Redemptors are my brothers and sisters. And any person who would hinder their freedom is my enemy.”
The isoken woman came forward then, smirking as she presented me with a talking drum. “My name is Kathleen, oh great Anointed One. Please accept this humble gift. If rumors are to be believed, it once belonged to the Empress Aiyetoro. Such an artifact must contain priceless stories, and only a Hallow such as yours could retrieve them. Perhaps such stories will remind you of your own.”
I examined the gift with reverent fingers. The gourd was shaped like an hourglass, strung head-to-head with strips of taut goatskin that determined the pitch. A beating stick was nestled in the skins for safekeeping. Emblazoned around the drum’s face was a pattern of discs and interlinking hands, and a line in the script of ancient Oluwan. Squinting, I struggled to translate it: The truth will never die, as long as griots keep beating their drums.
“Where did you find this?” I asked.
Woo In smiled crisply. “There are those who would preserve history, instead of choosing to forget it.”
I plunged into the drum’s memories, but when my mind stole into the gourd, only dust and moist darkness teased my senses, along with the skittering of spiders on my skin. I grimaced and withdrew.
“It’s been kept in storage too long,” I said. “My Hallow can only go back a few decades. I could never reach Aiyetoro. But thank you. The gift is precious all the same.”
Woo In and Kathleen looked disappointed.
“I told The Lady that drum wouldn’t work,” the woman complained to Woo In, not bothering to lower her voice. “It’s too indirect. She’ll never remember who she is through ancient artifacts. We need to awaken the ehru inside her.”
“Only The Lady can communicate with Melu,” Woo In muttered. “So she’ll have to solve this problem herself.”
Their words made my veins prickle with cold. Had Sanjeet been right? Did these people know me? More important, why had I chosen to forget them?
But before I could question them further, drums hiccupped through the temple. A palace secretary bearing calfskin scrolls bustled into the chamber, and Woo In and Kathleen vanished into the crowd.
Amid excited murmurs, Dayo received the scroll from the secretary. “Citizens of Aritsar, and honored guests from Songland,” he announced, bowing to each of the groups surrounding us. “My father’s council has long deliberated over the imperial positions my council will inherit. Today, it is my sincerest pleasure to read their decisions.” Silently, he sent each of us a pulse of affection through the Ray.
Ready? Kirah Ray-spoke, and eleven voices echoed in my head. You’re kidding, right? … Don’t care which one I get … Can’t wait … As long as we finally get to move out of that cramped Children’s Palace …
Dayo cleared his throat and unfurled the scroll. A grin split his face, and so I knew the first name on the list was no surprise. “As her heir apparent to the title of High Priestess,” Dayo said, “Anointed Honor Mbali of Swana has selected Kirah of Blessid Valley.”
The temple rang with cheers, and Kirah stood, hazel eyes shining. “I accept my title as High Priestess Apparent,” she croaked, and glowed as the imperial secretary came forward to place a gold circlet on her brow.
The next declaration was also no surprise. “As heir apparent to the title of High Lord General,” Dayo said, “Anointed Honor Wagundu of Djbanti has selected Sanjeet of Dhyrma.”
Sanjeet stood, accepting his title and circlet without expression. My heart twinged; Sanjeet hated using his Hallow for violence, and he had hoped for a more peaceful appointment. But Aritsar hadn’t had a civil war in decades, and foreign continents rarely attacked. Perhaps, I hoped naively, he would never have to hurt anyone.
I didn’t know what title to expect for myself. While most of Olugbade’s council had grown used to me, Nawusi still considered me a sin against nature. With her influence, I anticipated that my title would be less than glamorous—High Lady Treasurer, perhaps, responsible for collecting the empire’s taxes. Or High Lady Archdean, tasked with supervising the empire’s stuffy academies and scholar guilds.
Dayo paused before the next reading, taking a moment to face me and beam. “As his heir apparent to the title of High Lord Judge,” he said, “Anointed Honor Thaddace of Mewe has selected Tarisai of Swana.”
My stomach dropped to my sandals.
Judge?
High Lady Judge of Aritsar?
Deciding the fate of Aritsar’s worst traitors and criminals? A sixteen-year-old girl who couldn’t remember her