Dayo and I did not touch the platters of seared goat, savory jollof rice, roasted pear skewers, and fried plantains, nor did we touch chalices of palm wine and herb water. We had taken tinctures before the banquet to suppress our appetites, as it was considered a display of weakness for Raybearers to eat or drink in public, or to leave a function to relieve ourselves. Every court custom served to reinforce that ancient fiction: that Raybearers were near deities, handpicked by the Storyteller to rule over Aritsar.

I hadn’t needed the tincture—the anxious knots in my stomach were more than enough to spoil my appetite. But once the dining bustle died down, I donned an imperious mask, washed my hands in the ceremonial water bowl at my elbow, and stood.

“Welcome, everyone,” I began, jumping at the amplification of my voice. Ai Ling had placed an enchanted echo-stone behind my seat cushion. Throughout the hall, the scrape of earthen dinnerware stopped, and the ambient drums and plucked zither music melted into the quiet. A sea of eyes surged to rest on me.

“I am especially grateful for the presence of Aritsar’s vassal rulers, as well as our guests from Songland. Thank you for prolonging your stay. I know you were eager to return to your home realms, after I . . . transformed our treaty with the abiku.” I smiled tightly, choosing to ignore scornful whispers. “What you choose tonight decides the fate of the empire. I want to be the last Redemptor ever sent into the Oruku Breach. To ensure that no child—Arit or Songlander—is ever sacrificed again.”

“Hear, hear,” Dayo interrupted with eager applause. The guests awkwardly followed suit.

“But the abiku won’t accept me,” I went on. “Not unless I anoint a council of the twelve rulers of Aritsar. I know it’s . . . a lot. What I’m asking. A pact for life, binding our minds, our blood. But I’ve been in your shoes. I’m an Anointed One too, after all, so I know how daunting that feels. But if we don’t try . . .” I inhaled—then bit down on the kernel of dried kuso-kuso I’d been hiding under my tongue. The fragrant herb went sharply to my head, and a green haze crept at the edges of my vision. The Hallow flowing in my veins—the gift from my father the alagbato, who drew stories from the earth—boiled beneath my skin, begging to leach memories from every surface I touched. Instead, I used my temporarily heightened power to conjure a memory, and send it as a mass hallucination into the brows of every guest at my table: the massacre at Ebujo, with visions of bodies littering the temple floor, ripped apart by vengeful creatures from the Underworld.

CHAPTER 6

My banquet table fell into chaos. Some of the rulers stood, upsetting their chalices and clutching their temples as if to claw the vision out. I winced. It had been a risk, invading their minds like that. It was unlikely they would forgive me for it soon—but forcing the memory of Ebujo had been the quickest way to get my point across.