to An-Ileyoba’s gilded battlements. The wind whipped Kirah’s red prayer scarf as we held hands for balance, then we sat and dangled our feet over the edge, watching the sun melt beneath the Oluwan horizon. Usually we tossed figs to peacocks in the courtyard below, laughing when haughty courtiers peered up in confusion. But today, we were quiet.
“What did you think of Dayo’s ruling?” Kirah asked.
“What does it matter?” I stared over the golden domes of An-Ileyoba. In the city beyond, Oluwan’s orange harvest festival was beginning to gain revelers. “The priests made it clear what council sisters are for. We should focus on protecting Dayo, not changing his rulings.”
“Priests don’t know everything.”
“Now, now.” I nudged Kirah’s shoulder, teasing. “Is that what Mama would say?”