I had thought my growing resistance to earthly deaths would make me feel like a god. But instead, with every rapidly healing injury, I only felt more like a ghost—detached from this world, floating higher and higher until all that felt real was the ojiji’s song.

Should have saved us. Should have cared. Do more. Do more.

Zuri and I dropped into a combat stance and circled each other again. My face heated, thinking of the time we had first met: whirling in each other’s arms at the Peace Banquet. I fought in the Swana style, advancing with a spear and long leather shield. Zuri used Djbanti weapons: a pointed pole in one hand, used mostly to block and disarm, and a club in the other, for close-range offense.

“Come on, Empress Idajo,” Zuri purred, “lure me in. Mesmerize me. The same way you’ve managed to lure in twelve rulers for your council.”

“I didn’t lure anyone,” I objected, lunging for his side and grunting when he danced out of the way. “They chose me.”

“Congrats on anointing Kwasi, by the way,” he said, feinting and launching a blow I barely blocked. “I was worried my demonstration at the market might have ruined your outing.”

“It helped, actually,” I admitted, smiling in spite of myself. Kind old King Kwasi had already loved me, in his way. And when I disappeared at the blood-soaked market . . . Kwasi had been so relieved when I turned up later at the palace, clean and safe, he had accepted my anointing on the spot.

I lunged again, and Zuri skirted me. The force of my missed blow threw me off balance, and before I knew it, Zuri had thrust an arm around me from behind, pressing me against him, his club a bar across my throat.

“Do you know what your problem is?” Zuri said into my hair. “You fight like you’re defending something behind you. Always pushing your targets back, instead of drawing them in.”

I cursed the pleasant shiver that chased up my spine. “It’s what they taught us in the Children’s Palace,” I whispered. “Protect Dayo. Preserve the Raybearer.”

He murmured in my ear, “You were not born to be a bodyguard, Wuraola.”

He slackened his grip then, expecting me to break away. But I remained in his embrace, heart hammering.

“I’m going to use my question now,” I said.

I felt him shift, curious. “Question?”

“My prize from the Peace Banquet.” I turned to meet his dark, calculating eyes. “You promised me I could ask you anything.”

His expression turned carefully blank. “That I did.”

“Who killed Thaddace of Mewe? And how do you know Prince Woo In?”

“The first question,” he said, “is the one I asked you.”

“I know. But it seemed like you were testing me.”

He blinked, thoughtful.

“I have no idea who killed your old mentor,” he said, and from his steady gaze, I knew he told the truth. But when I sagged in disappointment, he added, “I rather hoped his killer was you.”