I froze on the dais, temptation stirring in my veins. With a word, I could wipe the grin off Gakuru’s face. I could make every one of those slimy warlords bow. With a flash of my mask, I could save every child like Adukeh.

“There’s nothing wrong with using power, Idajo,” Zuri said. His courtier drawl was gone. He spoke quietly, though the echo-stone undoubtedly allowed the court to hear him. “You aren’t an ehru-master. You are a gear in an imperial machine—just like everyone else. You are a tool—so be a useful one.”

Slowly, my hand rose to my mask. I met Gakuru’s mocking eyes, and fury roiled inside me, ready to spew in a word: Bow. Bow and obey.

But then my spear shifted in its holster, reminding me of its presence. I reached up and touched the shaft, feeling a spark of Sanjeet’s essence in my fingertips. Just then I remembered a night so many months ago, when Sanjeet embraced me in the palace salon, whispering in my ear.

No human being should be reduced to a function. The day we do that—it’s the beginning of the end.

“I’m not a tool,” I rasped, after a deafening silence. “And I refuse to make one of anyone else. We’ll find another way to help your people, Zuri. I promise. We’ll build the Djbanti you want, together.” I reached to take his hand. “But this . . .” I gestured toward the mask beneath my clothes. “This isn’t it.”

To my surprise, Zuri did not look disappointed—only resigned. He stood and touched my cheek, gaze reaching past me to the fortress walls. “I hoped you wouldn’t say that, Idajo. It would have made this day so much easier.”

Only then did I notice a roar in my ears—and this time, it wasn’t due to sleep deprivation. Faintly, beyond the fortress walls, shouts and the pounding of feet and the clanging of iron against iron sounded.

A runner boy in Wanguru colors stumbled into the courtyard, eyes glinting with fear. I noticed that he bowed to the warlords instead of to Zuri. “The peasants,” he wailed. “Workers, everywhere, in every region—they’re setting fire to your villas. Laying siege to mines, claiming ownership of the tanneries. They’re armed. I’m not sure how. But now they’re coming for the fortress, and . . . it’s a revolution, Lord Gakuru.”

CHAPTER 27

Gakuru’s shoulders turned to stone. His gaze fell like thunder on Zuri. “This,” he rasped, “is your doing.”

“However do you mean?” Zuri’s voice was soft. He smiled down at the warlords from his dais, dark features cold and resplendent, like a marble-faced god. For a breathless moment, I lost myself in that charismatic rage. I knew then that I could drown in a man like Zuri, sinking like a pebble in his well of righteous blood.

Gakuru unsheathed a knife from his weapon holster. “Your days as king have always been numbered. We knew you were up to something, we were only unclear on the details. But now the game is up, my king . . .” He bared his gold-capped teeth, knuckles tightening around the knife. The other warlords drew their weapons as well. “And we have armies a thousand strong. They will cut your peasants to pieces, and by the time we are done with you—”