The sky’s black is starting to wash out to a deep shade of blue. I shove off concerns about who is watching and hurry to the grave. My people surround me, a tapestry of gray furs and gold and jade armor. Maybe… maybe this can finally bring us back together again? Could it be enough? My fingers shake but I exhale, trying to steady them. What if someone followed us? What if the Chancellor sees? Bri flashes me a thumbs-up, then crosses her fingers.

I bury the thoughts and kick off my shoes, stepping onto the soil where my Ancestors were buried. The very ground tingles under my feet and I fall to my knees, palms up, head back. Starting with a prayer just seems right. I search for the Seer’s words, trying to remember the instructions she gave.

When the sky is heavy with sorrow…

“Ancestors, rain. I need rain.” I dip the ends of Shaun’s hair and Bati’s in the jpango sap and set them in the dirt beside one another. Gray wisps of clouds roll in, and I thank the Ancestors for hearing my prayer. I sink my hands into the ground.

Chant, three times…

One. “U’shaka wesee,” I say. The tips of my fingers tingle under the soil and my arms gleam. The Yakanna fall to their knees, except Kai. She watches with bated breath. Jhamal stares, but I focus on the dirt between my fingers.

Two. “U’shaka wesee.” The dirt stirs like dust, unsettled. Something underneath the dirt touches my fingertips. I yelp but keep my hands still. It’s okay. It’s a bug. It’s a shift in the earth. It’s definitely not dead people’s fingers. The wind picks up and dirt rises higher, swirling in a cyclone around us. Thunder clatters louder overhead and the entire world darkens, rain drizzling around us. The wind gusts sharply, trees sway, some bent all the way over.

“They are coming,” someone says.

The Beerchi fall to their knees too.

Three. “U’shaka wesee.” Something in the dirt pulls me tighter to it and my elbows buckle. I’m prostrate on the ground with an invisible weight on my back. The fine debris raining in the air glints in the moonlight. I squint. The dirt is not dirt but ashes of gold.

The dust shifts to the shape of a person. First an outline of one person. Then another. Until there are several figures, silhouetted in golden dust.

The Ancestors. I gasp.