him a handful of myrrh, which he dropped into the shield. As a sign of the Underworld’s acceptance, the water was supposed to turn brown, the color of earth and fertility. I fidgeted, wishing for the ceremony to end, and for the chance to rest at last.
But the water bubbled and turned white: the color of bones and ash. The color of death.
The priests gasped, murmuring as the sulfuric stench intensified throughout the temple. The blue miasma thickened over the Breach, and up from the shadowy chasm rose two small figures, walking hand in hand.
I HAD SEEN DRAWINGS OF THE ABIKU before—demons that took the form of sickly children, a mocking tribute to Redemptors. But nothing could have prepared me for the creatures who approached the altar.
The courtiers and townspeople shrieked, and my palms broke into a cold sweat. They looked like twins, no older than five or six, with pallid gray skin and eyes made completely of red pupils. They stopped at the barrier of myrrh spread by the priests, unable or unwilling to come closer. Then they tilted their heads in unison, flashing tiny smiles of yellow, pointed teeth.
“Good health to you, Prince,” one of the abiku said. “Don’t you know it’s rude to withhold gifts at a party?”
Dayo swallowed hard. “What do you want, spirits? Why didn’t the water turn brown?”
The other abiku gave a grating peal of giggles. “Does a treasurer loan gold before the previous debt is repaid? You swear to honor the Treaty. But as we stand here, you break it.”
“That’s a lie,” Dayo said. “The shamans promised that every Redemptor of age has been paid to you.”
“They miscounted,” sighed the first abiku, its irisless gaze landing briefly on mine. “Every Redemptor has been sent except one.”
My blood turned to ice. The abiku were here for Ye Eun.
It wasn’t fair. How could the demons miss one little girl out of three hundred? What use could they possibly have for her? I set my jaw. If the abiku thought I could be bullied into giving Ye Eun up, they were wrong. Before the Treaty, during the War of Twelve Armies, the Underworld had suffered losses as well as humankind. Surely they would not give up peace for the sake of a single child.
“You spirits speak of debts? Of fairness?” sputtered the emissary from Songland. “How dare you!” The old man stood dangerously close to the myrrh barrier, eyes bulging with anger. “Shades haunt the halls of Eunsan-do Palace, the shades of child Redemptors, wailing day and night. If the abiku cared anything for fairness, they would cease to rip babes from the arms of their mothers, from the same poor realm, year after year!”
The abiku cocked their heads again, blinking as though surprised at the emissary’s outburst. “When it comes to the birthplace of Redemptors,” one of them purred, “it is the blood, not us, who decides.”
I frowned. What in Am’s name was that supposed to mean?
As the abiku spoke, two young Breach warriors had crept up behind them, expressions fearful and manic.
“You—you aren’t authorized to be here,” the young warrior stammered, gripping his weapon halter. “You’re in violation of the Treaty of Enoba. Back away from the prince.”
“There is no Treaty,” the abiku hissed, “until humanity’s debt is paid.”
The creatures took a step toward the warrior … and the Breach warrior spooked. He staggered back, scooped a handful of myrrh from the floor, and thrust it at the abiku.
“Die, spirits!” he cried.
The creatures screamed … then exploded in a cloud of noxious, biting flies.
“To the prince,” Sanjeet bellowed as the temple descended into chaos. Ambassadors, priests, and laypeople dove for cover. At Sanjeet’s command my council siblings leapt to their feet, and we retrieved our weapons from behind the stools. Sanjeet fit his pair of black-hilted scimitars in a snug halter on his back, and I brandished my steel-headed spear, shaft carved with the Kunleo sun and moons. Our eleven surrounded Dayo in tight formation, and the Ray synchronized our movements with inhuman speed.
The deep-throated howl of temple warning horns cut through the air. Feathered clumps were rising from the Oruku Breach, obscured by the miasma. They emerged as winged beasts, ugly as hyenas, diving for their victims with outstretched talons.
“I’ll be fine,” Dayo yelled at us. “Help the commoners.”
We tensed, but kept formation. The order of our priorities, drummed into us by the palace priests, had been clear: Serve the prince, then the empire.
Defending commoners was the job of the Imperial Guard, to