Children of Virtue and Vengeance (Legacy of Orïsha #2)(62)

“We can make our own,” Na’imah glares.

“No, we can’t.” Zélie shakes her head. “Mama Agba’s right. It’s too dangerous. We’re more likely to die trying to make the connection than to match their power, and it’s not worth sacrificing someone we love.”

She stares at me, and I can feel something fracture between us. There’s no hiding it anymore.

We don’t have the same plan to win this war.

“We don’t need Amari.” Zélie turns back to the elders. “We don’t even need to become cênters. We went to Chandomblé to recover our scrolls and now we have them.” Zélie gestures to the incantations piled against the far wall. “We’ll train our maji until they’re strong enough to face Nehanda and her t?táns. And when that day comes, we’ll end this war in the only way the monarchy will respect. The way that would make our ancestors proud.”

“That’s what I’m talking about!” Nao claps, rising out of her seat. “Let’s finish this our way, led by the Soldier of Death!”

My chest falls as the other elders jump in, enthralled by their future fight. I stare at Zélie and I know she can feel the heat of my gaze, but she doesn’t meet my eye.

My chest slumps and I exit the room, unable to stomach the sight. I practically run out of the first tower, not stopping until I meet the cool night air.

Or?sha waits for no one, Father’s whisper tickles my ear, reminding me of what I must do. I can’t keep waiting for Zélie and the Iyika to see reason. No matter what, they only fight for the maji. I must fight for the kingdom.

“Or?sha waits for no one,” I whisper to myself, balling my fists.

If the elders won’t support my plan to win this war, I’ll have to do it myself.





CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR


ZéLIE


HIGH-PITCHED CHIMES BLEED into my ears, jarring me awake. Though I’ve only spent a short time swaddled within the mountain walls that cover the sanctuary, I already know what each unique tone means. Low bells commemorate the arrival of new maji. A twinkling melody signals each mealtime. But this piercing timbre is a recent addition. Chimes calling us to train.

I peel my head up from the ankara print on my pillow; a sliver of yellow peeks out from my balcony’s ledge. I groan and bury myself under the covers. Only Mama Agba would make us rise before the sun.

As the chimes ring, the pit of guilt that’s plagued me since Chandomblé settles like a brick in my stomach. How am I supposed to face my Reapers knowing I’m not fit to lead my clan?

It’s been days, yet my mind won’t stop replaying the memory of Mazeli running down the temple stairs. I promised to keep my Second safe. To protect him with my life. But as soon as I saw Inan, I abandoned my vow to get my revenge. I was in charge of only one Reaper then. What would’ve happened if I’d led the entire clan?

There are so few Reapers to begin with; Oya doesn’t bless many with our gift. If we’re going to win this war and rebuild what the monarchy took, we can’t afford to lose any of them. They need an elder they can actually trust.

A soft knock raps against my door, forcing me to lift my head. I half expect to find Mazeli’s oversized ears when the purple door creaks open, but a sweeping flash of silver peeks through instead.

“Mama Agba?”

I grin at the sight of the silver robe over her dark skin. The crimped garment flows behind her as she walks. It’s like she carries a breeze within the silk’s folds.

Before the Raid, past clan elders wore mantles like these, garments to mark their revered status. To wear this robe was as special as wearing the clan elder’s headdress.

“E kàárò ìyáawa.” I drag myself out of bed, kneeling before her despite how my thighs burn. As my nose touches the ground, I think of how many times I should’ve done this. How many times we all should’ve bowed in her presence.

As a former elder, Mama Agba was supposed to be celebrated. Revered by all. Instead she spent years hiding who she was, wearing nothing but muted kaftans, while she stitched beautiful garments for nobles until her fingers bled.

“Get up, child.” Mama Agba smacks her lips at me, but her mahogany eyes crinkle with emotion. She wraps me in a warm hug, and from the scent of cloves and súyà spices embedded into her silks, I know she’s already put in hours in the kitchen.

“I wanted to catch you before your first training.” She reaches into her bag and removes an imposing metal collar. The majestic piece stretches the full length of my neck with a base to cover my collarbone.

“It’s beautiful,” I breathe, touching its spectacular design. Dozens of triangular plates have been stitched together to form its skin, a unique mix of her seamstress skills and Tahir’s metalwork.

“I thought about making headdresses, but with all the battle you’re seeing, these felt more appropriate.” Mama Agba gestures for me to turn around, but I stay still.

“You don’t like it?” she asks.

I shake my head, running my toes over the mosaic tiles along the floor.

“I feel like I don’t deserve to wear it. I don’t think I’m meant to be their elder.”

“Is this because of what happened at the temple?” Mama Agba rests her hand on my shoulder, beckoning me toward her. “Being an elder does not mean you won’t make mistakes. It only means you keep fighting despite them.”