Dayo looked on in confusion. Tar? His concerned voice blossomed in my head. We should go. In case Malaki changes her mind.

She won’t, I replied. Not if we fix it.

I was wrong to put you in danger like that, Dayo added. I’m sorry. It’s a miracle you calmed her down. I’m still not sure what you did.

We both stopped her, I objected. If you weren’t so annoyingly kind all the time, I’d never have figured out what she wanted. I turned to smile at him. Guess we make a pretty good team, Oba of Aritsar.

He dimpled, highlighting a smudge of soot on his cheek. Guess so, Obabirin Redemptor.

Speaking of which . . . mind if I borrow those long legs of yours?

I sent a vision of my intention into Dayo’s mind. His eyebrows rose when he saw . . . but he nodded, as usual trusting me without question. He crouched low so I could roost on his shoulders, and held my legs so I wouldn’t topple. The crowd—villagers, priests, nobility, and the man in the crocodile mask—watched as I directed Dayo to the arch.

Then I set my jaw, gripped the hunk of coal, and slashed at the ancient inscription.

When my vandalism was done, the blessing that had once invoked the power of blood dynasty, the moneyed name of my ancestors, was now reduced to three words.

OLOJARI WILL PROSPER.

I drew back my sleeves, revealing the bright blue marks on my forearms. Then I called my mask by its name, and light burst from beneath my tunic, drawing scandalized gasps from the crowd. The majority of the priests and villagers sank to genuflect in the dirt. But others, especially the gentry, just stared, frozen in shock.

“By the power vested in me as Empress Redemptor,” I announced, “with consent from His Imperial Majesty the Emperor . . . I officially forfeit the mine beneath the Holy Olojari Forge. From this day, the quarry and all its resources belong to the miners of the province, who may select delegates among themselves to facilitate trade with the capital. The nobility of Olojari,” I went on, nodding at the apoplectic huddle of well-dressed lords and ladies, “who have until now, so deftly managed the mine on the crown’s behalf, are hereby relieved of this service. Let the record be sealed—my word is passed.”

A wave of gasps and guttural cries rose across the temple clearing, and it took several moments before I recognized the sound for what it was: celebration. Dayo laughed, squeezing my legs where he held me for balance. My heart pumped with fear, hope, and elation . . .

And right on cue, a specter child floated above the crowd, gazing down at the happy display with sunken, bottomless eyes. Then in a chilling gush of wind, the ojiji’s treble voice hissed at my ear.

You helped them, but you did not help us. It’s too late—too late. Do more.

Pay for our lives.