She flew us away from the island mound, dropping me in a heap on the banks of the amethyst lake. Scrambling to my feet, I stared at her in confused alarm. “Mother?”

She was covering her face, mouth open in a static sob. Slowly she sank down by my side, looking younger than ever. Her shade robes flickered around her as she drew her knees to her chest.

“I’m sorry, Tarisai,” she rasped. “I-I don’t know what came over me. I just thought—if I gave the abiku what they wanted—if I could free all those children . . .”

As she babbled incomprehensibly, I remembered where I had smelled the statue before.

The milky-eyed beast at the bridge: one of the Unnamed Deaths.

“That shrine isn’t a portal at all, is it?” I said, in a low, strangled voice. “It would have killed me.”

The Lady nodded slowly, bright eyes peering out at me from behind her hands. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered again.

“Why?” Hot tears rolled down my cheeks, but my voice remained calm. “Why did you try to kill me, Mother?”

She began to rock back and forth, keening into her fists. “To free the others,” she said. “All of them.” She pointed over the edge of the plateau. Woodenly, I rose to my feet and glanced below. Immediately, my veins turned to ice.

For miles beneath the plateau, lines of ojiji children stretched in every direction, drilling in perfect synchronization. Their eyes were dull and empty. Most were from Songland, though a minority looked to hail from all twelve kingdoms of Aritsar. Purple Redemptor birthmarks glistened on every single child.

“No,” I croaked. “But—but this doesn’t make sense. There must be at least ten thousand Redemptors here. A hundred, even. And that would mean . . .”

“It would mean,” The Lady finished, “that except for the few who escaped the Underworld, in all five hundred years of sacrifices, not a single child has made it to Core. They never got to enter Egungun’s Parade. They never got to travel to paradise, or receive their final rest. Once they succumbed to the Underworld’s torture and gave the abiku permission to kill them, they were brought here.” She indicated at the amethyst lake. “To be cursed by the shrine. It killed them, of course—but unlike every other kind of death, it also stole their memories. And a soul without memories is like a ghost—never leaving its body, even if that body is dead. What’s left is the perfect weapon: a soul that can be commanded and a body that cannot die. One of those ojiji could kill one hundred Arit warriors in a matter of hours. A hundred thousand . . .”

“Could defeat the Army of Twelve Realms,” I whispered.

The Lady nodded. “I think the abiku must have been planning it from the very beginning. It’s why they agreed to Enoba’s treaty in the first place. The abiku, while strong, could not defeat the massive Army of Twelve realms . . . but if they could get their hands on live humans, eventually, they’d have immortal forces strong enough to rule the world.”