“There are occasions that are opportune times to communicate with our ancestors. To call upon them for blessings, assistance, and guidance.” Geoboe raises his cup, preparing to toast.

“Like death,” you say.

“Birth, death, coming of age.” Geoboe sips from his cup. “A royal marriage would also be a signature occasion.”

“We have no royalty.” You study the table. Khuma and Lebna turn away coyly, not meeting anyone’s eyes, not even each other’s, like hostages entangled in the machinations of their captors. “We have families, prominent families, even if they aren’t recognized by the Ijo.”

“The Nguni are a founding family,” the Queen Mother intones.

“Yet we aren’t accorded the same respect as the Adisa.” Geoboe set his cup down to emphasize his words. “Perhaps if we were to join with another mighty house, we would garner more respect.”

“What are you talking about?” you ask, fearing you already know.

“Let me speak plain: I have proposed that my daughter, Khuma, marry Lebna. A blessed union of families.”

“Does she get a say in the matter?” Myriad thoughts race through your mind, but you attempt to hold the anger that flares within you in check. Your aunt on O.E. treated you as little more than property to be bartered. The things you had to do to free yourself from that kind of monster—before they took bits of your soul the way that monsters inevitably did—still haunt you.

“She’s an obedient daughter,” Geoboe says.

You can’t help yourself. Anger is your gift. “With your love of the old ways, I’m surprised you haven’t paraded her about in a reed dance. You know, gather her and the other maidens to dance as a troupe, hoping her reed doesn’t break in order to prove her virginity.”

Geoboe rises. An air of intimidation settles on the table. Khuma and Lebna pass an unreadable glance between each other. Out of reflex, you reach to turn your bracelets to release your chakrams.

The Queen Mother starts to laugh. A deep, throaty thing whose vibrations wash through you. “She makes a good point, Geoboe. Listen to how you sound.”

Geoboe settles into his seat, silent and white-lipped. His face frozen into an inscrutable mask either nursing his nicked pride or plotting his next move. “Perhaps I came across too strong.”

“What do you hope to accomplish with this … blessed union?” you probe, not wanting to give further offense.

“It’s an overture. To a new age. A unification of resources and territories,” he says.

“Muungano is already one people.”

“True, but many communities—the farther from the Dreaming City we migrate, the more our cultures become distinct territories. To correct this, some customs must change.”

You rotate your chakram bracelet out of unconscious habit. You study the easy flow of conversation between the guests, ever conscious of the heavy gaze of the Queen Mother on you. “Which customs do you imagine changing?”