“Just out for a stroll,” Dayo added, in the worst working-class Oluwani accent I’d ever heard, making all of us burst into laughter.

Festive body paint covered our arms and faces, and our skin smelled sharply of lemon and peppermint, a balm to keep mosquitoes at bay. In theory, we were supposed to blend into a crowd of commoners. But tradition required Dayo and me to wear clothing from the reign of Enoba the Perfect. The outdated costumes did little to conceal our identities. They were also unnecessary, thanks to the city-wide curfew . . . but the old customs still held.

“Ready to meet the ancestors?” Dayo whispered, linking his arm through mine. The beat of drums and shakers pulsed from the city below, muffled from celebrations confined indoors. Overhead, my sprites sparkled against the cloudless night sky. I had tried to convince the creatures to stay at the palace, but they would have none of it. Now they followed me and Dayo in a chirping, glowing parade, announcing our approximate location to the entire city.

The Watching Wall, several stories tall and glistening with muraled plaster, began at the base of Palace Hill, and cut for miles through the city. We would walk its full length, stopping to honor past Raybearers and their councils.

Enoba the Perfect’s shrine began our pilgrimage. Dayo and I knelt on cushions before the image of our eight-times-great-grandfather. I had to crane my neck to glimpse the late emperor’s face, and even standing, we barely reached Enoba’s ankle.

“We pay homage,” Dayo murmured. The warriors passed him a chalice, from which he sipped palm wine and poured a libation.

I did the same and echoed him. “Homage.” But as I stared at Enoba’s serene broad features, his ringed hand lifted in blessing, all I could think was: How many?

How many Raybearing daughters did you send away? Would you have wanted me standing here at all?

We knelt the longest at Olugbade’s mural, emptying the chalice at the late emperor’s feet. I sent tendrils of comfort down the Ray bond, watching Dayo for signs of anxiety. But his eyes remained dry.

“Strange,” he said, touching the cold stone of his father’s likeness. He smiled weakly. “This was how it felt when he was alive too.”

I grimaced and nodded. The Lady had parented me from the opposite wing of an isolated manor. And Olugbade had loved Dayo the only way he knew how—from a distance.

We continued down the wall, kneeling and paying tribute every half mile. Moonlight glowed across the broad gravel avenues, and lamps twinkled festively in every window. Faint music wafted into the streets from closed shops and high-rises. Children’s voices lifted in praise of Dayo, placing his name in the ancient hymn of Aritsar: Eleven moons watch the sun dance: Black and gold, Ekundayo!

But every so often, a new song spilled into the streets. I’d heard the melody before, mocked by nobles in the palace . . . but these commoners sang it in full voice, sending a thrill of joy and terror down my arms.