Kingdom of Souls. Rena Barron
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should know the sheath is too formal for lessons with the scribes.
‘I don’t think that’s quite appropriate,’ I say, heading to the armoire. I dig through piles of folded clothes and pull out my sea-blue tunic and matching trousers. Ty shakes her head and lays the sheath on the bed alongside a beaded belt and jewelled slippers.
Before I can protest again, my mother sweeps into my room, her gold Ka-Priestess’s kaftan rustling in her wake. The space between us feels too small and I cringe, as if caught doing something wrong. The morning light glows against her honey-golden skin, and her amber eyes shine like rare gemstones. When Oshhe and I got back last night, Arti was at the Almighty Temple. The seers sometimes hold vigils for days, so it’s never a surprise if she’s not home. I’ve always counted myself lucky then. It’s easier to avoid her.
My mother is the definition of beauty. Her ebony hair flows down her back in loose curls, threaded through with pale crystals. She bears Tribe Mulani’s softness and curves and small stature compared to the Aatiri. I am somewhere in the middle, taller than my mother, but much shorter than my very tall cousins. Although the resemblance between us is unmistakable, next to her, I might as well be a squat mule.
She never comes to visit me here. I can’t guess the meaning of this – unless she’s talked to my father already, and she knows.
Arti peers around the room, examining its condition, before her eyes land on Ty. The two women exchange a look – one of understanding that I’ve seen shared between them many times before.
Ty has never spoken to me, nor to anyone for that matter. I’ve heard her mumbling in the kitchen when she’s alone, but she stops as soon as someone else comes near. I don’t know why she doesn’t talk. My childhood questions about it always went unanswered. No different from Grandmother hesitating to answer my questions about the green-eyed serpent.
‘You may leave us, Ty,’ Arti says, tilting her head to show respect.
When Ty is gone, Arti’s sharp amber eyes fall upon me. ‘I trust that you’re well.’
‘I am, Mother,’ I say, resisting the urge to glance away. ‘Thank you for asking.’
‘Your father told me what happened at the Blood Moon Festival.’ Her attention shifts to the altar, and she wrinkles her nose. I can’t tell if she disapproves of the mix of tribal trinkets or the dust. ‘It’s time to let go of this foolish dream of having magic. Mulani show their gifts at a very young age. If it hasn’t happened by now, it won’t happen at all.’
My mother speaks in a matter-of-fact tone that sets my teeth on edge. She might as well be talking to a stranger on the street. Her words sting in my chest and leave me speechless.
She brushes her hand across the sheath. The luminous pearl of her Ka-Priestess’s ring shimmers in the sunlight. As her hand glides over the fabric, the colour of the pearl changes from onyx to slate to cyan. ‘It’s a shame to come from two powerful bloodlines and have no magic at all. No Mulani in my family has ever been without. But there is nothing to be done about it.’
‘There’s still a chance.’ My words come out feeble and desperate.
‘What makes you think so?’ Arti says in a voice devoid of any emotion. ‘This year the Aatiri chieftain positioned you directly in Heka’s path, and he didn’t see fit to give you magic. It was a bold gesture, and commendable, but has anything changed?’
Warmth creeps up my neck at the slight. She very well knows the answer, but she wants me to say it. ‘Grandmother had a vision,’ I say, rallying my nerves. ‘A demon could be blocking my magic.’ That wasn’t exactly what Grandmother saw, but it’s the most plausible reason for my magic not showing.
‘I do wish your grandmother would stop giving you false hope,’ Arti says after a deep sigh. ‘And this talk about demons?’ She laughs. ‘That’s the stuff of old wives’ tales, Arrah. They’ve been gone for five thousand years, and if they were back, what would one want with you? A girl without magic.’
Her words are a well-honed slap to the face – yet another reminder how much of a disappointment I am to her. What can I say? How can I fight back, when she’ll have an answer for everything? I believe Grandmother, but it’s not worth arguing. There’s no winning with my mother – no convincing her of anything other than what she chooses to believe.
‘I know that magic is important to you, daughter,’ Arti says, her words softer. ‘But don’t be so obsessed that you’d do something foolish for a taste of it.’
I bite my tongue as fire spreads through my belly. She’s eyeing the bone charm on the altar now. Does my mother think I would stoop so low, that I would consider trading my years for magic? Yes, I want it, but I’m not a fool. I’m not that desperate either. My mind falls on the night of Imebyé and the woman writhing in the sand. That was her choice. There are moments in your life that leave lasting impressions. The woman’s sallow skin and rotten teeth, the way magic came to her, the way it was destroying her – every detail has stayed with me over the years.
I didn’t know at the time what she’d done, but my father explained it to me after we returned home. In his shop one day, I asked if the charlatans in the market were like the woman in the desert. The ones who looked like they had one foot in life and the other in death. He said that some tribal people without magic had learned how to trade years of their lives to possess it. Upon finding this out, I bounced on the balls of my feet with excitement, because it meant I could have magic too. Oshhe squeezed my cheeks between his big hands. ‘No magic is worth your life, Little Priestess. That is not our way.’
He stared into my eyes, his expression so serious and grave that the excitement fled as fast as it had come. ‘Promise me you’ll never do anything like that, no matter what.’ His deep voice echoed in his shop. ‘Promise me, daughter.’
‘But why, Father?’ I said, jutting out my bottom lip.
My father sighed, his patience waning. ‘When you barter your years for magic, it takes of you what it will. It does not matter the complexity of the ritual, spell, or charm. There’s no way to tell until it’s too late. Even I cannot reverse the damage that comes from such foolishness.’
Magic has a price if you’re willing to pay.
I, in fact, am not willing to pay. If I can’t have magic gifted to me, I’ll do without. I still have my pride, and that means something. I lift my chin and face Arti.
‘Is there a reason you’ve come to see me this fine morning, Mother?’ I say, my jaw set. ‘I need to get ready for my lessons.’
Arti glances up at that, her face impassive. It’s a wonder my parents ended up together. Oshhe is full of stories and laughter while my mother is sharp-tongued and efficient. I have to believe that once she was warmer, long before she became the third-most powerful person in the Kingdom.
‘Suran plans to name his youngest son his heir at the assembly today.’ Arti folds her arms behind her back and begins to pace. ‘Not that he has much choice, since the other two are an embarrassment to the so-called Omari legacy.’
I clutch the tunic against my chest as if it can protect me from the animosity in her voice. It’s no secret that the Vizier and my mother hate each other. ‘Is that so?’ I say, forcing my voice to sound bored and uninterested.
The Vizier is the right hand of the Almighty One. He governs the Kingdom. As head of the Almighty Temple, my mother is the voice of the orishas. It’s said that Re’Mec himself visits the seers on occasion – when the mood strikes – but Arti never speaks of it. Because the seers come from the tribes, she also oversees trade with the tribal lands. Relations with all other countries, such as Estheria, Yöom, and the North, fall under the Vizier’s domain.
‘Two can play Suran’s game,’ Arti says. ‘You will attend the assembly with me.’
‘But why?’ I swallow the bitter taste on my tongue. It goes without saying that I