Chapter 27 Ìlú-Idán, Fourth Ring, Kingdom of Oru #2
àdùk eyed Alawani warily then moved on. ‘Your rooms are this way,’ she said, leading them to stairs that led to a landing above them. ‘Leave your clothes at your door and the girls will fix them by morning.’
On the stair railings were bright yellow flowers that ran all the way to the top.
They blossomed as she approached them, slowly awakening as her presence drew nearer.
L’?r? had seen nothing of the sort before.
She had grown up thinking that old magic was a cheap replacement for the agbára she didn’t have.
Most importantly, it was something that had to be hidden, so watching this house clearly and proudly filled with old magic made her heart flutter with anxiety.
She couldn’t shake the feeling that the Holy Order would sense such a surge of power and track them down.
On the other hand, if she’d known that a place far from home would have been more accepting of her using a little bit of old magic she’d have moved to the fourth ring a long time ago.
With every step that L’?r? took, the flowers around her turned a light shade of blue, deepening until they mirrored the colour of the sky.
She stopped and glanced back, shocked to see the blue spread to the top of the landing.
She turned to look at Alawani; the flowers on his side of the stairs had changed colour too, creating a crimson background behind him.
L’?r? turned to àdùk, silently asking for an explanation, but the woman only said, ‘They won’t harm you. They only recognize what is in you.’
àdùk pointed to two rooms, one on the right and the other on the left.
‘We would like to stay together,’ Alawani said in a low tone.
L’?r?’s cheeks burned with embarrassment. In truth she didn’t want to share a room with him, not after that stunt he pulled with the maiden.
‘We’re fine with the arrangements,’ she spoke up.
àdùk gave a brisk nod, and L’?r? did the same, responding with a weak smile.
‘Get washed and come down for your meal. We have a lot to talk about. Márùn, come with me,’ àdùk said, going back downstairs.
After a few restless moments in her room, L’?r? decided to draw more answers from this woman her father had sent her to. She’d only got as far as the landing when she saw àdùk on the floor below, staring at the burnt remnants of the letter on the floor.
L’?r? crouched by the top of the stairs, hiding behind a post. She leaned over to watch the woman.
àdùk sobbed softly, wiping the tears from her eyes.
L’?r? didn’t know àdùk very well, but the woman’s set features, grim eyes and tight lips did nothing to show that she was the kind of woman who cried over anything.
L’?r? watched quietly as àdùk scooped up the ashes in her hands and said a few words of incantation softly into them.
There the letter was. In its original form, without burn or scorch.
‘Curse you, ?niìtàn. Curse you for sending this child to me. May your gods and mine and those whose names are long forgotten curse –’ àdùk’s voice hitched, and she sobbed into the note.
L’?r? frowned, confused.
àdùk’s hands shook as she tried to open the letter. She stopped and turned towards the stairs, and L’?r? fell back. Too fast. Her elbow slammed into the post behind her, and L’?r? placed her hand over her mouth to silence the cry that forced its way to her lips.
‘Kàá fún mi. Read it to me.’ àdùk’s voice cracked, and L’?r? peered out again to see what was happening.
The letter in àdùk’s hand hovered in the air, and obeying her command, a voice read the words out loud. His voice. Baba-ìtàn’s voice. L’?r?’s eyes widened. Her experience with old magic had been limited to the words that ignited her blades and lit her time beads.
‘àdùk mi. I have no right to ask this of you. It breaks my heart that after all these years, this is what reconnects us. The same thing broke us. But I pour my heart out to you, and I beg you in the name of the gods, yours and mine, known and unknown. This is L’?r?.
You know who she is. You know what she is.
Protect her, give her safe passage out of Oru, show her the way to her people, and I’ll forever be in your debt. I sign this with my blood, ?niìtàn.’
Tears welled up in L’?r?’s eyes as her father’s voice trailed away like a soft breeze.
She missed him so much. She wondered what he’d done after she left?
Was he safe? It broke her heart to realize how much he knew about her.
Her powers, her curse, her mother. Her life.
How much he knew and kept hidden. She let out a forceful breath as tears rolled down her face.
Every step towards safety was another away from him, and she didn’t want to be away from him.
She wanted the home she grew up in more than she wanted to be safe outside the walls of Oru.
àdùk snapped her fingers, and the floating letter fell to the floor, returning to ash. She scoffed and swept the ashes with her foot. ‘You are already in my debt.’
L’?r? flinched back as the woman’s words echoed through the hallway.
‘If you want to eavesdrop, have the decency to be quiet.’
L’?r? scurried back to her room.
When evening came, a young girl called her and Alawani out to dinner.
The entire time, she practised her apology for eavesdropping, hoping not to be kicked out into the hustle and bustle of the town that she could hear rumbling outside her windows.
As they sat at one end of the long rectangular dining table, L’?r? ran her lines in her head once more, waiting for the perfect time to break the silence.
Opposite her, Alawani ate his meal of freshly baked bread and goat meat pepper soup, too occupied with filling his stomach to notice the tension in the air.
Knowing him, he was more likely pretending not to notice.
No one avoided confrontation like her best friend.
‘The first rule of staying in my house is that you must not walk out that door without my permission,’ àdùk said, breaking the silence. ‘Márùn will go on patrols twice a day to see what’s happening outside and let us know when the maiden and royal guards have moved on from this side of town.’
Márùn wasn’t at the table with them. L’?r? hadn’t seen her since they got to the house. She tried to ask about the woman but àdùk went on, ‘I can’t keep you here indefinitely, so what’s your plan?’
L’?r? glanced at Alawani and back at àdùk. ‘My father said you’d get us out. You are our plan,’ she said, conscious of the way her voice cracked with worry.
àdùk scoffed and returned to her meal, suckling on the bones and spitting them out on the table.
‘Baba-ìtàn said –’ L’?r? started to say, but àdùk cut her off.
‘Your Baba-ìtàn is not here! I’m not going to risk my life for you again.’
L’?r? quietened. Again? Her father had never even mentioned this woman’s name until he put that letter in her hands. L’?r? returned to her meal, not even looking at Alawani, who was still quiet the whole time. He was smarter than her. He knew not to poke the beast.
Once again, only the tearing of bread and the chewing of bones could be heard in the room.
L’?r? silently mulled over the challenge of winning the woman’s trust, hopefully avoiding her short fuse.
She opened her mouth to speak but then realized she didn’t know what to call the woman.
Aunty àdùk or ìyá-àdùk or Mama àdùk. L’?r? figured the woman was younger than her father.
Her satin turban kept her hair hidden, so L’?r? couldn’t tell by the number of grey hairs.
But she looked like someone who’d seen nearly forty first suns.
‘Aunty àdùk,’ L’?r? said in a soft whisper.
‘Call me ìyá-Idán,’ the woman said plainly. ‘My oríkì is reserved for those who earn the right to say my name.’
ìyá-Idán – mother of magic. L’?r? stifled a gulp and bowed her head. ìyá-Idán nodded, accepting the unspoken apology.
Far into the passageway that led deeper into the mysterious house, L’?r? thought she could hear voices of girls chattering and laughing, but as soon as she tried to focus on them, they disappeared as fast as they came.
‘ìyá-Idán,’ L’?r? started softly, ‘what did my father mean by you know who and what I am? Do you know about my agbára? Can you help me?’
‘Baba-ìtàn, is that what he goes by now?’ ìyá-Idán said, ignoring L’?r?’s questions.
L’?r? nodded. ‘He tells tales by moonlight under the tree in our compound. The children started calling him the father of stories. He tells the best ones in the entire city, maybe even the kingdom,’ L’?r? said with pride.
She thought she saw the hint of a smile on the woman’s face as she said, ‘Yes, he does.’
L’?r? hoped ìyá-Idán would say more. She was dying to ask about her mother, to ask what connection she had with Baba-ìtàn.
To know more about where she’d come from and where she was running to.
But she had to wait for the right moment.
It didn’t seem like that moment would ever come.
L’?r? considered what to say next, and just when she convinced herself she could wait until morning to ask, the question came tumbling out of her mouth.
‘How did you know my mother?’
ìyá-Idán shot her a menacing look, her eyes growing dark and stormy.
L’?r? braced herself but continued, ‘It’s just that when we were at the city wall, you called me Mremí’s child. How did you know? How did you know her?’
ìyá-Idán slammed her fist onto the wooden table, rattling everything. The plates, the soup, and even some bones came flying off. ‘Let that be the last time you speak Mremí’s name under my roof.’
‘Why? What did she do?’
‘She brought darkness into my life. I owe you no explanations and I am not here to tell you midnight stories like your father. So stop asking.’
L’?r? finished the rest of her meal in silence.
ìyá-Idán rose from the table. ‘You leave in two days.’
‘Two days?’ L’?r? said. ‘We don’t –’
‘If àlùfáà-àgbà knows who you are,’ ìyá-Idán cut her off, ‘then he knows who your mother was, and that means he’ll know where you’ve gone. Because when he hunted her down all those first suns ago, this is where she ran to, and this is where he found and killed her.’