Phantom voices whispered from alternate tunnels, long, winding routes that my map warned would lead me in circles.

I quoted one of Chief Uriyah’s dusty proverbs, mimicking the old man’s chiding baritone. “ ‘The wise young ruler is not led by passing fancy,’ ” I told the tunnels, and continued on my way.

Then came Kirah’s voice. “Tar?” It was so real, I could almost see her in the distance, her tasseled prayer scarf rippling in the frigid cavern wind. “Help me. I don’t know how I got down here, but I don’t have a map, like you. Don’t leave me. Stay, we’ll escape together . . .”

I bit my lip and ignored the false spirit, charging on. “Min Ja wouldn’t fall for that,” I said aloud. “She would stab her own brother, if he meant her harm. So I’m not listening to you.”

Days or hours later, I came to a crossroads and stopped to consult my map again. Then someone else spoke, in a strident, resonant tenor that made my knees weak.

“Well done, my Idajo,” said Zuri of Djbanti. “I knew you’d keep your promise to the Redemptors.”

CHAPTER 32

The shade hovered right in front of me, swathed in grand, robe-like shadows. As when he lived, his skin was brilliant and black, his smile square and flawless. Gold cuffs winked in his locs, as though he were back in court again, but his voice was low and genuine—the one he had only ever used with me.

Tears sprung to my eyes. “You’re not real,” I said.

“I’m not alive,” he corrected. “I died, Idajo. And this is where the dead go.”

“The dead go to Egungun’s Parade. You’re not real.”

His features crumpled with pain. “Not all of us can bear the parade, you know,” he said quietly. “With every step, you feel the pain that you caused others in life. Some of us prefer to wander the Underworld. And there was one sin I just couldn’t relive.” He stepped closer, and I could smell him—the heady scent of agave and iron, mixed with the Underworld’s sulfur. “The pain I caused you, Idajo.”

I should have walked right by him. I knew where to go—the pulsing sun was on my thigh now, indicating the correct tunnel to reach the Bridge of the Warlord’s Deaths.

But instead I asked, “What do you want, Zuri?”

“To apologize.” He gave that sad half smile I had so loved when he was alive. “For keeping secrets. I said we were a team, and you deserved my trust. In the end . . . you always tried to do the right thing.”

He emphasized the last phrase, which for some reason made me squirm. “Well,” I said. “You’ve apologized. So let me pass.”

“Of course. But I want to make amends.” His brow wrinkled, as if torn with indecision. “Tar . . . there’s something you should know about the abiku. They’re up to something. I caught a glimpse of it when I left the parade, something to do with the old Redemptors. The ones whose souls they stole.”