on my mind.’
‘Help me collect herbs.’ He offers up a pair of shears. ‘It will put your mind at ease.’
My father cuts leaves from the bush while I settle in front of a thicket of tangled matay vines. I snip at the small red buds, careful not to prick my fingers on their thorns. He doesn’t press me to talk; instead he quietly fills a small sachet with leaves. The courtyard is his sanctuary. Nezi manages the gardens surrounding the villa, but my father cares for his medicinals.
‘I received an invitation at my shop yesterday – one I know you were expecting.’ Oshhe moves on from the kenkiliba bush and begins collecting seeds from a neem tree. ‘You have my blessing to attend, but we’ll need to convince your mother.’
I do want to go to Rudjek’s ceremony, but with all the things that kept me up last night, it’s the least of my concerns. ‘What she did yesterday was awful.’
My father’s face pinches. He says he wants nothing to do with politics, so it’s a subject rarely discussed in our household. I figured out long ago that it’s not politics he doesn’t want to hear about: it’s my mother’s schemes.
‘It was cruel,’ I say, unable to hold back my words. ‘She made a spectacle of the missing children just to strike at the Vizier. What kind of person does that?’
‘Still your tongue, daughter,’ Oshhe says, ‘before you say something you may regret.’
I snatch another vine so fast that a thorn pricks my finger. I bring my thumb up to my lips but think better of it. Matay causes sleepiness in small doses and hallucinations if one ingests too much of it. My father nods his approval when he sees that I remember.
‘I don’t agree with your mother’s ways,’ Oshhe says, ‘but her animosity towards the Vizier is not unwarranted. He is not a kind man, daughter. I need you to understand that. I know that you and his son are close. I was hesitant all those years ago when you asked if you could go play with him by the riverbank. I only allowed it because one cannot judge the son by the father. Children are innocent.’
Rudjek has always wanted to keep our friendship from his father. I assumed his reason was the same as mine, since our parents hate each other, but I’m no fool either. The rumours about the Vizier are even worse than the ones about my mother. People say the Kingdom has no enemies because he orders the assassination of anyone seen as a threat. ‘Father, I didn’t come to talk about the ceremony.’
He gives me a sheepish grin. ‘Sometimes it’s better to ease into difficult conversations.’
It’s hard to know where to start or what to say. Everything that’s happened since the Blood Moon Festival tangles in my mind. Disappointment, fear, and disbelief eat at me, but I refuse to let them win. I have too much pride for that. I’m too stubborn.
‘Do you think the green-eyed serpent is a demon?’ I finally work up the nerve to ask. ‘Could one have survived the War with the orishas and hidden herself this long? What would a demon want with me?’
My last question strikes a nerve, and my father flinches. It pains me to admit that my mother has a point. There’s no reason a demon would have anything to do with me. I dig my fingernails into my palms. I’m grasping for connections, a reason, but nothing makes sense. Before my father can answer, another, more desperate question rolls off my tongue. ‘Do you know when the first child went missing?’
Oshhe cocks an eyebrow, waiting to see if I’m done. When I don’t speak again, he inhales deeply. ‘It’s hard for a parent to not have the answers their child seeks … but I sense that there may be a link between the Aatiri chieftain and Arti’s visions. Whether this is the work of craven anti-magic or demon magic, I cannot say. We must hope it’s anti-magic. If demons are back, then there will be much trouble ahead.’
My father pauses, studying the tangled matay vines on my lap. His eyes brim with the shine of fresh tears held back. He wants to be strong for me and I want to be strong for him too. ‘To answer your other question: the first child went missing at the start of the blood moon. You are right to make that connection,’ he says, his voice strung tight. ‘I need you to be very careful, Arrah. I know you like to visit the markets and go to the river, but these are not safe times.’
I tuck my hands between my knees, trying to push back the sinking feeling in my chest. There’s no mistaking the fear in my father’s eyes. A look so foreign on him that it tears out a piece of my heart. He can’t bring himself to say the rest, so I do it for him. ‘You think Grandmother’s vision means the child snatcher or demon, whatever it is, will come after me.’
My father’s posture straightens – his jaw clenches. ‘I won’t let that happen.’
‘You wouldn’t need to protect me if I had magic of my own,’ I say, bitter. ‘When my magic comes, I –’ My words trail off at his pained expression.
‘Arrah.’ My father’s voice is gentler, almost placating. ‘It doesn’t matter if you ever have magic. You’ll still be my favourite daughter, and I’ll protect you until my very last breath.’
I’m your only daughter, I almost say to be spiteful, but I can’t bring myself to hurt my father even in anger.
That’s it, then.
Even my father has given up on me ever having magic. The news is too much to bear.
Every day at eighth morning bells, the Almighty Temple opens to the public. Most people climb the precipice to the Temple on their own, but some take litters. The Almighty Palace gleams against the westward sky, overlooking the city proper and the ambling Serpent River to the east. The Vizier’s estate sits on a cliff opposite the Temple at the southern edge of the city. It’s a palace in its own right with tan walls that glow in the morning sunlight. But my mind is far from the magnificent views of Tamar right now.
Dread crawls through my belly as I remember my father’s words. It may not matter to him that I never have magic, but I’m not going to sit around and do nothing. If I want to know more about demons, the Temple’s the best place to start.
Robed scholars and scribes sweep up the path beside street merchants wearing their very best. No matter their social status or family name or religion, everyone comes to the Temple. For the morning lessons are also the time to pay tithes.
Attendants in earth-toned robes direct people through the gates. Along the edge of the cliff, five stone buildings curve around a half-moon ingress. Several scholars veer towards the gardens and ponds to confer in private. While most people funnel into the central buildings for lessons, I head for the Hall of Orishas.
A tang of blood lingers in the air as I cross the courtyard, where the shotani practise in the dead of night. The elite assassins train with the seers from a young age. Over the generations, their families moved from the tribal lands to the Kingdom. They have magic, not enough to gain status in the tribal lands, but much more than the street charlatans. Most of what we know about them is speculation since they always move in shadows.
Magic clings to the Temple walls. More even than at the sacred Gaer tree where the first Ka-Priest’s body was buried. In the day, it only looks like specks of dust out of the corner of your eye. It’s at night, especially during the hour of ösana, that it comes to life.
Sukar and another attendant stand outside the Hall of Orishas on the northeast edge of the cliff. He waves me over. ‘So many people confessing
