CHAPTER 7

Were it up to me, the night would have ended then, letting me escape this den of strangers to be with my council siblings, who would ply me with sweets and kisses, stories and honeywine. Instead, Ai Ling rose and dismissed the tables, gesturing for the court musicians to play . . . and the reveling portion of my Peace Banquet to begin.

You realize those are dance accessories, right? Dayo Ray-spoke, nodding at my grass leg tassels with a mischievous smile. They’ll expect us to lead the first set.

I will dance in front of these people, I replied testily, when it snows in the Blessid Desert.

Everyone at court knew that I didn’t dance. Most girls from the center realms—Oluwan, Djbanti, Nyamba, and Swana—had been raised on festival drums and rhythm games, learning to bounce and wind while still babes tied to their mothers’ backs. But my world had been Bhekina House: dusty scrolls, plaster walls, and windows boarded up so tightly, no music bled through.

Come on, Tar, Kirah chided, already on the arm of a Songlander dignitary. You made history tonight. Loosen up a little.

Ai Ling sidled to my rescue, taking my place at Dayo’s side. “The Empress is recovering from an injury,” she announced to the court, tinting the words with a hint of her Hallow’s persuasive power. “She will not be joining the dancing tonight, and conveys her regrets.”

I bowed serenely to the guests, tossed a grateful smile at Ai Ling, and retreated to watch the banquet from my throne, which stood on a dais overlooking the Imperial Hall.

Traditional Oluwani dances were performed by groups or individuals—never in pairs, as was custom in the distant northern realms. As the empire had grown, however, Oluwan courtiers had adopted the ijo agbaye, a dance with elements from all over the empire, including individual partners.

I winced as revelers took the floor. To this day, my council siblings teased me about the ijo agbaye. It was, famously, the only test I had ever failed as a Children’s Palace candidate.

“Just give me a logic puzzle,” I had sputtered at age twelve in the Hall of Dreams, hot with humiliation after colliding with my partner for the fifth time. “I’ll behead sparring dummies. I’ll memorize every law in the Imperial Library. Just don’t—make me dance—again.”

Still, as I watched revelers gyrate and twist from my throne on the Imperial Hall dais, longing pricked at my feet.

Ai Ling and Dayo darted like revolving fireflies as they led the ijo agbaye, first dancing without touching, in the Oluwan style of outstretched arms and rolling hips. Then they danced together, Ai Ling’s hands on Dayo’s shoulders as he lifted her from the waist and spun. She threw back her head and laughed, hanfu sleeves streaming in pale peach ribbons as Dayo’s purple agbada swept the floor. Her hair hung loose to her waist. The front looped in a bun, glinting with pearl flowers and bead ornaments that jingled as she twirled in Dayo’s arms.