Children of Virtue and Vengeance (Legacy of Orïsha #2)(23)

“You hate it.”

“It.” He looks away. “Not you.”

I stare at the reflection of the jagged white line, the mark of my curse. Since I woke up, every time I reach for my magic it feels like someone’s driving an axe into my skull. I don’t know if it’s because of the way Zélie hurt me in the dreamscape, or if my abilities changed after the sacred ritual.

But after all that’s passed, I don’t even know if I want to use my magic. How can I when it’s the reason Father tried to wipe me from this earth?

“What about the t?táns in your ranks?” I ask. “Mother wasn’t the only one wearing a golden suit of armor.”

“We’re at war. Are we supposed to charge at their fire with our swords?” Ojore rubs his thumb against his burn scars, still scaly after all these years. “We may need the t?táns to put those maggots in the dirt, but magic is still a curse.”

I almost want to laugh; moons ago, I would have said the same thing. But even after all I’ve learned, I know nothing could make Ojore see magic another way. His mind was set the day Burners tore through the palace and scorched his parents alive. He was lucky to escape with just those scars.

“I thought they got you, too.” His voice gets quiet and he stares at the floor. “When I found you on the ritual grounds, there was so much blood. Even after they stabilized you, I didn’t think you’d ever wake up.”

I think back to the dreamscape. The dying reeds. The gray haze. Perhaps if Zélie hadn’t found me, I could’ve remained frozen in the dreamscape forever.

“I owe you my life.”

“Oh, you owe me a lot more than that. When this war is over, I want a title. I want gold. Land!”

I laugh and shake my head. “You talk as if the end is in sight.”

“You’re back, my king. Now it is.”

“Inan?”

I turn, not even realizing the door opened again. Mother stands in its frame, sunlight reflecting off her crimson gown. The beaded fabric drapes over her shoulders, forming a cape that falls to the small of her back. It glides as she makes her way into Father’s quarters.

Ojore releases a low whistle. “Even in a war zone, my auntie’s still got it.”

“Hush, boy.” Mother narrows her eyes, but smiles as she grabs Ojore’s chin. Though not related by blood, Ojore might as well have been Mother’s first son. She took him in after his family was killed, grooming him until he could rise through the ranks on his own.

“The assembly’s gathered in the throne room.” Mother shifts her attention to me. “We’re ready when you are.”

“But the cellar’s the safest place—”

Mother cuts me off with a wave of her hand. “Your people will meet their new king as tradition dictates. Not cowering in the dark.”

Ojore nods in approval. “You don’t miss a beat.”

“We can’t afford to,” she says. “The entire council will be watching, General Jok?ye closest of all. You must prove yourself to them if you’re going to command the army you need to win this war.”

My throat dries and I swallow, wishing I had more time to prepare. I know it’s up to me to free Lagos and Or?sha from the Iyika’s wrath, but the problems feel far too great to solve. With the blocked roads, the dwindling food supply, the unknown seconds until their firebombs rage again, how am I supposed to stop them when I couldn’t even stop magic from coming back?

“Now for the final touch.” Mother’s painted nails glisten as she snaps her fingers, making a servant enter the room. He carries a velvet cushion with Father’s crown. The sight of the polished gold sends a painful spasm through my abdomen.

“I’ll wait outside.” Ojore pats my back before making his way out. “But you’re ready. Your father would be proud.”

Despite the way my insides clench, I paste a smile on my face. But it falls the moment Mother takes the crown in her hands, gesturing for me to bend down. The shining metal rises like a two-tiered cake, every ounce of the royal heirloom forged from gold. Diamond-studded designs swirl around an elephantaire—the original royal crest. A glittering red ruby sits at its top, so dark it looks like blood.

“I know.” Mother’s eyes grow distant as she stares at the crown. “If I could burn it, I would.”

“At least you don’t have to wear his clothes.”

“I’ll have new robes tailored when I can.” She places the metal on my head. Her hard shell cracks at the sight. She presses her fingers to her lips and exhales.

“Skies, Mother, please don’t cry.”

She swats at me before straightening my collar. Though I hate how she fusses, I love how she smiles.

“Your father was far from a good man,” she says. “But he was a good king. He protected this throne at all cost. As his successor, you must do the same thing.”

She places her hands on my shoulders and turns me toward the mirror. With her head next to mine, the person who stares back starts to look more familiar.

“I don’t want to be like him, Mother. I can’t.”

“Don’t be your father, Inan.” She takes my arm. “Be the king he couldn’t.”





CHAPTER EIGHTEEN