“One word,” he said, breathless. “One word from you, and every blueblood in this empire would relinquish Kunleo resources and abide by fair labor laws. You could be the heroine you were born to be. The one I know you are.”

He reached out to stroke my cheek. For just a moment, I let him touch me—then I seized his wrist, digging my nails into his skin.

“I will help the poor of Aritsar, Zuri Wanguru,” I said. “But I’ll do it my way.”

When I released him, he scoffed, “And what way is that? Scribbling more laws? Writing an edict on a calfskin and throwing a fancy high court where everyone agrees to obey it?”

“You’ll find out at the Pinnacle,” I snapped, giving him a taste of his own secret-keeping medicine.

“Why stifle your own power?”

“Because I want to be an empress, not a god!” My voice pinged against the courtyard walls.

His expression softened, and he regarded me gravely. “I understand you better than you know,” he said. “But I learned, Idajo—the moment those warlords stepped over the corpses of my parents and brothers and placed a crown on my head. None of us are gods. We are merely tools, wielded by the strongest system. I am giving you the chance to choose what that system is.” He retrieved my spear from the ground and held it out to me. “I can’t force you to accept your power. But if you do, you owe it to Aritsar, and to yourself, to be ready.”

After a moment, my fingers closed around it. The word—WURAOLA—glittered on the shaft, cold and bright, as the sun sank at last below the horizon.

CHAPTER 25

Two days before the pinnacle, fog hung in clouds over the frothing brown Olorun River, which curved like a serpent around Oluwan City. Dinghies and private barges, manned by chanting teams of rowers, emerged and vanished like shades into the night. Even at this hour, the docks bustled. When Adukeh, my attendants, and I stepped down from our palanquins, several dozen leering faces turned to stare.

“L-Lady Empress?” Adukeh asked, clutching her drum as we hurried along.

“Not so loud,” I shushed her.

The only people who sailed the Olorun at night were smugglers or nobility—and many who were both. Nobles liked to avoid the heat of day and could pay for the extra security that night travel required.

For anonymity I wore a linen cowl draped over my satin-wrapped hair. But my other clothing choices had been less prudent. My plain red wrapper, borrowed from a palace servant, was still much too fine, edged in gold thread that glistened in the dock torchlight. I had hoped to blend in with my attendants, but our escort of warriors betrayed one of us to be a noble, or at least, very well off.

Urchins and sailors grinned and licked their lips. I ignored them, hurrying Adukeh along. Better that men ogle our finery than look overhead, where one by one, hundreds of lavender sprites began to congregate, twinkling against the midnight sky.