I froze in surprise . . . then she smiled, holding out a hand through the mirror. She mouthed, eyes bright with ambition, Ask me to guide you.

I was supposed to ignore her. Ye Eun’s instructions had been clear. And yet . . . griots described the Underworld as a portal to many dimensions, not just a liaison between Earth and Core. Perhaps this other Tarisai was the empress of a mirror world. One where peasant and Redemptor blood had never been shed. One where I had been so prepared, so capable that I had never made mistakes.

What if this better, improved Tarisai could help me? Impart knowledge that could change the trajectory of Aritsar, and make me the ruler I so ached to be? Surely I wouldn’t have to stay in her world forever. Just a little while, and she could tell me what I’d done wrong. Prevent me from causing future catastrophes.

She nodded encouragingly, seeming to sense my thoughts. Ask, she mouthed again, and I opened my mouth . . .

Only for Iranti to stamp in the stairwell, shaking her great head and grunting so loud, I was jarred out of my trance. All of her eyes seemed to scold me, wide with warning.

I stared at her, dazed, and then I realized the mistake I had almost made. If the mirror Tarisai was, in fact, another abiku, trying to lead me off the path . . . it would need my permission to touch me. Ask me to guide you may not have been explicit, but the words were enough to seal my doom.

I shuddered, stumbling back, and the Majestic Tarisai scowled and vanished, leaving behind my dreary reflection beside Iranti’s.

Onward we climbed. The mirrors showed spear-toting, Vigilante Tarisai, her clothes modeled shamelessly after Zuri’s, leading the oppressed in an armored charge toward liberation. Then came Cherished Tarisai, a grinning, round-cheeked little girl surrounded by imaginary family members, all of whom were delighted by her childish antics, and who caressed her without an ounce of fear. There was even Dancer Tarisai, resplendent in body paint and the envy of every festival, navigating her many partners with grace and rolling her perfect hips in sultry time to the music.

The hardest of my mirror selves to ignore was Mother Tarisai—a serene, doe-eyed woman decades older than I was, cooing as she held up a plump, gurgling infant. A proud, bearded Sanjeet circled both mother and child in his arms. She looked so peaceful. So confident that she would never hurt the treasure in her arms—would never betray or leave it. For a brief, achingly sweet moment, I let myself pretend that this Tarisai truly existed. That it wasn’t an abiku trying to murder me, but an alternate universe in which Raybearers didn’t exist, and healing was certain, and curses never lasted longer than a single generation.

I moved on, smiling sadly to myself, but to my shock, the child Tarisai appeared again.