Chapter 29
ìlú-Idán, Fourth Ring, Kingdom of Oru
L’?R?
L’?r? found the room too small to breathe in.
So she sat on the staircase while Alawani slept.
She sat halfway down the stairs; overlooking the open foyer with morning light spilling through the windows was the next best thing to leaving the house, which she couldn’t do.
Around her the sapphire flowers bloomed, casting shades of blue against her skin.
L’?r? was lost in thought when Márùn walked in from her patrol.
She seemed to be the answer to the question she’d been asking herself: how would she get back to the Sun Temple?
She called Márùn over and the woman sighed before settling down next to her on the stairs. ‘What’s happening out there?’ L’?r? asked softly, noticing how drenched in sweat the woman was.
Márùn exhaled deeply as if catching her breath.
‘There are several platoons of soldiers and royal guards patrolling the city. They’re searching every house, burning buildings and arresting anyone they think knows anything about you.
They don’t know where we are, but they seem to know we’re close – and the people are suffering for it. ’
L’?r? avoided Márùn’s gaze, guilt eating at her for being there at all.
‘It’s not your fault,’ Márùn said, noticing L’?r?’s expression.
‘This happens in ìlú-Idán more often than you think. The Holy Order keeps a heavy hand pressed on their necks to make sure they never revolt against them. The people of the fourth ring are descendants of the old Idán tribe, the scions whose call the old gods will always listen to. Unlike agbára oru, the strength of old magic is determined by the power the òrì?àyou call upon, not by the strength of the core in your physical body. So as they should, the priests fear what would happen if people with agbára oru learn to use old magic. They’ll be severely overpowered, and they know it.
They’re not just here for you. You’re simply the excuse this time. ’
Márùn leaned forward to tuck her blades into her boots and L’?r? noticed the mark at the base of her skull. ‘Your mark,’ L’?r? said. ‘It’s fading.’
‘Thank the gods,’ Márùn said. ‘When it’s gone, my debt will be repaid in full.’
‘How many first suns have you seen?’
Márùn raised an eyebrow at her and smirked.
‘I just mean, back at the farm inn, you said you owed a life debt to Alawani’s mother. You seem a bit young to have made such a commitment to serve out your days bound by old magic to someone else.’
Márùn shrugged. ‘I’ve seen twenty-five first suns but I inherited this debt from my father long before I knew what it meant to be bound to the will of another.’
‘But how … what did he do?’
‘I won’t stop you from telling me your secrets but don’t ask me to tell you mine.’
‘The ink is nearly faded. You’ll be free when it’s gone, right?’ L’?r? asked.
‘Say what it is you’ve come to me for, L’?r?. What do you want?’
L’?r? sat up as she filled Márùn in on the deal she had made with the Elder Priest. After a few moments of silence from Márùn, L’?r? added, ‘I want to go back.’
Márùn was quiet for a moment longer, playing with the rings on her fingers. ‘You think he’ll really do it?’
‘I don’t know but I have to try,’ L’?r? said.
‘And I imagine you’re not taking the prince with you, that’s why you’re telling me?’
‘If you come with me, you’ll be saving him too,’ L’?r? said, grasping at straws. ‘You might pay off your debt.’
‘When do we leave?’
L’?r? could hardly believe her ears. ‘Thank you. Thank you so much.’
‘When?’ Márùn asked again.
‘Tomorrow. At dawn. I’ll be ready.’
Alawani appeared at the top of the stairs. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Just catching up on the news from outside,’ L’?r? said, surprised at how convincingly she lied.
Márùn nodded to L’?r? and Alawani and walked into the dark hallway. Voices drifted from somewhere deeper in the house.
L’?r? watched her go and decided to follow. She wanted to see where the voices were coming from.
‘Come on,’ said Alawani, following her eyes with a smile.
L’?r? and Alawani trailed Márùn down the corridor, into a part of the house they hadn’t seen before.
The narrow passage grew darker with each step but soon there was light.
L’?r? noticed how the same flowers that bloomed in her room were growing along the ceiling.
They shone brightly, lighting up the way until they entered a large airy room.
Here, ten girls sat behind tables dressed in what looked like a uniform, but each with a different colour. Their tables were arranged in a circle around the centre of the room, where ìyá-Idán stood, surveying their work.
L’?r? wasn’t sure what she expected to see in the mother of magic’s inner chambers, but it was so far from anything she could’ve imagined.
To her right, one girl moved her hands in the air and stared at the flowerpot before her.
The girl spoke in a dialect of Yoruba that L’?r? didn’t understand even though she recognized its rhythm; the dialect her father had taught her to light up her blades.
‘Old magic,’ Alawani said quietly. He held out his arm, blocking L’?r? from moving further into the room.
Soon, a green-coloured mist danced along the girl’s fingertips, and the plant sprouted from the pot.
Its colour was identical to her uniform’s shade of green.
Although no one was taught old magic in Oru, everyone knew the names of the old gods.
Listening to the incantations, L’?r? realized the girl was channelling the old god of the earth, Erinl.
She pushed a surge of green smoke into her plant, and it died.
Her face fell as she looked at ìyá-Idán.
The woman’s face remained blank but stern.
‘Again,’ she said in a flat, dismissive tone.
The girl picked up another pot with a different plant to repeat the spell.
Across the room, L’?r? noticed another girl channelling the old god of resurrection, ?bàtálá.
She was trying and failing to make the dead frog on her table move to the rhythm of her hands.
Another girl summoned ògún for metal manipulation, and L’?r? recognized the name of the old god ?àngó as another burned objects to ash then tried and failed to return them to their original state.
One girl at the far end of the room, challenging ?ya for air manipulation, had successfully turned her clay pot into red sand and was trying to form a small cyclone.
L’?r? took another step back, in awe of the impossible things being conjured in her presence.
She had only ever summoned ?àngó to ignite her blades and activate her time beads, but this was nothing like that.
These girls were manipulating nature like it was agbára.
L’?r? stared wide-eyed at the twist of sand growing between the girl’s hands and recalled the sandstorm ìyá-Idán started in the town to escape the guards.
Just as L’?r? was about to speak, the girl lost control of the storm she’d conjured, and it exploded with a loud bang, filling the room with sand.
But with a single snap of her fingers, ìyá-Idán reversed the girl’s spell, and a wind picked up in the room, gathering all the sand and tossing it in a single heap on the girl’s head as punishment for failing whatever test this was.
The other girls snickered and laughed among themselves.
What shocked L’?r? more than the display of old magic was that when ìyá-Idán used the magic of the old gods, she didn’t hear her say spells or incantations.
How could she be teaching these girls old magic? It was one thing to practise it knowing the risk to one’s own life, but to teach children the thing that would have their heads severed from their bodies?
‘Aren’t you afraid they’ll get caught?’ L’?r? asked ìyá-Idán before facing the girls. ‘I thought only a few sacred institutions in ìlú-Idán could research the magic honed for the priests of the Holy Order?’
‘Look at you. Spewing back to me the words of the people trying to kill you,’ ìyá-Idán said, and L’?r? felt her cheeks flush with shame and glanced away.
‘L’?r? thinks she is better than you,’ ìyá-Idán told her girls. ‘She thinks practising the old gods’ magic is wrong.’
L’?r? noticed the girls glaring at her from behind their tables. Alawani grabbed her hand as though ready to pull her out of the room at a moment’s notice and run.
‘What L’?r? here doesn’t know is that we, the people of ìlú-Idán, are the life source of this great kingdom.
Without us, there would be no food, no life, or sustenance.
This forbidden magic from our land – from our ancestors – feeds into ìlú-p? and, in turn, feeds the entire kingdom.
So before you come in here all high and mighty, know your history and show respect where it is due! ’
L’?r? bowed her head and continued to listen, sensing ìyá-Idán was only just getting into her stride.
‘Tell me what your Baba-ìtàn told you before he sent you here for refuge?’ she asked, a scowl on her face.
ìyá-Idán didn’t wait for L’?r? to reply.
‘Did he tell you that the Holy Order turned our homeland into a power source for this kingdom and repaid us for our blood with chains around our necks? Forcing us to work tirelessly to find ways to substitute the agbára they so willingly gave up for the crown? We are descendants of the first High Priest of Oru – the man who, by order of the old gods, blessed this kingdom with agbára. How does the Holy Order repay us? How does this kingdom repay us? By stealing our children, draining them of their blood and using it to wield magic they have no right to.’
‘What?’ L’?r?’s voice was weak. She couldn’t understand what she was hearing – she glanced at Alawani but his expression was equally confused. Draining them of their blood?