This was true—I’d discovered it by accident after visiting Min Ja and Da Seo alone. The symptoms of council sickness had not surfaced—not since I anointed Dayo to my council months ago. Our Rays appeared to have struck a balance inside me, freeing me to travel without a sibling. Part of me felt guilty at how relieved this discovery made me. I loved my council siblings, after all. But in the last few weeks, any activity unrelated to work—courting vassal rulers, preparing for the Pinnacle, appeasing the ojiji—made me anxious with impatience.

They are blind, and you are alone. Justice. Justice.

You must care enough for everyone who does not care.

“It’s only a headache,” I told Kwasi, smiling wanly. “Happens a lot these days.”

“I’m not surprised,” he chided. “The bags beneath your eyes could carry half a day’s shopping. Do you sleep at all, child?”

I avoided his searching gaze. “I’m fine,” I said. “Just busy. You know how it is. Court sessions, judge rulings . . .” Trying to appease an army of ojiji ghosts.

“I may be a king,” Kwasi replied, “but even I know that rulers can’t do everything. Make some time for fun!” He made a sweeping gesture at the colorful fabrics festooned around the shop. At my glazed expression, he grunted. “You think I’m a shallow old fool.”

I shook my head. “There’s nothing shallow about appreciating beauty.”

I liked Kwasi, and wanted to make him happy—so I perused the bolts of fabric, pretending to consider each one. Kwasi made a delighted sound when I stopped at a stack of cloth.

“These are Nyamban textiles,” he said proudly. “Woven to reflect one’s destiny.”

As I touched them, he watched my face, keeping his own neutral. But I had been raised in the Children’s Palace—I knew a test when I saw one.

At first, I picked up a colorful fabric with designs that mimicked the weave of a basket. The blocked pattern repeated in sky blue, crisp green, and bold streaks of black. Kwasi made a pleased sound.

“Nwentoma cloth,” he sighed. “An excellent choice. And those colors have significance—blue for harmony, green for good health, and black for strength.”

I nodded but had already put the cloth down, curiously drawn to a swatch peeking out from beneath the other bolts. I pulled it out, revealing a strange ream of black, white, and metallic gold, tiny hand-etched glyphs blocked together in stark patterns. The longer I watched, the more the symbols seemed to move, congregating in slow revolution around a symbol in the center—a prancing lioness.

“This one,” I said immediately.

Kwasi’s expression was hard to read. Something like awe . . . and profound, restless fear.

“Adinkra cloth,” he said at last. “I am surprised it is sold here. Back home, it is only worn by high priests, or else those burdened with certain gifts—the ability to see other realms and commune with the spirits who live there.”

I continued to stare, mouth agape, as the patterns moved for real—converging on the lioness, glyphs covering her body like tiny children until she disappeared. Then I blinked, and the pattern reverted, lioness intact. Kwasi swore softly.