Page 64 of Firstborn of the Sun
Milúà’s eyes widened. Ìyá-Ayé often told Milúà and her sisters how being maidens saved them from being married to men who’d use them and toss them aside. The bond a priest shared with his maiden was more sacred than marriage, although the girls shared their beds to seal their bonds. The difference was that the maidens got power for this bond as opposed to the burden of children.
‘You want the king to marry one of your barren daughters? You want my line to end?’ Aya’ba Oyíndà asked, unable to hold in her anger at the request.
‘Maybe you should ask someone else to help you, Aya’ba,’ Ìyá-Ayé said calmly. ‘Anyway, what do you need grandchildren for, if they’ll have no title or claim to the throne?’ she laughed.
‘Do you dare mock your king, Ìyá-Ayé?’ Aya’ba Oyíndà barely concealed her disgust.
‘Those are my terms, Aya’ba,’ Ìyá-Ayé said plainly. ‘You have nothing else to offer that I don’t already have.’
Aya’ba Oyíndà was visibly uneasy. She looked around the room as if thinking of another solution. ‘I agree to your terms,’ she breathed. So quietly that Milúà nearly missed it.
In a loud voice, Ìyá-Ayé remarked, ‘Perfect!’ Then she collected the cowrie shell and called out to the door, ‘?nìkan! Who is there?’
‘Blá ni,’ a maiden responded, running in and kneeling before their mother.
‘Our guest is leaving,’ Ìyá-Ayé said, then smiled at Aya’ba Oyíndà. ‘Thank you for coming. Let me get to work.’
Aya’ba Oyíndà turned to leave as Ìyá-Ayé said, ‘In the story you’ve told me, Aya’ba, five of you hid this secret. Three are dead. Remember that when you return to your royal island and sit next to your husband. It was his wife that you all killed. I don’t have to tell you what he’ll do when he finds out about your involvement. He won’t hear it from me, but as you know, the walls have ears. If you were ever going to confess, the time is now.’
Aya’ba Oyíndà didn’t look back; she stormed out of the room, and Milúà saw the faint glow of agbára peeking through her clenched fists.
‘Take this,’ Ìyá-Ayé said, handing the cowrie shell to Milúà. ‘Bring back your Àlùfáà and bring me that girl’s ashes.’
The story of the day of the First Sun is one of betrayal among friends:
Blessings born of broken oaths.
There was one who knew the tongue of the gods who did the one thing that was forbidden.
He called upon the gods – all the Òrì?à and for a price, a price too steep, as he would come to know, they granted his request and sent down a drop of the sun to all who stood in his presence.
That day would come to be known as the Day of the First Sun.
22
The Royal Palace, Royal Island, Kingdom of Oru
TOFA
Tofa stood at the entrance to the Royal Court, awaiting the tune of the talking drum. He shifted and adjusted his agbádá – a beautiful royal-blue outfit woven from a??-òkè. When he folded the extra-long sleeves over his shoulders, the gold damask hiding underneath was revealed. His mother had ordered this agbádá for him. It had threads of gold embroidery that ran from his neck down his full length – the designs a nod to his birthright and agbára. He checked his wrists and neck for his coral beads, ensuring he had two rows on each hand, including his time beads on the left hand. Outside the court doors, he heard the royal announcer’s drumming. When it was his turn, each thud on the flat surface of the drum would produce a tune that echoed the sound of his name and title. The rhythm now told him that a meeting was still in session.
Next to him, his twin sister moved restlessly. She hated being called to court, but she’d never leave his side. Except, of course, when he had to go into the Sun Temple. K?ni would never set foot inside the temple.
‘Stop fidgeting. You’re making me nervous,’ Tofa said.
K?ni sighed, frustrated. ‘What are they talking about inthere that the crown heir can’t hear? I don’t know why the Lord Regent does this all the time.’
Tofa raised an eyebrow, ‘You mean Father?’
K?ni shrugged, ‘I said what I mean.’
Tofa knew better than to pick at that wound. So many things bound him and his sister. He was Táíwò – the first twin to be born, and she was Khìndé, born ten heartbeats after him. She was his shadow and best friend, bound in life and in death.
One decision by a greedy man centuries ago doomed his sister to a life even he pitied. The history he’d learned said that a long time ago, the king’s twin brother killed the king and took his place. After all, as twins, they had the same strong connection to the gods, making them nearly equal in their power. After that incident, the high council and Holy Order set the rule: all Khìndés must die at birth – and all had until now. The Lord Regent had pleaded on her behalf, arguing that as a girl, there was no chance for history to repeat itself. They had accepted his request but attached a long list of conditions. The most important being that K?ni took on the name and role of Ab’bakú – the one who dies with the king. When Tofa died, she died.
Thus, K?ni was both a warden and a prisoner, with her fate tied to his. Tofa doubted his sister would ever forgive their father for the decision to keep her alive. But to Tofa, she was the very air in his lungs.
K?ni eyed Tofa’s outfit, noting he was wearing agbádá with the royal emblem and not his usual armour. ‘I thought you said you didn’t care about politics.’
