Chapter 3
Obiageli of the Borjigin pressed her forehead into the wooden floor until the grain imprinted itself into her skin. The air in the chamber had turned thick, biting and alive. Her white wrapper offered no warmth against the chill that crept up her arms.
She rose slowly, remaining on her knees.
Her coral beads clacked with each movement.
The white clay on her face had dried into precise patterns—spirals at her temples, crescent moons beneath her eyes, a line of dots marching from the bridge of her nose to the parting of her lips.
When she relaxed her shoulders and let the cold seep into her marrow, the paintings seemed warm on her skin, as if the spirits themselves were using them as a gateway into her soul.
She bowed to kneel again.
For nineteen years, she had been trapped in this courtyard—not allowed one foot past its threshold except to visit her grandmother's compound.
Each day she awoke with the dawn, before the roosters, before the market women began their trek.
Each day she prayed to the goddess of the Udamili for protection, for grace, and for a successful harvest. She prayed for the health of her people, for the prosperity of their tribe, and for the strength to wake up the next day and do it all again.
Her voice never rose above a whisper, but the goddess heard.
The Udamili had no choice but to listen to the words of their beloved, born with their gift and raised in their faith.
After her third bow, Obiageli stood. She admired the ritual circle at her feet. White chalk, red camwood, black charcoal.
In her ears, whispers circled. They spoke in the language of the gods, trying to burrow their way into her mind.
If she were not careful, if she hadn't trained under the previous Shaman, whose bones were laid in the ancestral grove, she would have driven herself mad with the cadence of the gods.
The power to listen and discern its true meaning was what many Shamans spent their entire lives trying to acquire.
Many were not lucky enough to be born Djinn, who could discern the language of their parents without much effort.
She brought her fingers from her lips to her heart—taste to blood—and bowed once more at her waist. Then, with her feet, she broke the ritual circle, scuffing the eastern line first, then the western, then the north and south until the protection was undone.
The noises, the whispers, the ancient breathing—all came to a sudden stop.
Footsteps came from the corridor. A young girl's voice announcing, "The Dowager has arrived."
Obiageli turned. Her grandmother stood in the doorway, magnificent in indigo, and behind her stood a man.
She didn't need to be told his name. She had seen him every year at the New Yam Festival, hovering at her grandmother's elbow, watching everything but saying nothing in her presence.
A warrior. A paranoid man. A smart man. His head was shaved low to respect the customs of the Imperial Court, and his eyes were like hers.
Cold, ruthless, and calculating.
"What did the Udamili say?" Her grandmother asked. And at her words, Obiageli's servants scattered like flies, vanishing behind doors that lined the shrine.
Obiageli looked up; something warm trickled from her nose—blood. She wiped it without much bother. "You were right. I couldn't call the Red Moon because my power was incomplete."
Her grandmother's face flickered in rage, but the man before her remained unfazed. Obiageli met his eyes, and they came to a mutual understanding.
The Ancestral Shrine was in an isolated part of the Borjigin palace, only visited occasionally by concubines who wished to seem pious.
As a result, it had become a haggard stone hall, open on all sides, providing some much-needed breeze.
It was surrounded by lush trees with singing birds and winding lakes.
To arrive at such a remote court, one must cross three bridges and bypass five pavilions.
Despite the distance, Azul did not mind. She needed the peace and quiet to consider how she'd wring Somadina's pretty little neck.
Since the shrine was so far from the main palace, she was given the grace to sleep there by the Ugoeze's superficial benevolence.
Her maids were not as accepting of their new sleeping quarters as Azul.
And so they grumbled and cursed the entire hike.
Though Azul had it in mind to slap someone, she wished not to ruin her day by getting angry.
The Ancestral Shrine held the headstones of dead members of the royal family and many large tablets with inscriptions of the various chi they favoured, even ones they considered to be their own personal chi.
The cobwebs had to be taken down and the dusty floors needed to be dampened and swept. Sheets needed washing and rugs needed to be thrashed. So the grumbling group of girls got to work.
Azul should have sat back to drink some tea and wait for her room to be done, as other well-bred young ladies did.
But she shed her outer robes and settled into clothes she had worn as a commoner, not forgetting her wooden waist beads.
Then she tied her hair back and found herself a part of the old shrine to clean.
Naturally, her maids were appalled.
"She really is a village girl. The princesses would never debase themselves in such a way," one scoffed, her tone particularly harsh, speaking loud enough for anyone in the vicinity to hear.
"What's the difference between us and her? Because her beauty is a little above average, she is bought at a higher price."
"Both of you are bold to speak about your master like that," a voice squeaked—a young, spirited girl in bantu knots.
"Nkiru, you only speak for her because you were born a slave. If you were bought, like us, you'd understand our words. Ah—! Snake!” The girl shrieked, quickly stepping back.
“Don’t kill it!” Another quickly shouted. “You’ll be punished by Ani!”
Azul passed them by, a smile played on her lips, and she hummed to herself, carrying a large empty vase.
Actually, she could hear them, but she didn't mind snarky maids.
They were right; she was just like them.
The servants of the harem tended to be girls whose fathers sold them to bondsmen, and they were acquired by the palace.
Azul too was purchased, but simply at a higher price, for a reason she had yet to understand.
Taking the vase to the stream, she sang as she began to turn over large rocks and fallen logs. Her actions mostly went unnoticed. She returned soon with a heavy vase, which she covered tightly with a piece of cloth and rolled under her bed.
After that, she took her parchment and ink to the shrine. As they swept, she took her time to read through the columns of the gods.
"Do you even know which one to copy?" Borji's voice interrupted her.
Azul's wonderful, relaxed mood was instantly dulled by the shadow of an unwanted prince.
"Why are you here?" she snapped, deciding not to bother even looking at him.
"You must be poorly raised. Is that how you greet a prince?"
Azul turned on her heel, unamused by his words. "My apologies, Your Highness. Forgive this ignorant village woman. Would you like me to kowtow?"
"No, no, carry on," he said, a smirk dancing on his lips.
"Surely you're not here to watch?"
"Why not? Who will stop me? Last I checked, you couldn't even lift an ornamental sword."
His words were enough to rein her in. He was right. No matter how annoyed his presence made her, it was foolish to anger a man who could kill her when she still had no method of self-defence.
She turned back to the stone columns, running her fingers over the carved inscriptions. The shrine held prayers to dozens of chi—gods of harvest, fertility, war, and prosperity. Each pillar bore the name of a royal ancestor and the deity they had favoured most in life.
"Grandmother's favourite is…" Borji began, his voice uncomfortably close. He had moved to stand beside her, his eyes scanning the same pillars she studied. "The God of Death."
Azul's hand stilled on the stone.
How strange, she thought.
From her understanding, Ukhel was a god very few worshipped because they believed to worship him meant to submit. So for the rest of their life, they would be plagued by death.
Perhaps because she is old and senile, she worships such a god.
"And where would I find Ukhel's scripture?" Azul asked.
Borji pointed to the far corner of the shrine, where a particularly weathered pillar stood half-covered in creeping vines. "There."
Azul walked towards the pillar, brushing aside the foliage. The inscription was dense; the characters old and formal. It would take days to copy, perhaps the full seven she'd been given. Her jaw tightened.
"You didn't think the Ugoeze would let you off so easily, did you?" Borji asked, following her with an infuriating casualness. "She's not as kind; don't be easily fooled by her."
I wasn't fooled. Truly she wasn't; the intensity of the punishment just took her by surprise.
Azul knelt before the pillar, setting down her parchment and ink. She dipped her brush and tried to read the scriptures. The first character took the shape of a circle—death, ending, the closing of a cycle.
Borji crouched beside her, far too close for propriety. "You can actually write?"
"Did you think I couldn't?" Azul didn't look up from her work.
"Most daughters of commoners can't. Your father must've spent all his coin on you."
Azul pursed her lips. An outsider would have said her father truly cared for her.
Borji watched her work in silence for a moment, then reached out and plucked the brush from her fingers.
The girl’s head snapped up. "What are you—"
"Your writing is terrible," he said, examining the characters she'd written. "The strokes are too heavy here, too light there. Grandmother won't accept it."
Heat flooded Azul's face—not embarrassment, but anger. "Then I will redo it until it's perfect."