Children of Virtue and Vengeance (Legacy of Orïsha #2)(42)

This is for their own good. Even if they don’t know it.

Ramaya breaks away from the other elders as I approach, but I stop her with my words.

“I’m tired of fighting to be heard,” I say. “Ramaya, I challenge you to be the new Connector elder.”





CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE


AMARI


IF THE MOUNTAIN was abuzz with excitement before, it’s ablaze now. Reactions spread like wildfire, only dying down when Ramaya closes the distance between us.

“How dare you,” she snarls. “You don’t have a right to be in this sanctuary, let alone challenge to become an elder!”

“Am I not a Connector, too?”

“You’re not a maji!” she shouts. “You’re not anything!”

My skin grows hot as blue clouds of magic froth at my fingertips. Whispers travel through the crowd, a hum building against my challenge. I scan the faces of the twelve Connectors behind Ramaya; not one of them looks like they’ll back my leadership. But I already conceded to their ways once.

Because of them, we’ve lost our leverage in this war.

“The decisions we make today will not only affect the maji,” I declare. “Whether you like it or not, t?táns have magic, too, and in this fight, you need as many as you can get. You don’t have to elect me.” I shake my head. “You don’t even have to listen. But I’ve been fighting for you and your magic just as long as the Soldier of Death. I deserve a chance to fight for this!”

“You want to fight?” Ramaya raises her fist, but Mama Agba blocks her path. Her brow creases and she releases a heavy sigh, surveying the rest of the crowd.

“Amari, the magic of Orí runs through your veins,” she says. “You have the right to challenge. But are you sure this is what you want?” The look in Mama Agba’s eyes warns me to concede. But I can’t back down now. The people of Or?sha need me.

“I’m sure.”

“Then let us begin.” Mama Agba turns to the crowd. “Clear the circle.”

Endless shoulders brush against me as the rest of the maji move to higher ground. People perch atop the mountain’s ledges, legs swinging over the cliffs in front of their clan temples. Looking up reminds me of being in the Ibeji arena, stranded on a boat, waiting to face my death.

Somehow back then it felt like I had more of a winning chance.

“What in Oya’s name do you think you’re doing?” Zélie says, breaking through the thinning crowd. She still looks like a vision in her glittering golds and red silks, a maji worthy of wearing her people’s crown.

“Our hold on Lagos is gone,” I say. “If no one listens to me, we’ll lose this war!”

“The maji are not defined by this war!” Zélie hisses. “Being an elder means you have to lead your clan. How do you expect to do that when you don’t know our ways? How can you fight for this when you don’t know anything about the maji at all?”

Her words give me pause; I don’t know how to convince her that I’m only doing what’s best. I’m fighting for her just as much as I’m fighting for everyone else.

“You may not have to concern yourself with the war, but as queen, I don’t have a choice. I have to put Or?sha first, no matter the cost.”

I ignore the hurt in Zélie’s face as I walk forward. From across the circle, Ramaya stands, face pinched with hatred.

Just strike first, I repeat to myself. Strike first and you’ll be one step closer to ending this war and taking the throne.

“The rules of ìjà mímó are simple.” Mama Agba’s voice echoes through the silent mountain. “The battle ends at concession or death, but we are in no place to senselessly lose our best.” She takes a moment, looking Ramaya and me square in the eyes. “Be fierce, but be restrained. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal.” Ramaya smiles. Her curly ringlets blow in the night wind as she cracks her knuckles.

I ignore the pit in my stomach and keep my face hard, forcing myself to nod as Mama Agba exits the bloodstone.

Strike, Amari, I think to myself. Prove them wrong.

“Begin!” Mama Agba shouts.

“Ya èmí, ya ara!” My skin stings as a vibrant blue light engulfs my entire arm. Though it doesn’t take away the pain, I feel the thread of ashê moving through the needle.

Gasps arise as I dart forward, my arm ablaze with magic. I fight with the way of the maji, but when I throw the comet of ashê, Ramaya leaps over it. I don’t have a chance to throw another when her palms slam against my head.

I cry out, vision flashing white. She yanks me by the curls, throwing me to the ground.

I shoot out my palm and try to chant again. “Ya èmí, ya—”

Her fist collides with my jaw before I can get the words out.

“I despise the sound of Yoruba from your mouth,” she hisses. She puts her other hand to my head, kneeling to the ground. “Let me show you what an incantation’s supposed to sound like. Iná a ti ara—”

I reach for my sword, but its metal does nothing to stop her attack. A cobalt cloud roars from Ramaya’s hand, searing into me. The cloud engulfs my mind like a match ignited in my skull. The scream that escapes my lips doesn’t feel like my own.