I would not forget.

Adukeh stopped singing when we reached the lofty dais. The old Council of Eleven rose from their thrones, and Mbali, resplendent in gold-hemmed priestess robes, raised her hands, quieting the massive hall to a rolling hiss.

A lump formed in my throat. I hadn’t seen Mbali since the day of our failed heist, when an ojiji had murdered Thaddace. Mbali knew that I was not his killer. But I couldn’t be sure she’d forgiven me for his death until she stared down from the imperial dais, features lined with their signature blend of grief and compassion.

Dayo and I ascended to the thrones. First, we knelt before the old council, and one by one they asked if we would defend Aritsar and uphold the legacy of Enoba the Perfect. We replied I will eleven times, though in my head I replaced Enoba with Aiyetoro. Dayo also swore to defend Oluwan, since he would be king as well as emperor.

The former High Priestess produced the horn of an antelope, into which she poured a carafe of sharp-smelling pelican oil. Her fluting voice amplified by the echo-stone, Mbali announced, “As the antelope cuts through the savannah, and the grass may not hinder it, so the commands of Ekundayo and Tarisai Kunleo must come to pass.” The hall held its breath as she touched the tip of the horn to Dayo’s lips, then mine, invoking them with the ritual power of ase—divine authority. Then we rose as one, presented by Mbali to the masses.

“Behold,” she said amidst wall-to-wall joyful roars that rattled my bones. “Your Emperor and Empress Redemptor.”

The next part was my favorite: watching all my council siblings get crowned. I had not anointed them, so only Dayo placed the circlets of moonstone on their heads, but my heart swelled as Kirah, Sanjeet, Ai Ling, Umansa, and all the rest were presented to the hall, taking their places beside us on the eleven gleaming thrones. I crowned my council of vassal rulers next, though they did not take places on the dais—their thrones belonged in their home realms. On a stool beside my throne lay Zuri’s crocodile mask, on loan to me from the citizens of Djbanti. They had long since learned of their former king’s heroism, and sang his name with honor in the streets of their commonwealth.

Strangely, his body was still yet to be found. I knew better than to hope. If he was alive, after all, I’d be able to feel him through my Ray, and when I reached out into the ether, searching for a thread of his vibrant soul . . . I found nothing. So he was dead. He had to be dead.

Didn’t he?

I smiled ruefully. Perhaps some puzzles could not be solved for a lifetime. When I came to the crown that would have been Zuri’s, I blinked back tears and placed the gold circlet on the spiked green mask.

“May we dance together in Egungun’s Parade,” I murmured.