Page 81 of Children of Virtue and Vengeance

HIGH-PITCHED CHIMES BLEEDinto my ears, jarring me awake. Though I’ve only spent a short time swaddled within the mountain walls that cover the sanctuary, I already know what each unique tone means. Low bells commemorate the arrival of new maji. A twinkling melody signals each mealtime. But this piercing timbre is a recent addition. Chimes calling us to train.

I peel my head up from the ankara print on my pillow; a sliver of yellow peeks out from my balcony’s ledge. I groan and bury myself under the covers. Only Mama Agba would make us rise before the sun.

As the chimes ring, the pit of guilt that’s plagued me since Chândomblésettles like a brick in my stomach. How am I supposed to face my Reapers knowing I’m not fit to lead my clan?

It’s been days, yet my mind won’t stop replaying the memory of Mâzeli running down the temple stairs. I promised to keep my Second safe. To protect him with my life. But as soon as I saw Inan, I abandoned my vow to get my revenge. I was in charge of only one Reaper then. What would’ve happened if I’d led the entire clan?

There are so few Reapers to begin with; Oya doesn’t bless many with our gift. If we’re going to win this war and rebuild what the monarchy took, we can’t afford to lose any of them. They need an elder they can actually trust.

A soft knock raps against my door, forcing me to lift my head. I half expect to find Mâzeli’s oversized ears when the purple door creaks open, but a sweeping flash of silver peeks through instead.

“Mama Agba?”

I grin at the sight of the silver robe over her dark skin. The crimped garment flows behind her as she walks. It’s like she carries a breeze within the silk’s folds.

Before the Raid, past clan elders wore mantles like these, garments to mark their revered status. To wear this robe was as special as wearing the clan elder’s headdress.

“E kàárò ìyáawa.” I drag myself out of bed, kneeling before her despite how my thighs burn. As my nose touches the ground, I think of how many times I should’ve done this. How many times we all should’ve bowed in her presence.

As a former elder, Mama Agba was supposed to be celebrated. Revered by all. Instead she spent years hiding who she was, wearing nothing but muted kaftans, while she stitched beautiful garments for nobles until her fingers bled.

“Get up, child.” Mama Agba smacks her lips at me, but her mahogany eyes crinkle with emotion. She wraps me in a warm hug, and from the scent of cloves and súyàspices embedded into her silks, I know she’s already put in hours in the kitchen.

“I wanted to catch you before your first training.” She reaches into her bag and removes an imposing metal collar. The majestic piece stretches the full length of my neck with a base to cover my collarbone.

“It’s beautiful,” I breathe, touching its spectacular design. Dozens of triangular plates have been stitched together to form its skin, a unique mix of her seamstress skills and Tahir’s metalwork.

“I thought about making headdresses, but with all the battle you’reseeing, these felt more appropriate.” Mama Agba gestures for me to turn around, but I stay still.

“You don’t like it?” she asks.

I shake my head, running my toes over the mosaic tiles along the floor.

“I feel like I don’t deserve to wear it. I don’t think I’m meant to be their elder.”

“Is this because of what happened at the temple?” Mama Agba rests her hand on my shoulder, beckoning me toward her. “Being an elder does not mean you won’t make mistakes. It only means you keep fighting despite them.”

“You heard what happened to Mâzeli?” I ask.

“Child, word travels faster in these walls than a cheetanaire in high sprint. I know far more than I want to about all of you.” Mama Agba shakes her head as she turns me toward the mirror. “Apparently Kenyon’s set his sights on Na’imah, but Na’imah set her sights on Dakarai?”

“But Dakarai likes Imani!”

“Iknow,” Mama Agba sighs. “And that Cancer will eat him alive. It is one giant mess!”

I smile to myself as she reaches for the collar. I hope she hasn’t heard whispers about Inan. Or whispers about Roën.

A flutter spreads through my chest at the thought of the mercenary, one I wish I could erase. Without the constant threat of battle, I find myself thinking of his pink smirk. I remember his callused touch. At times, I catch myself staring at the sanctuary’s entrance, waiting for him to saunter back into my life on some half-baked mission.

But even he fades from my mind when Mama Agba places the collar over the golden marks on my throat. As I run my fingers through the thin grooves between each triangular plate, an unexpected swell fills my chest.

It reminds me of sitting in her reed ahéréafter I completed my training, sipping tea before she placed the graduation staff in my hands. In a way, this feels exactly the same. Except everything and everyone in our world has changed.

“Zélie, if you were not meant to be an elder, your ascension would have been rejected,” Mama Agba says. “Oya gave you anìsípayáto mark you as worthy. You wouldn’t have seen anything if she did not think you were the best person to lead this clan.”

I chew on her words, thinking of what Oya showed me. If I close my eyes, I can still see the purple ribbon of light spinning from my chest like a thread, intertwining with a ribbon of gold. The power they created felt just like the one I sensed in Amari.

Back at the temple, I was sure it was a symbol of the cênters. But all of Amari’s threads were only cobalt blue. If I looked at Nehanda’s, I’m sure I’d see only emerald greens. Where were the purples? The golds? The tangerines?

---