OYA, PLEASE LET THIS WORK.
I lift up a silent prayer as my heart thumps against my chest. We move through the shadows, crouching at the periphery of the masks’ camp. My plan seemed perfect before, but now that it’s time, I can’t stop thinking of all the ways it could fail. What if Tzain and Amari aren’t inside? What if we have to face off against a maji? And what about Inan?
I glance at him, dread building at the sight. My plan starts with me handing the little prince the sunstone; either I’ve lost my mind, or I’ve already lost this fight.
Inan peers ahead, jaw tight as he takes a count of the guards surrounding the gate. Instead of his usual armor, he wears the black attire the captive fighter wore.
I still can’t tell what to make of him, of all the things he made me feel. Watching his misguided hate brought me back, wrapping me in the darkest days after the Raid. I despised magic. I blamed Mama.
I cursed the gods for making us this way.
A lump forms in my throat as I try to forget that old pain. I can still feel the shadow of the lie inside, pushing me to hate my blood, rip out my white hair.
It almost ate me alive, the self-hatred spun from Saran’s lies. But he already took Mama. I couldn’t let him take the truth, too.
In the moons following the Raid, I held on to Mama’s teachings, embedding them in my heart until they ran through me like blood. No matter what the world said, my magic was beautiful. Even without powers, the gods had blessed me with a gift.
But Inan’s tears brought it all back, the lethal lie this world forces us to swallow. Saran did well.
Inan already hates himself more than I ever could.
“Alright,” he whispers. “It’s time.”
It takes an unusual amount of effort to unclench my fingers and hand him my leather pack.
“Don’t overextend yourself,” he warns. “And remember, keep some animations behind to provide a defense.”
“I know, I know.” I roll my eyes. “Get on with it.”
Though I don’t want to feel anything, my stomach clenches as Inan emerges from the shadows and stalks toward the gate. The memory of his rough hand in my own comes back to me. A strange comfort filled me from his touch.
The two masked figures posted at the entrance point their weapons. The ones hidden in the shadows shift as well. From above, I hear a chorus of plucks: bowstrings with arrows being pulled taut.
Though I know Inan can sense it all, he walks with brash confidence. He doesn’t stop until he’s hundreds of meters ahead, halfway between me and the entrance.
“I’ve come to make a trade,” he declares. “I have something you want.”
He drops my pack to the ground and removes the sunstone. I should’ve prepared him for the rush. Even from afar, I hear a gasp.
A tremor runs from his hands to his head, his palms pulsing with a soft blue light. I wonder if Orí appears behind his eyes.
The show is exactly what the masks needs. A few slither out of the shadows and begin to circle him, weapons raised and ready to strike.
“On your knees,” a masked woman barks, cautiously leading the charge outside the gate. She points her ax and gives a nod, drawing more of their fighters out of hiding.
Gods. There are already more than we bargained for. Forty … fifty … sixty? How many more aim at him from the trees?
“Bring out the prisoners first.”
“After you’re restrained.”
The wooden gate swings open. Inan surveys the female leader and takes a step back.
“I’m sorry.” Inan turns. “I’m afraid I can’t make that deal.”
I bolt from the underbrush, sprinting as fast as my legs will take me. Inan hurls the sunstone like an agbön ball, thrusting with all his might. It sails through the air with impressive speed. I have to leap to catch it. I clutch it to my chest and somersault as I hit the ground.
“Ah!” I wheeze as the sunstone fills me, an intoxicating rush I’m beginning to crave. Heat explodes under my skin as its power surges, igniting all the ashê in my blood.
Behind my eyes a different glimpse of Oya plays, red silks luminescent against her black skin. Wind swirls her skirts and twists in her hair, making the beads dance around her face.
A white light radiates from her palm as she reaches out her hand. I can’t feel my body, yet I feel myself reaching back. In one fleeting moment, our fingers brush—
The world rumbles to life.
“Get her!”
Someone cries beyond me, but I can’t truly hear it. Magic roars from my blood, amplifying spirits far and wide. They call to me, rising like a tsunami wave. Their thrum overpowers the sounds of the living.
Like tides pulled by the moon, the souls crash into me.
“4
mí àwọn tí ó ti sùn—”
I thrust my hand into the earth. A deep fracture ripples through it at my touch.
The ground beneath us groans as an army of the dead rises from the dirt.
They swirl out of the ground, a hurricane of twigs and rocks and soil. Their bodies harden with the silver glow of my magic. I unleash the storm.
“Attack!”