Raybearer: Chapters 10–17

Our journey had culminated here, in the holy city of Ebujo, where all council members received their official titles.

The rift sunk into the ground, a smirking, sulfurous mouth that steamed with blue miasma.

We had been encouraged to wear clothes representing our home realms, and she looked resplendent in the billowing tunic and trousers of Blessid chieftains.

Ai Ling, Hallowed with formidable powers of persuasion, was appointed future High Lady Ambassador, in charge of interrealm trade.

Thérèse, our Hallowed green thumb, was destined to be High Lady of Harvests; and Kameron, who had routinely snuck dubious animal rescues into the Children’s Palace, happily accepted his future as High Lord of Husbandry.

Then our council would whisk away via lodestone to Yorua Keep, with nothing to do but study scrolls, play house, and throw sumptuous parties for decades to come.

Priests swept the four corners of the temple, ritually cleansing the chamber. Dayo, the eleven Arit ambassadors, and a royal emissary from Songland came to stand at the altar. A child choir of acolytes sprinkled myrrh around the marble platform and harmonized in rounds...

The last words had not been scripted into the ritual, though no one dared chastise the emissary.

The last words had not been scripted into the ritual, though no one dared chastise the emissary.

They looked like twins, no older than five or six, with pallid gray skin and eyes made completely of red pupils.

“Fall into cohorts! Man the war machines! Ammunition lines, up!”

She looked back only once—a reproachful stare that shook my bones—before closing her eyes and stepping over the ledge.

In the courtyard far below, Kameron kept a caterwauling menagerie, treating beasts for rare diseases as Mayazatyl drew diagrams for weapons and defense towers in the dirt beside him.

Emeronya and Zathulu sealed themselves in one of the keep’s dusty studies, murmuring over scrying glasses and essays by budding Imperial Academy scholars.

Sanjeet would scan a patient’s body for ailments, and if the problem was physical, Kirah would attempt poultices or a healing chant.

But she didn’t appear, not even to reprimand me, which somehow felt more damning.

“I see,” the High Lord Judge intoned, shrugging off his tartan-lined council cloak, “that the goodwill tour hasn’t made you children less incorrigible.”

He looked wan; traveling by lodestone had probably wreaked havoc on his stomach.

I call it the Lonesome Child Edict. Think: If we give Arit families silver for adopting orphans and teaching them a trade, then orphanages would empty overnight. We’ll send Imperial Guard warriors to check on each family, making sure the adopted children aren’t harmed.

"The nobility won’t require payment. They’ll do it because it’s fashionable, and to curry favor with the crown.” He snorted. “Hell, they’ll probably compete with each other. Who can lavish their orphan with the most luxury? It’s neat. Decorous.”

Mbali smiled at him inscrutably.

My council sisters chattered in a circle as braiders sat above them on stools, working fastidiously.

Their deft fingers would comb away our weeks’ worth of tangles, styling our hair in the Oluwan court fashion: hundreds of braids, interwoven with soft wool yarn and burned at the ends so the plaits wouldn’t unravel.

Emeronya scowled, as she always did at the slightest hint of condescension.

Catching up to the countless opulent traditions of Oluwan life had taken me years.

I matched her deadpan tone, wiggling my eyebrows. In spite of herself, Emeronya laughed.

Mayazatyl waited as we watched her, taking a languid sip from her chalice and filing her nails with a small knife.

People who represent realms can’t be making calf eyes at each other. We’re supposed to be impartial, or our subjects will suspect our rulings of favoritism.

She flashed a rueful smile—her real one, not the charming dimples she used when giving speeches. “We’re not the saints people think we are.”

I shuddered, steeling myself in advance for copious displays of fire.

Finally, fastidious realms like Biraslov and Blessid Valley appealed to People of the Wing, who worshipped only the Pelican Storyteller. They covered their heads, spurned other gods as distractions, and embraced a life of simplicity, piety, and sacrifice.

The mask’s eyes burst into scintillating light, making all who watched gasp and shield their faces.

An indignant murmur rose from my council’s dais. “That’s not fair,” I sputtered.

She stood and began to descend from her dais, but before she could, an arm pulled me into the crowd. I jumped, prepared to rebuke an impertinent villager...and found myself scowling up at Dayo’s grinning face.

I lacked the natural grace of Oluwan women. I was awkward and stilted in places they were fluid and sultry.

Thaddace was swathed in green Mewish tartan.

“I know it’s unseemly for Prince’s Council members to travel alone. But we’re so close to the keep. And I was worried about Sanjeet, and—”

“They’re your council siblings. But our secret is very dangerous, Tarisai. It could threaten Aritsar’s stability. Your discretion is essential.”

A passage ran through the bowels of the keep, circumventing the guards and leading outside Yorua.

Blessid chants resonated in the throat, packed with power to cross miles of desert sand. Kirah’s song soared into the night, so strident I could see the notes winding around the stars.