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Be still, Little Priestess.
My father kneels before me with a string of teeth threaded between his fingers. They shine like polished pearls, and I square my shoulders and stand a little taller to make him proud. The distant echo of the djembe drums drowns out his words, but it doesn’t tame the twinkle in his eyes as he drapes the teeth around my neck. Tonight I become a true daughter of Tribe Aatiri.
Magic of all colours flutters in the air as gentle as wingbeats. I can’t be still when it dances on my father’s dark skin like lightning bugs. It flits along his jaw and leaps onto his nose. My hand shoots out to catch an ember of gold, but it slips through my fingers. I giggle, and he laughs too.
Girls gossip as their mothers fix their kaftans and bone charms. For every one the magic touches, it skips two, like the rest of us are invisible. My chest tightens, watching it go to others when it’s never come to me – not even once.
The few girls who speak Tamaran ask me what it’s like living so far away in the Almighty Kingdom. They say that I am not a true Aatiri because my mother is not of the tribe. Something twinges in my belly, for there is truth in their words.
I hold my head high as my father straightens my collar. He’s the only man in the tent, and the other girls whisper about that too. I don’t care what they say; I’m glad he’s here. ‘Why doesn’t magic come to me, Father?’
The question comes out too loud, and silence falls upon the tent. The other girls and their mothers stare at me as if I’ve said something bad. ‘Don’t worry, daughter,’ he says, folding the sleeves of my orange-and-blue kaftan, which matches his own. ‘It will come in due time.’
‘But when?’ I stomp.
It isn’t fair that many of the Aatiri children younger than me have magic already. In Tamar, I’m the only one among my friends who can see magic at all, but here, it flocks to the other children and they can make it do things. I can’t.
‘Maybe never, little ewaya,’ says the oldest girl in accented Tamaran. She glares at me and I wrinkle my nose at her. I’m not a baby, and she’s wrong. It will come.
The girl’s mother clucks her tongue and fusses at her in Aatiri. Her words slide over my ears without meaning, like all the strange and beautiful languages in the markets back home.
‘Even if the magic never comes,’ my father says, ‘you’ll still be my Little Priestess.’
I poke my tongue out at the girl. That’ll teach her not to be so mean.
Another girl asks why my mother isn’t here. ‘She has more important things to do,’ I answer, remembering how my father had begged her to come.
‘Why the sad face?’ my father asks, squeezing my cheeks. ‘Imebyé is a time of celebration. Tonight, you begin the long journey into adulthood.’
The djembe drums stop. I bite my lip, and the other girls startle. It’s time to go stand in front of the whole tribe so the chieftain can bless us. But for once, my legs still as the other girls hurry from the tent with their mothers.
‘I want to go home, Father,’ I whisper as the last girl leaves.
Some of the light fades from his eyes. ‘We’ll go home soon, okay?’
‘I want to go home now,’ I say, a little stronger.
He frowns. ‘Don’t you want to take part in Imebyé?’
I shake my head hard enough to make my bone charms rattle.
My father comes to his feet. ‘How about we just watch the ceremony together?’
The chieftain walks into the tent and I tuck myself against my father’s side. Her silver kaftan sweeps about her ankles and stands out against her midnight skin. Salt-and-pepper locs coil on top of her head. ‘Do my son and granddaughter plan to take part in a ceremony they travelled fourteen days to attend?’ she asks, her deep voice ringing in the tent.
My father wraps his arm around my shoulders. ‘Not this year.’
The chieftain nods as if satisfied. ‘May I speak to my granddaughter alone, Oshhe?’
My father exchanges a look with her that I don’t understand. ‘If it’s okay with Arrah.’
I swallow. ‘Okay.’
He squeezes my shoulder before leaving the tent. ‘I’ll save you a spot up front.’
The chieftain flashes me a gap-toothed grin as she squats on the floor. ‘Sit with me.’
The tent flap rustles in my father’s wake. My legs ache to follow, but the sight of the great Aatiri chieftain sitting on the floor roots me in place. I sit across from her as she raises one palm to the ceiling. Sparks of yellow and purple and pink magic drift to her hand.
‘How do you make the magic come to you, Great Chieftain?’
Her eyes go wide. ‘I’m your grandmother before all. Address me as such.’
I bite my lip. ‘How, Grandmother?’
‘Some people can pull magic from the fabric of the world.’ Grandmother watches the colours dancing on her fingertips. ‘Some can coax magic to come with rituals and spells. Many can’t call magic at all. It’s a gift from Heka to the people of the five tribes—a gift of himself—but it’s different for everyone.’
She offers me the magic, and I lean in closer. I hope this time it will come to me, but it disappears upon touching my hand. ‘I can see it,’ I say, my shoulders dropping, ‘but it doesn’t answer me.’
‘That is rare indeed,’ she says. ‘Not unheard of, but rare.’
The feather strokes of Grandmother’s magic press against my forehead. It itches, and I shove my hands between my knees to keep from scratching. ‘It seems you have an even rarer gift.’ Her eyebrows knit together as if she’s stumbled upon a puzzle. ‘I’ve never seen a mind I couldn’t touch.’
She’s only trying to make me feel better, but it doesn’t mean anything if I can’t call magic like real witchdoctors – like my parents, like her.
Grandmother reaches into her pocket and removes a handful of bones. ‘These belonged to my ancestors. I use them to draw more magic to me – more than I could ever catch on my fingertips. When I focus on what I want to see, they show me. Can you try?’
She drops the bones into my hand. They’re small and shiny in the light of the burning jars of oils set on stools beneath the canopy. ‘Close your eyes,’ Grandmother says. ‘Let the bones speak to you.’
Cold crawls up my arm and my heart pounds. Outside, the djembe drums start again, beating a slow, steady rhythm that snatches my breath away. The truth is written on Grandmother’s face, a truth I already know. The bones don’t speak.
Charlatan.
The word echoes in my mind. It’s the name my mother calls the street pedlars in the market, the ones who sell worthless good luck charms because their magic is weak. What if she thinks I’m a charlatan too?
My fingers ache from squeezing the bones so hard, and Grandmother whispers, ‘Let go.’
The bones fly from my hand and scatter on the floor between us. They land every which way, some close to others and some far apart. My eyes burn as I stare at them, straining to hear the ancestors’ message over the djembe drums.
‘Do you see or hear anything?’ Grandmother asks.
I blink and tears prick my eyes. ‘No.’
Grandmother smiles, collecting the bones. ‘Not everyone’s magic shows so early. For some, the magic doesn’t abide until they’re nearly grown. But when it comes so late, it’s very strong. Perhaps you will be a powerful witchdoctor one day.’
My hands tremble as the Aatiri girl’s words come back to me: Maybe never.
‘Come, child, the celebration awaits,’ Grandmother says, climbing to her feet.
Tears slip down my cheeks as I run out of the tent without waiting for Grandmother. I don’t want to be a powerful witchdoctor one day – I want magic to come now. The heat of the desert night hits me, and my bare feet slap against the hard clay. Sparks of magic drift from the sky into the other children’s outstretched arms, but some of it flits away. I dart through the crowd and follow the wayward magic, determined to catch some of my own.
It weaves through the mud-brick huts like a winged serpent, always staying two beats ahead of me. Beyond the tents, the drums become a distant murmur. I stop when the magic disappears. It’s darker here, colder, and the scent of blood medicine burns my nose. Someone’s performed a ritual in the shadows. I should turn back, run away. The wind howls a warning, but I move a little closer. Fingers like crooked tree roots latch on to my ankle.
I yank my leg back, and the hand falls away. My heart beats louder than the djembe drums as I remember all the scary stories about demons. During a lesson, a scribe once warned: Don’t get caught in the shadows, for a demon waits to steal your soul. The younger the soul, the sweeter the feast. A shiver cuts down my arms at the thought, but I remind myself that those are only tales to scare children. I’m too old to believe them.
It isn’t until the outline of a woman comes into focus that I breathe again. Magic lights on her skin, and she writhes and thrashes against the sand. Her mouth twists into an ugly scream. I don’t know what to make of her; she looks both young and old, both alive and dead, and in pain.
‘Give me a hand,’ says the woman, voice slurred.
‘I can get my father,’ I offer as I help her sit up.
Her brown skin is ashen and sweaty. ‘Don’t bother.’ She wipes dirt from her lips. ‘I only need to rest a spell.’
‘What are you doing out here?’ I ask, kneeling beside her.
‘I could ask the same, but I know the answer.’ A flicker of life returns to her vacant eyes. ‘There is only one reason a child does not take part in Imebyé.’
I glance away – she knows.
‘I don’t have magic either,’ she says, her words seething with bitterness. ‘Even so, it answers my call.’
I swallow hard to push back the chill creeping down my spine. ‘How?’
She smiles, revealing a mouth of rotten teeth. ‘Magic has a price if you’re willing to pay.’
CHAPTER 1 (#ulink_5e5905fa-0e27-5086-b9bf-c15c9dbb70fd)
Every year, the five tribes of Heka gather for the Blood Moon Festival, and I tell myself that this will be my year. The year that wipes the slate clean. The year that makes up for the waiting, the longing, the frustration. The year that magic lights on my skin, bestowing upon me the gift. When it happens, my failures will wash away and I’ll have magic of my own.
I’m sixteen, near grown by both Kingdom and tribal standards. My time is running out. No daughter or son of any tribe has come into their gifts beyond my age. If it doesn’t happen this year, it won’t happen at all.
I swallow hard and rub my sweaty palms against the grass as the djembe drums begin their slow and steady rhythm. With the tribes camped in the valley, there are some thirty thousand people here. We form rings around the sacred circle near the Temple of Heka, and the fire in the centre ebbs and flows to the beat. The drummers march around the edge of the circle, their steps in sync. The five tribes look as if they have nothing in common, but they move as one, to honour Heka, the god of their lands.
Magic clings to the air, so thick that it stings my skin. It dances in the night sky above endless rows of tents quilted in vibrant colours. My tunic sticks to my back from the heat of so many bodies in tight quarters. The sharp smell in the valley reminds me of the East Market on its busiest days. My feet tap a nervous beat while everyone else claps along with the music.
As Grandmother’s guests, Essnai, Sukar, and I sit on cushions in a place of honour close to the sacred circle. It isn’t because we’re special. We’re quite the opposite: ordinary and outsiders at that. Some people glare at us to make sure we don’t forget. I wish the looks didn’t bother me, but they only raise more doubts. They make me question if I belong here. If I deserve another chance after years of failing.
‘I suppose your gawking means the magic is coming,’ says Sukar, wrinkling his nose. The tattoos on his forearms and across his shaved head are glowing, so he knows as well as I that the magic is already here. ‘Either that, or you’re missing someone back home …’
A flush of warmth creeps up my neck. We both know who he means. I try to imagine Rudjek here, perched on a cushion in his fancy elara. He’d stand out worse than me and love every moment of it. The thought brings a smile to my face and eases my nerves a little.
Sukar, Essnai, and I made the journey from Tamar with the caravan, crossing the Barat Mountains at the western edge of the Almighty Kingdom to reach the tribal lands. Some two hundred people had come, but many more Tamarans of tribal blood hadn’t bothered. ‘We should’ve left you in the Kingdom too,’ I tell Sukar, casting him a scathing look. ‘Some of us are respectful enough to pay attention to the ceremony, so please stop distracting me.’
‘Well, if it’s a distraction you need …’ He winks at me.
‘Back me up, Essnai,’ I beg. ‘Tell him to pay attention.’
She sits cross-legged on the opposite side of Sukar, her face stony as always. My father brewed a blood medicine to colour her hair last night, and the shock of red looks good against her ebony skin. As usual, she’s caught eyes, although she never seems to notice. Instead Essnai looks like a lovesick puppy without her ama Kira at her side.
She shrugs, watching the drummers. ‘He won’t listen anyway.’
I sigh and turn back to the sacred circle. The moon has settled into a crimson hue, deeper red than only an hour before. In Tamar, we’re taught that the moon orisha, Koré, cries blood for her fallen brethren on this night. Five thousand years ago, she and her twin brother, Re’Mec, the sun orisha, led an army to end the Demon King’s insatiable thirst for souls. But the tribes believe the blood moon represents their connection to Heka. For it is only during this time that he returns to give his gift to future generations.
Even from this distance, the fire draws beads of sweat from my forehead. Or at least, I pretend it’s the fire that has me on edge. I wish I could be like Essnai and Sukar. They don’t care about not having magic, but it’s different for them. Neither of their parents have the gift. They don’t have to live up to the legacy of two prominent bloodlines.
When I think of the other reason I’m here – the tests – my belly twists in knots. The drums stop, the sound as sudden as the calm before a storm, and my muscles wind even tighter. The musicians stand almost as still as the statues in the scholars’ district in Tamar. Silence falls upon the crowd. The moment we’ve been waiting for has finally come, but it stretches a beat too long to spite me. In that space of time, the what-ifs run through my mind. What if it doesn’t happen? What if it does, but my magic isn’t strong like my parents’? What if I’m destined to become a charlatan peddling good luck charms?
Would that be so bad?
I draw my knees to my chest, remembering the woman at Imebyé writhing in the sand. Magic has a price if you’re willing to pay. Her words ring in my ears, the words of a charlatan, the words of someone desperate for magic. I push her out of my head. There’s still a chance for me – still time for Heka to give me his gift.
A hum rises from behind me and I crane my neck to see the witchdoctors weaving through the masses. They will perform the dance to start the month-long celebration. The blood moon casts them in eerie crimson shadows. Save for their voices, the entire valley quiets. No whispers, no children fooling around, only the whistle of wind and the rustle of feet in the grass. I want so badly to be in their ranks, to belong, to measure up to my family’s legacy. Instead, I’m stuck on the side watching – always watching.
For the ceremony, seven witchdoctors stand for each of the five tribes. Under their chieftains, the other six make up the edam, the tribal council. Although many of the tribal people have Heka’s grace – his magic – witchdoctors stand apart. The chieftains gifted them the title because they show a mastery of magic above others. Of all the tribal people, only a hundred or so have earned this prestigious appointment. They are the ones that the others revere and the ones I envy the most.
As the witchdoctors grow closer, their chants rattle in my bones. What would it be like to command magic with the ease of taking a breath? To reach into the air to collect it on one’s fingertips, or walk in the spirit world? To not only see magic, to tame it, to bend it, to be magical?
First come the Tribe Litho witchdoctors: four women and three men. Their tribe lies southwest of the Temple of Heka in the woodlands. White dust covers their bodies and vests of rawhide. Their intricate crowns, made of metal and bone and colourful beads, jangle in the breeze. The ground shifts beneath their feet, moving as gentle as ocean waves, gliding them to the sacred circle, which only the edam are allowed to enter.
As the procession draws closer, the djembe drummers start again, moving away from the circle to settle in an open spot on the grass. Their slow beat surges faster when the Litho chieftain enters the sacred circle.
Tribe Kes comes next – the smallest of the five tribes, whose lands border the valley to the northwest. Their diaphanous skin and near-colourless eyes remind me of the Northern people. Two are as white as alabaster and their bright clothes stand out in stark contrast. With each step they take, lightning cuts across the sky and sparks dance on their skin. They fan pouches of smoke that burns my nose. It smells of bloodroot, ginger, and eeru pepper: a cleansing remedy I’ve helped my father make in his shop at home.
The tribe from the mountains south of the Temple arrives next. The Zu witchdoctors leap above our heads, their feet supported by air. Tattoos cover their bodies and they wear crowns of antlers, some curved, some hooked, some large, some small. Some fashioned out of slick metal with edges sharp enough to sever a finger. With one misstep, an antler could fall upon the crowd, and it wouldn’t be pretty. I tuck my fingers between my knees just in case.
Sukar nudges me, a lopsided grin on his face. His family is Zu, and although he’s got at least two dozen tattoos, he doesn’t have nearly as many as the edam from his tribe. ‘As always, the most impressive of the five,’ he whispers.
I swat Sukar’s arm to shush him at the same time Essnai slaps the back of his head. He winces but knows better than to protest. It’s the Aatiri’s turn, which Essnai and I are anticipating the most. Even with her short-cropped hair, there’s no denying that her high cheekbones and wide-set eyes mark her as an Aatiri. We’d become friends after she’d found me in the desert at Imebyé with the charlatan.
Relief washes over me as Grandmother steps from the shadows, leading Tribe Aatiri. I hadn’t expected anyone else, but she’s the first familiar face among the edam. I sit up taller, trying to look like even a shadow of the great Aatiri chieftain.
The Aatiri do not walk or leap, for clouds of magic carry them. Grandmother’s silver locs coil on top of her head like a crown, and she wears a half-dozen necklaces of teeth. The Aatiri are tall and lean with prominent cheekbones and wiry hair braided like mine. Their skin is as beautiful as the hour of ösana.
My father is the last of them to enter the circle, and my heart soars. He’s tall and proud and magical, more so than any of the edam aside from Grandmother. He stands upon his cloud with his traditional staff in one hand and a knife carved of bone in the other.
He is an honorary Aatiri edam as he doesn’t live with his people, but they don’t deny that he’s one of the most powerful among them. I’m not foolish enough to think that if … when … my magic comes I’ll be as talented as he is. But seeing him fills me with pride.
The Mulani come last. They live the closest to the Temple of Heka.
It was a Mulani woman Heka revealed his presence to when he first descended from the stars a thousand years ago. Now the Mulani chieftain serves as his voice. The position would belong to my mother had she not left and never looked back. When she was only fourteen, the tribe named her their next chieftain and emissary to Heka because she’d shown such remarkable powers.
I could never live up to that legend either, but it doesn’t stop me from wanting to.
Unlike the witchdoctors of the other tribes, who vary in gender, Mulani witchdoctors are all women. I cover my eyes before the flashes of light that always come when they enter the sacred circle. Sukar curses under his breath because he’s too busy not paying attention to remember. From the groaning around me, he isn’t the only one. When their auras cool, the Mulani stand facing the crowd. They have broad shoulders, curvy bodies, and skin ranging from deep brown to alabaster. My amber eyes and some of my colour come from them, while my lean build favours the Aatiri.
‘I speak for Heka.’ The Mulani chieftain’s words echo in the valley, silencing all. ‘I speak for the mother and father of magic. I speak for the one who gave of himself when the orishas withheld magic from mortal kind. I speak for he who has no beginning and no end.’
The Mulani chieftain is my mother’s first cousin, and her voice rings with authority. Almost as much authority as my mother’s: Arti is soft-spoken, but she commands as much respect in the Almighty Kingdom as her cousin does in the tribal lands. I tell myself I don’t mind that she’s not here. It isn’t so different from how things are at home. There, she spends most of her time at the Almighty Temple, where she and the seers serve the orishas. When my mother left the tribal lands, she adopted the gods of the Kingdom too.
