shift my stance. ‘Touch me and I will break every bone in your miserable bodies.’
‘The ben’ik can fight?’ The third boy cracks his knuckles. ‘I don’t believe it.’
‘Believe it when you eat dirt, you swine,’ I say.
My words sound braver than I feel, but I mean them. Even if they have magic, I won’t go down without a fight.
‘She’s bluffing,’ says the bubble boy.
Magic crackles in the air like a summer thunderstorm and I brace myself, the staff ready. They close in around me. The third boy pounds his fist in his other hand, and the ground trembles. I take several steps back, keeping the sides of the bubble at my rear.
‘Well, what do we have here?’ someone asks from behind me.
Sukar appears out of thin air. The three tattoos across his forehead sparkle like stars in the night. He runs his hand over his shaven head, looking as amused as ever. The Litho boys take one look at his slight physique and roll their eyes. Their mistake.
Essnai steps into the clearing behind him – statuesque and poised, a head taller than both of us. Purple powder covers her forehead down to her long lashes. The red beneath her midnight eyes and the gold dusted on her nose stand out against her umber skin. Her lips are two different shades of pink. She’s changed her hair back to black. Even the Litho boys are too caught up in her beauty to notice her grip on her staff.
I sigh in relief. My friends never fail to make an entrance.
Essnai clucks her tongue at me. ‘Always wandering off and getting into trouble.’
Heat creeps up my neck, but I answer her accusation with a shrug.
‘Someone forgot to invite us to this little party,’ Sukar says.
‘Your protection tattoos won’t save you, Zu.’ The dorek boy spits on the ground.
Sukar pulls a pair of sickles from scabbards across his chest. ‘They broke through your ward easily enough, but I have these just in case.’
Even his curved blades have magic symbols engraved in them – made by his uncle, the Zu seer in the Almighty Temple.
‘What’s two more ben’iks to beat up?’ the third Litho boy asks with a laugh.
Essnai says nothing as she lifts her staff into the same position as mine.
‘You should leave before you get hurt,’ I warn the Litho swine.
‘You’re bold for the daughter of an owahyat,’ says the bubble boy.
Before the words clear his lips, I hurl a rock, aimed for his face. It’s clear from the malice in his voice exactly what he thinks when he calls my mother a prostitute. He doesn’t know her and if anyone can talk crap about Arti, it’s me, not him. But the boy knocks the rock from its path with a gust of wind.
‘Nice try, ben’ik,’ he says.
I spit in the dirt.
So they’re talented in the elements. Dirty, arrogant swine. They think because we don’t have magic, we’re defenceless. Another mistake.
‘Are we going to talk all night or fight?’ Sukar yawns. ‘I vote fight.’
Even magic isn’t foolproof. I know that better than most from watching my father in his shop. The only way out is through the boy holding the bubble intact. He hasn’t moved a muscle since he conjured it, as if he needs to stand still to keep it steady. That’s my opening. I don’t second-guess as I charge at him. My fingers tighten against the staff, but the ground shifts and I land hard on my face. The fourth Litho boy’s outstretched arm trembles as the dirt under me groans and settles again.
Sukar and Essnai spring into action. My friends bat away the rocks two of the Litho boys hurtle at us with their magic, neither lifting a finger. I catch a rock and send it flying. It hits the boy who knocked me down square in the chest. He lets out a little squeak and I can’t hide my satisfaction. Serves him right.
I’m on my feet again, my eyes narrowed on the bubble boy. He calls for help, but Sukar and Essnai already have his friends battered and bruised on their knees. The bubble falters before I even reach the boy, and he runs away. I don’t bother going after him. He got the point. Once the bubble’s gone, the sounds of the night’s celebrations rush back into the clearing. The rest of the Litho boys run away too.
My hands shake as I clutch the staff. They weren’t even that powerful. Yet, if not for Sukar and Essnai’s help, things could’ve ended much worse. How could Heka bless scum like that with magic and skip me? At the first beats of the djembe drums, dread slips between my ribs like a sharp blade. It’s time to face the thing I’ve been dreading all day.
My tests with Grandmother – the great Aatiri chieftain.
Grandmother’s dome pavilion looms over the smaller, squat tents in the Aatiri camp. Its patchwork of bright cloth billows in the gentle breeze in the valley. My legs ache as I weave through the throng of people preparing for the second night of the blood moon. I wish I could lose myself in them and find a place to hide from my tests. I don’t want to fail again.
I suck in a deep breath as I finally reach the tent. My cousin Nenii pins back the flap and ducks inside. She and Semma clear away teacups and wash down the long, low table. Magic strung in glass beads, draped along the walls, lights the room. I’m always amazed by Grandmother’s endless ways to bend magic to her will.
I press two fingers to my forehead and dip my head in a slight bow. ‘Blessed night, cousins,’ I say in Aatiri. The greeting twists on my tongue, but the girls don’t make fun of my accent. These cousins have always been kind and accepting, even if I’m an outsider. Still, it’s hard not to wonder if it’s only because of Grandmother. Plenty of people are polite to me in Tamar out of respect for my mother.
They chime back, ‘You honour us, granddaughter of our great chieftain.’
‘Join me, Little Priestess,’ Grandmother calls from another room.
Her voice brims with authority, but it’s not unkind.
Nenii and Semma give me encouraging smiles as they fluff pillows. Before I slip into my Grandmother’s private quarters, Nenii whispers, ‘Come by our tent later so we can help braid your hair.’ My cheeks warm, but I’m glad of the offer. It’s long overdue and would take me forever. I shake off my doubts about them. Not everyone cares that I don’t have magic.
I pull back the curtains that separate the salon from Grandmother’s private quarters. She sits cross-legged on a mat in the middle of the floor. She isn’t wearing her bone charms, only a yellow kaftan with coloured beads across her shoulders. Light flickers from the jars of burning oil in the corners and leaves the rest of the room in shadows. Her quarters smell of cloves, cinnamon, and cardamom – the spices of her favourite tea. ‘Grandmother,’ I say, bowing to her. ‘Honoured Chieftain of Tribe Aatiri, blessed night.’
‘Welcome,
