Redemptor

PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for and may be obtained from the Library of Congress.

ISBN 978-1-4197-3984-2

eISBN 978-1-68335-720-9

Text copyright © 2021 Jordan Ifueko

Cover and interior illustrations © 2021 Charles Chaisson

Map illustration by Christina Chung

Book design by Hana Anouk Nakamura

Published in 2021 by Amulet Books, an imprint of ABRAMS. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher.

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For young revolutionaries, who have chosen the loneliest job in the world

CHAPTER 1

My name was Tarisai Kunleo, and no one I loved would ever die again.

I stole down the palace hallway, my sandals slapping the words into music—never again, never again. I would play this song until my soles wore thin. Griots, the sacred storytellers of our empire, shaped the histories we believed with their music.

I, too, would sing this story until the world believed it.

Tar? The base of my scalp hummed as Kirah connected our Ray bond, speaking directly into my mind. Are you all right?

Kirah, my council sister, and Mbali, the former High Priestess of Aritsar, stood ahead of me in the broad palace hallway. I caught up to them, smiling manically before remembering that they couldn’t see my face.

We wore ceremonial veils: colorful beads and shells that dangled to our chests, concealing our faces. Tall leather hairpieces, stained crimson and shaped into flames, circled our heads. Our costumes honored Warlord Fire, creator of death, and disguised us as birinsinku: grim women of the gallows, on our way to perform holy death rites on imperial prisoners.

I’m fine, I Ray-spoke to Kirah, gritting my teeth. Then I willed my voice to be light and chipper, speaking aloud for Mbali’s sake. “Just—you know. Excited for Thaddace.”

Servants and courtiers danced out of our way as we swept through An-Ileyoba Palace. Rumor warned that birinsinku spread foul luck wherever they went, and so as we passed, onlookers warded off evil with the sign of the Holy Pelican. No one guessed that I, Mbali, and Kirah hid beneath those glittering veils, plotting to free the most hated man in Aritsar from prison.