Ye Eun’s lily-of-the-valley crown, marking where her birthmarked feet had leapt into the breach. Almost, but not enough.
Some demons could not be soothed by any lullaby.
I was fast asleep on my pallet. Thaddace routinely sent me cases from the capital, and today’s collection had been particularly exhausting: everything from village disputes over cattle to housemaids reporting their masters for rape. I frowned into my pallet, burying deeper into the down pillows as a hand jostled my shoulder.
“Go’sleep, Dayo,” I mumbled. He woke me often these days, requesting dreams to help him sleep. “I’m tired.” The hand was insistent, so I grimaced and sat up.
It wasn’t Dayo. Sanjeet knelt over me, shirtless and disheveled. “He’s gone,” he said tersely. “Don’t wake the others.”
“What?” I whirled around. Dayo’s pallet was empty.
“He’s sleepwalking.” Sanjeet held a finger to his lips. “If the guards hear a commotion, they’ll come running. We don’t need rumors that the crown prince is unstable. I saw where he went, but we’ll need to use your Hallow.”
All of us suffered from night terrors, but Dayo had it worst. Once a terror took him, only one thing woke him up: removing the most grotesque of his memories. I sighed and pulled off my satin sleep scarf as Sanjeet woke Kirah. Then the three of us wove through the sleeping bodies of our council siblings, stealing out onto the banquet hall balcony. A steep whitewashed stairway led down to the garden, and far beyond it, the pale gold beach.
I swore. “Did he really take these stairs? He could have broken his neck. Why didn’t the guards stop him?”
“He wouldn’t have died, even with a broken neck,” Kirah pointed out. “And the guards probably don’t know he’s sleeping. Don’t tell them. Try to look calm.”
We nodded at the guards at the foot of the stairs, as if midnight strolls in our underclothes were nothing out of the ordinary. The armed warriors bowed. After an awkward pause, one of them ventured, “Will Your Anointed Honors also require a shovel?”
I blinked. “Shovel?”
“It is what His Imperial Highness asked for, Your Anointed Honor. We did not ask what for.”
“Oh.” Kirah cleared her throat. “No. I’m sure one shovel is sufficient for the prince’s business.” Whatever that is, she Ray-spoke dryly.
Sanjeet addressed the guards in a smooth, low voice that made me shiver. “There is no need to mention Prince Ekundayo’s activity to anyone.”
“Yes, Anointed General.” The warriors nodded curtly, and then one of them lifted a flaming brand from its niche on the wall. “Will you take a torch, Anointed Honors?”
The torch’s heat murmured across my face, crackling and wicked. Every bone in my body turned to jelly. For a moment I was melting, and the flame grew louder; the blazing doors of the Children’s Palace rose in my vision, opening their mouths to devour …
“Anointed Honor,” the guard began, peering at me as my breath came in shallow gasps. “Are you—”
“She’s fine,” Sanjeet replied curtly. “As you were.” He and Kirah led me down the path, gripping my petrified hands. We passed through an arbor of hanging wisteria into the keep garden, lit on either side with more bright torches.
“Don’t look at them,” Sanjeet advised me.
“Still?” asked Kirah. “After almost two years?”
I nodded mutely, staring at my bare feet. My arms prickled with goose bumps, free of the burn scars I should have received the day of my anointing. The day Dayo had almost died in the Children’s Palace.
Burn scars marked his face, but mine were all inside. For years, the heat of fire—the sound and smell of it—had turned my knees to water. The flames mocked me, hinting at secrets, summoning demons from the pit of my memories. With practice, I had learned to light candles without trembling, but bonfires—and torches—were still out of the question.
“It’s strange how that fire took your memories,” Kirah said with a frown. “Maybe it’s time we found a healer from the capital—”
“I’m fine,” I said, avoiding her gaze.
The garden gate opened to a sandy incline, tumbling down to the Obasi Ocean. At first, I thought Dayo had disappeared. Then a loc-covered head of hair popped up behind a ledge and vanished again. What was Dayo doing in a hole?
We padded across the beach and stopped at a shallow pit, yards from the churning tide. His nightshirt damp with sweat, Dayo hurled shovelfuls of sand over his shoulder, muttering. The obsidian mask dangled precariously from his neck.
“Dayo,” I panted. “Dayo, you’re not well. Wake up.”