commoners in their best festival wrappers. Perfume thickened the air, and children tossed petals from the battlements, a flurry of gold, red, and white. Griots beat shakers and drums, and to the rhythm, the townspeople of Ebujo sang a new version of Aritsar’s well-known folk rhyme:
Tarisai brings his drum; nse
Sanjeet and Umansa bring his plow; gpopo
Kameron and Theo watch our older brother dance—
Black and gold: Ekundayo!
Mayazatyl sharpens his spear; nse
Kirah weaves his wrapper; gpopo
Thérèse and Emeronya watch our older brother dance—
Black and gold: Ekundayo!
Zathulu braids his hair; nse
Ai Ling brings his gourd; gpopo
Eleven moons watch the sun dance:
Black and gold: Ekundayo!
But all I could think of was my blistering headache.
“Are you all right, Anointed Honor?” the boy in the temple asked, shifting his feet.
My vision swam, but I forced a smile and nodded. “What do you have there?”
The boy held up a rag doll and dropped it shyly in my hand. “It’s you. I made her from my best tunic. It was too small for me, and Ma wanted to sell it for scraps, but I wouldn’t let her.”
The doll’s body was sewn from dark brown linen, matched carefully to my complexion. Cheerful button eyes shone over a seam smile, and black yarn braids burst from its brow.
My heart twinged. Memories of the boy’s fingers, shakily wielding a needle and pricking himself by accident, leeched from the doll into my palm. I made the tiny Tarisai bow to him, and the boy giggled.
“Thank you,” I told him. “How did you know what I looked like?”
“There’s a portrait in our family inn, Anointed Honor. A merchant brought it all the way from the capital. It has you, and Prince Ekundayo, and the Prince’s Bear, and the other Prince’s Eleven. Sometimes we leave maize under the portrait. Or cassava, and palm wine.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Why?”
“Offerings,” he said, blinking as though it were obvious. “So the town will have a good harvest.”
I opened my mouth, then closed it. Commoners and nobility from all over the continent were lined up before our elevated stools in the temple. Their eyes devoured the jeweled weave of my wax-dyed wrapper, the stacks of rainbow beads on my wrists and neck, and the golden cuffs on my biceps. I squirmed. They knew I was only mortal … didn’t they?
“You’re my favorite, you know,” the boy chattered. “My sister thinks Anointed Honor Ai Ling is prettier, but you can read minds. Or is it memories? Sis and I couldn’t decide. Auntie says it’s suspicious how no one knows who your mother and father are, but Papa says that doesn’t matter because you saved Prince Ekundayo’s life, and I think …”
His voice faded away as the pain between my temples surged. Those words: mother and father.
Ever since my anointing, headaches had plagued me. I remembered only two things from my life before the Children’s Palace: a mango orchard and a name—Lady. I had obeyed Mbali in my years as a candidate, never speaking of my mother, and now I couldn’t even if I wanted to. But as I slept, a song echoed on the edge of my dreams: Me, mine. She’s me and she is mine.
“Are your parents poor?” the boy whispered conspiratorially. “Will you visit them when you go back to Swana?”
My temples throbbed. Air ceased to travel through my lungs. “I—I don’t know. I—”
“That’s enough questions for Her Anointed Honor.” Dayo had risen from his stool.
The child froze and blanched. “Your … Your Imperial Highness.”
Dayo smiled and crouched so the child’s face was level with his burn scar. The thick, raised skin crept down Dayo’s cheek in an intricate lattice, ending in several branches on his collarbone. It had been the best Kirah’s healing song could do after the fire, and the sight of it always made my headaches worse.
Dayo’s obsidian oloye mask dangled from his neck; there was no need to hide it now. The twelve stripes of his immunities glittered, reflecting rainbows across the little boy’s face.
“Your mother must be proud of you,” Dayo said gently. “I bet you’re the best dollmaker in Ebujo.”
The boy nodded woodenly, and Dayo ruffled his hair. Then the child bowed and retreated into the crowd, dazed with shock.
Dayo placed a hand on my shoulder. “Still no memories?” he asked.
I shook my head. “It’s horrible. I’m supposed to be the Imperial Delegate of Swana. But how can I represent a realm I don’t even remem—”
“Forget Swana,” Dayo cut in, and I blinked in surprise. Dayo rarely interrupted anyone. “I mean