He brightened. “Can I really tell you anything?”

My mind flashed back to another little boy, peeking out at me from behind a Children’s Palace curtain.

You’re going to be another one, aren’t you? A person I like. A person they take away.

“Anything,” I said, placing my hand over his on the kite string. Then, I let the Ray blaze around my ears and sent a message into the crackling beam: Did I tell you about the time I threatened a Bush-spirit with a stick?

“Yes,” said Ji Huan, “but I want to hear it again, especially the part when you saved Anointed Honor Sanjeet from—” He broke off, realizing what had just happened. “I . . . I . . .”

“You heard me.” I sighed. “And I’d much rather show you Bush-spirits than memories of me stabbing people.”

Ji Huan dropped the string and pulled me into a hug, then stepped back just as quickly, flushing. The pelican kite escaped, dancing in circles on the wind, then drifting to a dot in the cloudless Oluwan sky.

Someday I’ll be free like that, came Ji Huan’s voice in my head. But until then—tell me another story, my Tarisai.

Uriyah’s love for me was more complicated, and not in a way I liked. The old chief reminded me of Olugbade, in that he seemed especially fond of those more ignorant than himself—or at least, those he perceived to be. When I showed him my ugliest flaws, his features took on a paternal glow.

“ ‘The wisest ruler must also be humble,’ ” he intoned, reaching to raise my downcast chin. “ ‘Take heart, therefore, in your mistakes.’ ”

We sat together in Uriyah’s study, at his villa in the Ileyoba district. Mountains of books and dusty scrolls surrounded us on the musty carpet, smelling vaguely of ink and camel hair.

“Thank you,” I told him, swallowing my irritation at being patronized. “I’ll certainly give that some th—”

“Cassius Mehedi the Surefooted,” he interrupted, stroking his silver-streaked beard. “Ninth treatise, fifth verse. Mehedi’s writings on humility are truly illuminating, and were my greatest comfort as a budding young ruler. I should have recommended them to you ages ago,” he murmured, whirling around his study and selecting a pile of tomes. He dropped them in my lap, rheumy eyes winking with excitement. “Take these for tonight. I’ve included Ahwadi the Dune Dweller’s verses on filial piety—due to the complex relationship you had with your mother—and the poetry of Yakov the Wanderer, though I admit his work is elementary. You’ve read him, of course . . .” At my blank stare, he chuckled indulgently. “Ah. Well, don’t be ashamed, child. In fact, I envy you. To be young again, at the very beginning of one’s moral journey . . .” He trailed off, blinking at me wistfully. “There’s nothing quite like it.”

“Er—thank you,” I repeated, shifting beneath the teetering pile of books. “But there’s a lot I have to get done before my journey to the Underworld. I’m not sure I’ll have much time for, um, leisure reading.”