Children of Virtue and Vengeance (Legacy of Orïsha #2)(7)

“I don’t give second chances, Z?tsōl. This would be your third.”

“You can trust me.” I stick out my hand. “I promise on Baba’s life. Help us finish this and you’ll collect in gold.”

Ro?n shakes his head, but relief rushes through me when he puts his hand in mine.

“Alright,” he says. “We’ll leave tonight.”





CHAPTER FOUR


AMARI


THE NEXT MORNING, my voice echoes in the cramped captain’s quarters. As the warship nears Zaria’s shores, I struggle to write the speech that will convince the people of Or?sha to back my claim to the throne.

“My name is Amari Olúborí,” I declare. “Daughter of King Saran. Sister to the late crown prince.”

I stand in front of the cracked mirror, attempting to feel the power embedded in those words. No matter how many times I speak them, they don’t feel right.

Nothing does.

I pull the black dashiki over my head and toss it onto the growing pile of clothes on my bed. After weeks of living with what I could carry on my back, the excess gathered by Ro?n’s men feels foreign.

It brings me back to mornings in the palace; to biting my tongue while servants forced me into gown after gown under Mother’s orders. She was never satisfied with anything I wore. In her amber eyes, I always looked too dark. Too large.

I reach for a gold-tinted gele on the floor. Mother was always fond of the color. I nestle the gele along my temples and Mother’s voice rings through my ears.

That’s not fit to wipe a leopanaire’s ass.

My throat dries and I set the headdress down. For so long I wanted to shut her out. Now I don’t have a choice.

Focus, Amari.

I pick up a navy tunic, squeezing the silk to keep the tears in. What right do I have to grieve when the sins of my family have caused this kingdom so much pain?

I slide the tunic over my skin and return to the mirror. There’s no time to cry.

I have to atone for those sins today.

“I stand before you to declare that the divisions of the past are over,” I shout. “The time to unify is now. Together, we will be…”

My voice trails as I shift my stance, inspecting my fragmented reflection. A new scar spills onto my shoulder, crackling like lightning against my oak-brown skin. Over the years, I’ve grown used to hiding the scar my brother left across my back. This is the first time I’ve had to hide Father’s.

Something about the mark feels alive. It’s as if his hatred still courses through my skin. I wish I could erase it. I almost wish I could erase him—

“Skies!” My fingers flash with the blue light of my ashê and I wince at the burn. I attempt to suppress the navy glow that shimmers around my hand, but the room spins as my new magic swells.

Midnight-blue tendrils shoot from my fingertips like sparks from a flint. My palms sting as my skin splits. My scars rip open at the seams. I gasp at the pain.

“Somebody help!” I shout as I stumble into the mirror. Crimson smears across my reflection. The agony is so great I can’t breathe. Blood trickles down my chest as I fall to my knees. I wheeze though I want to scream—

“Amari!”

Tzain’s voice is like shattered glass. His presence frees me from my mental cage. The pain fades ache by grueling ache.

I blink to find myself on the tarnished floor, half-dressed with my silk tunic clenched in my hand. The blood that smeared across the mirror is nowhere to be found.

My scars remain closed.

Tzain covers me with a shawl before taking me into his arms. I brace myself against his chest as my muscles turn heavy, winded from the burst of magic.

“That’s the second time this week,” he says.

Actually, it’s the fourth. But I bite back the truth when I see the concern in his gaze. Tzain doesn’t need to know it’s getting worse. No one does.

I still don’t know how to feel about these new gifts. What it means to be a Connector; to be a t?tán. The maji had their powers restored after the ritual, but t?táns like me have never had magic until now.

From what I can tell, the t?táns come from the nobility: royals unaware of their maji ancestry. What would Father say if he knew his own children carried the blood of those he hated most? The very people he regarded as maggots?

“Gods,” Tzain curses as he inspects my palm. The skin is red and tender to the touch, dotted with yellow blisters. “Magic’s not supposed to hurt. If you’d just talk to Zél—”

“Zélie’s not even using her own magic. The last thing she needs to see is mine.”

I tuck away my white streak, wishing I could just chop the lock from my hair. Tzain may not notice the way Zélie looks at it, but I always catch the snarl it brings to her face. For so long, she had to suffer because of her gift. Now those that hurt her the most wield that magic themselves.

I can understand why she despises it, but at times it feels like she despises me. And she’s supposed to be my closest friend. How will the rest of the maji feel when they learn that I’ve become a t?tán?

“I’ll figure it all out,” I sigh. “After I’m on the throne.”

I burrow back into Tzain’s neck, running my fingers against the new stubble along his chin.