“Good.” I pressed my lips together. “Then when the emperor and I enter the Imperial Hall, I want you right at my side.”

Her jaw dropped to the floor. “Lady Empress!”

“On one condition,” I said, closing my eyes as the revelries began in the Imperial Hall below, vibrating the floor of my bedchamber with a raucous chant. Eleven moons around the throne, eleven moons in glory shone; they shone around the sun . . .

“Sing to me, Addie.” I reached for Adukeh’s hand and squeezed. “Keep my story in your head. The waiting, the questions. The normal, boring parts. The parts that make me human. Can you do that? I . . .” I stared down at my missing finger. “I don’t want to forget.”

Within an hour, Dayo and I stood hand in hand before the towering Imperial Hall doors, sun-and-moon patterns and glyphs in old Arit carved into the alagbato-hewn mahogany. Our council siblings—as well as Iranti, whose vast neck Ye Eun had draped with blooming flower wreaths—stood close behind us. Adukeh trembled at my shoulder.

Are you ready for this? Dayo said into the Ray-bond, linking all twelve of our anointed minds. He could not have spoken aloud. Even behind thick doors, the rhythmic din from the Imperial Hall drowned out all sound.

I guess we’d better be—Oh gods oh gods oh gods—why does it have to be so loud?—is my collar on straight?—please, I’ve been ready for this since the Children’s Palace . . .

Voices poured into my mind, along with a din of emotions. Then Dayo sent a wave of calm, flooding our thoughts like a low, bubbling tide. Our breaths synced, as they had when we slept together in Yorua Keep. We smiled at each other like milk-sated babes—nothing calmed anointed blood like the Ray.

Imperial Guard warriors prepared to haul the doors open, reaching for the thick cords of rope. But before they could heave at the tons of solid wood, I raised both my hands, calling out to the memory of the iron, drawn from the heart of Malaki the alagbato.

I did it, I told her. I kept my promise . . . and I always will.

I will protect this land’s stories.

The doors burst open, and the sound of my own name reverberated through each of my limbs and invaded my eardrums.

Tarisai for the morning. Ekundayo for the evening. Peace for years to come.

Drumbeats echoed through the lofty dome, along with shaker gourds, a brassy child’s choir, and thousands of voices. Guests teemed on tiered benches from floor to ceiling—citizens from each region of every realm in Aritsar.

Why, you ask? Why? The Pelican has spoken.

Olugbade’s council waited for us on the great dais of echo-stones. Today was the last time they were allowed in the palace, and they occupied the ancient carved thrones. Previously, their seats had surrounded only one chair, its high back inlaid with ivory and chiseled with an Old Arit word: oba. But now, a second polished throne stood beside it, and though I could not read it from far away, I knew the word sculpted into its frame: obabirin.