“No,” I said at last. “I . . . think I’d better pace myself tonight.”

I vowed to see Kirah the moment the banquet was over. She would sing the madness out of me, and everything would go back to normal.

Until then, I just had to survive the night.

In between sets of the ijo agbaye, the realm rulers and their retinues performed regional dances in my honor, with some instruments and costumes that I had never seen before. Nadrej and his Biraslovian attendants spun in colorful dervishes; Ji Huan’s courtiers pantomimed with Moreyaoese masks and ribbon streamers—even stuffy Beatrix performed, stepping with her ladies in a Nontish procession of poses called a pavane. With every display of silk, gold, and precious jewel adornments, I thought of what Mayazatyl had told me before the banquet. How many of those treasures came from mines and mills that Dayo and I owned?

Exactly how rich was I?

The moon sank in the hall’s arched windows. Sweat shone on the brows of winded dignitaries as they collapsed on cushions, fanning flushed cheeks and nursing chalices of mango water. But before the night drew to a close, King Zuri of Djbanti stepped onto the dance floor.

At his back stood a throng of Djbanti warriors, bare chests painted intricately in red, yellow, and white. Each wore a leg rattle of seed pods, and they pounded rhythms into the ground with colorful staves. The warriors chanted in harmony as Zuri mounted the steps to my throne. He bowed, locs falling over his chiseled dark shoulders, and grazing the folds of his draping red tunic.

“My empress,” he announced, “this dance requires a partner.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” I gave a crisp smile. “Because your empress doesn’t dance.”

Zuri blinked in innocent confusion. “But your part won’t require dancing, Imperial Majesty. Warrior’s honor. All I ask for,” he said in that measured tenor, “is your full attention.”

Then he held out his hand. A gold cuff glinted on his upper arm, pressing ever so slightly into his skin. It was a popular accessory for wealthy young men, and so I didn’t know why it made me shudder. Why I thought suddenly of Melu in his grassland, bound by a will not his own.

Still, beneath the weight of a hundred curious eyes . . . I reached out and took Zuri’s hand.

As his fingers closed around mine, I felt the gentle scrape of calluses. Strange, for a man who spent all his time gambling on mancala.

“Think of this as a game,” he told me as we descended to the dance floor. The warriors continued to pound their staves, the beat rising in tempo. “Keep your eyes on me, and you win. Lose track for more than seven beats, and you lose. Your prize is to ask me a question. Anything you like.” He backed away from me, and I realized too late that the warriors were forming a circle around us. Before he disappeared outside the circle, enclosing me inside, he winked. “My prize, of course, is the same.”