WURAOLA

The name belonged to Enoba’s sister—first of the Raybearers, though Enoba had stolen her birthright. No one had called me Wuraola since the memory of the Storyteller had possessed me on Mount Sagimsan, hurling my body to sacred ground. The name meant girl of gold, girl of sunshine. When I touched the spear’s shaft, a wave of regret and longing passed into my skin. The memory of Sanjeet’s emotions must have slipped into the spear as he engraved it. Perhaps he’d known they would be more eloquent than a letter.

“I still don’t understand why you won’t slow down,” Dayo sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m worn out every day just holding court; approving plans that imperial experts assemble for me. But you’re inventing new things from scratch. Tar—you’ve already done so much. More than anyone else could.”

“But I’m not finished,” I muttered. “I still haven’t anointed Zuri, and only Am knows how long that’ll take. There’s also King Kwasi . . . though I think he’ll come around. I just need to do him a favor.”

“What’s that?”

I smiled tiredly. “I have to take him shopping.”

CHAPTER 21

“You think I’m frivolous,” the old man accused. “A fop.”

“Of course not,” I said. “It’s just, um, itchy. But really—it’s beautiful, King Kwasi.”

I stood with the portly king of Nyamba in a bustling tailor’s stall, where I perched like a peacock on a rotating pedestal. Dressmakers clucked around me, sweat beading on their upper lips as they wrapped me in orange-striped fabric, pinning the excess in looping drapes across my hips.

“You hate it,” insisted Kwasi, leaning on his walking stick. His jowls quivered in a pout.

“It’s . . . not my usual style,” I admitted, and the sulk vanished from Kwasi’s features, exchanged for a wheezing giggle.

“Don’t mind me, child,” he chortled. “I’m just having fun. You should have seen the look on your face!”

I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help smiling. The eighty-year-old king’s delight in pranks could grow wearisome, but these days, I welcomed any diversion.

“Bring out more samples,” Kwasi ordered the dressmakers, clapping his ring-adorned hands. “I believe we are coming close.”

“Don’t you think we’ve seen enough fabric today?” I suggested, watching with pity as the dressmakers scrambled. The head tailor, wholly unprepared for a king and an empress to visit in the same afternoon, shrieked orders at her staff and bowed to us so many times, I feared her bright pink gele would topple.

Still, Kwasi shook his head at me, tapping the side of his nose with a wink. “We are not going anywhere,” he said, “until you’ve chosen something interesting. Should we look at the cobalt? The crimson? Or did we see that already? Maybe once more, just to be sure . . .”

I had spent the entire day in Ileyaso, the textile district of Oluwan City, puffing to keep up with the surprisingly nimble ruler. After weeks of absorbing my memories, he refused to try my Ray until I agreed to the outing.