A sun for the morning, a sun for the evening,
And moons for years to come.

Then a hundred-voiced chant grew from the farthest standing tiers, doubling, then tripling into thousands. Before long, the hall was on its feet, rocking, dancing, crying out with passionate conviction.

Tarisai for the morning!
Ekundayo for the evening!
And peace for moons to come.

My legs trembled at the sound. It was different from when I first entered the hall, different even from the cheers after my First Ruling, which were heightened by gossip and scandal.

This sound had kindness to it, like the third chord in a harmony, wrapping around the hall.

Love. This sound, this new, chaotic ocean roaring my name—it was filled with love.

“Prove it, little sister,” Min Ja yelled, pointing at the mask on my chest. “If the Ray could leave you anytime, we’d better check if you’re still worthy.”

A nervous thrill chased up my spine. Still, I cried: “Obabirin!” The word ricocheted from the echo-stone, and the hall held its breath.

I glanced up at the domed skylight, just in time to see a pelican soar across the clouds. Then the eyes of the lioness flashed, filling the hall with golden light.

I have three bells in my mouth, I do not tell a lie.
Once, a girl tasted death and spat it out—pah, pah—for
she did not like its story.
Should I say her name? Aheh, but you know it already!
Many moons ago, the Idajo walked the earth.
Some say she never left. (Do not suck your teeth, I am not a liar.)
Yes: Some say she visits in dreams, riding Iranti, her beast of many
eyes. And if your soul is made of gold, and your mind filled with
peace . . . she may visit you, child, and peek into your story.
Who knows? Maybe she will find you worthy.
Maybe you too will wear the mask of Wuraola.

—From the songs of Adukeh: Master Griot, and akorin to the Empress Redemptor

AUTHOR’S NOTE AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Redemptor is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

Raybearer took me twelve years. But I had to write Redemptor, the first sequel I’ve ever attempted, in nine months, during a period of brutal depression, a global pandemic that killed millions, the hastily rescheduled release of my first novel, and the largest Black civil rights movement to date in world history, abutted with violent state retaliation.

There are pages and pages of this book I don’t remember writing. Some days I would write, collapse in exhaustion, and wake to lines in my own handwriting that hadn’t been there before. A yearlong whiplash between grief, anger, and white-knuckled fear does strange things to memory. Tarisai’s Hallow, in a way, mirrors the way our bodies have an instinct to carry difficult stories, but also to fade the ones we can’t quite handle—and least not yet.