“D-Don’t worry, L-Lady Empress,” Adukeh whispered, squeezing my hand. Her throat glittered with strings of coral akorin beads. She and the other attendants preceded in a grave procession through the fortress hallways. “After my p-performance, those nobles will have to listen.”

I smiled and winked at her, moved as usual by my akorin’s unshakeable confidence. “If you can’t put the fear of Am into those nobles,” I told her, “no one can. The audience won’t know what hit them.”

By tradition, all Pinnacles involved some form of entertainment, usually something flattering and benign, like oriki praise poems in the guests’ honor, or dancing parades of animals from each realm.

But for my Pinnacle, I had asked Adukeh to sing the scariest tale she knew. The idea had delighted her, and even now she muttered the lines to herself, caressing her grandmother’s drum.

The main gathering area of Wanguru Fortress lay in a vast limestone courtyard, overlooked by towering statues of lions—patron beasts of Djbanti royalty. I could hear the audience’s rumble long before we entered—noble clans teemed in every inch of the standing space. In the courtyard’s center, Zuri sat enthroned on an echo-stone dais. He wore a richly patterned wrapper and sash in black and crimson—the royal cloth of Djbanti. More ornaments glittered in his locs than I had ever seen on him before. When I appeared, he leapt up, sweeping a bow and gesturing toward his throne.

“The court is yours, Imperial Majesty,” he slurred, with a lurch so convincingly clumsy, I thought he was drunk for real. Then he settled onto a lesser gilded stool, and emitted a hiccup so violent, I bit my lip to keep from laughing. I couldn’t giggle now—thanks to the nervous energy roiling in my stomach, I wouldn’t be able to stop.

As I ascended the dais, Adukeh hollered the traditional entry song with barely a stutter. “Of what use—Of what use is an empty throne?”

A sea of noble faces, bodies swathed in fabrics from all over the empire, glowered at me from behind lace fans and woven palm fronds. Zuri’s warlords stood out among them—seven burly, smug-faced men in war paint and lion pelt mantles. They shot sneering looks at Zuri, and glared at me, but in a bleating chorus, they echoed the call-and-response with everyone else.

We have found someone worthy—(Have you found someone?)
Aheh, Kunleo is worthy to fill it—(Yes, Kunleo is worthy to fill it!)

How many of these nobles had been terrorized by my “servants”—the ojiji who had murdered my enemies in droves? Sweat sprung from my palms, but I clenched them, head high, and sat on Zuri’s throne.

The adinkra cloth from my outing with King Kwasi—black, white, and metallic gold fabric—hugged my hips in an arresting gown, leaving my shoulders bare. My jewelry I kept simple: a gold cuff choker and my rising sun crown, a complement to the stark glyphs on my adinkra and the blue patterns covering my skin.

“You look,” Zuri said, “like someone to be feared.”