Page 77 of Children of Blood and Bone

A chill rocks through me, though sweat leaks from every pore. If Zélie can taste blood, I don’t want to know why.

“Perhaps—” I pause, stalling in the sand as a pack of men flood into the street. Though they’re obscured by capes and masks, their dust-covered clothes bear Orïsha’s royal seal.

Guards.

I grab on to Zélie as she reaches for her staff. Each soldier reeks of liquor; some stumble with every step. My legs quake as if made of water.

Then, quick as they came, they disperse, disappearing among the clay ahérés.

“Get yourself together.” Zélie shoves me off her. I fight not to tumble into the sand. There is no sympathy in her gaze; unlike Tzain, her silver eyes rage.

“I just—” The words are weak, though I will them to be strong. “I apologize. I was caught off guard.”

“If you’re going to act like a little princess, turn yourself in to the guards. I’m not here to protect you. I’m here to fight.”

“That’s not fair.” I wrap my arms around myself. “I’m fighting, too.”

“Well, seeing as your father created this mess, if I were you, I’d fight a little harder.”

With that Zélie turns, kicking up sand as she storms off. My face burns as I follow, careful to keep my distance this time.

We continue toward Ibeji’s central square, a collection of tangled streets and square huts crafted from red clay. As we near, we see more nobles gathering, conspicuous with their bright silk kaftans and their trailing attendants. Although I don’t recognize anyone, I adjust my scarf,worried that even the smallest slip will give my identity away. But what are they doing here, so far from the capital? There’re so many nobles, they’re only outnumbered by the laborers in the stocks.

I pause for a moment, aghast at the number of them filling the narrow path. Before today, I caught only glimpses of the laborers brought in to staff the palace—always pleasant, clean, groomed to Mother’s satisfaction. Like Binta, I thought they lived simple lives, safe within the palace walls. I never considered where they came from, where else they might have ended up.

“Skies…” It’s almost too hard to bear the sight. Mostly divîners, the laborers outnumber the villagers by hordes, dressed in nothing but tattered rags. Their dark skin blisters under the scorching sun, marred by the dirt and sand seemingly burned into their beings. Each is hardly more than a walking skeleton.

“What’s going on?” I whisper, tallying the number of children in chains. Almost all of them are young—even the oldest still appears younger than me. I search for the resources they must be mining, the freshly laid roads, the new fortress erected in this desert village. But no sign of their efforts appear. “What are they doing here?”

Zélie locks eyes with a dark girl who has long white hair like hers. The laborer wears a tattered white dress; her eyes are sunken, devoid of almost all life.

“They’re in the stocks,” Zélie mutters. “They go where they’re told.”

“Surely it isn’t always this bad?”

“In Lagos, I saw people who looked even worse.”

She moves toward the guard post at the central square while my insides twist. Though no food fills my stomach, it churns with the truth. All those years sitting silent at the table.

Sipping tea while people died.

I reach forward to fill my canteen at the well, avoiding the guard’s leering eyes. Zélie reaches to do the same—

The guard’s sword slashes down with a fury.

We jump back, hearts pounding. His sword cuts into the wooden rim where Zélie’s hand rested just seconds before. She grips the staff in her waistband, hand trembling with rage.

My eyes follow the sword up to the glaring soldier who wields it. The sun has darkened his mahogany skin, but his gaze shines bright.

“I know you maggots can’t read,” he spits at Zélie, “but for skies’ sake, learn how to count.”

He smacks his blade against a weathered sign. As sand falls from the grooves in the wood, its faded message clears:ONECUP=ONEGOLDPIECE.

“Are you serious?” Zélie seethes.

“We can afford it,” I whisper, reaching into her pack.

“But they can’t!” She points to the laborers. The handful carrying buckets drink water so polluted it might as well be sand. But this isn’t time for rebellion. How can Zélie not see that?

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