Chapter 7
With a small basket under her arm, Azul hopped over the narrow stream. Machete in hand, she reached to cut down the long stalks of sugarcane. The blade sliced clean through the fibrous plant with a satisfying thunk, and she caught the stalk before it could fall into the water.
The stream bubbled pleasantly beside her, its banks lined with smooth river stones and wild grass that swayed in the breeze. It looked natural enough, but Azul knew better. This entire grove was artificial.
According to village gossip, when the Iyom was young and newly arrived at the palace, she had wept for her village, lamenting that she missed fetching water from the streams near her father's compound.
The Igwe, besotted with his new bride and the son she'd borne him, had ordered this area cultivated specifically for her comfort.
Streams were diverted, forests transplanted, and rocks arranged just so.
An entire ecosystem built to soothe one woman's homesickness.
Azul found it absurd. The water here didn't even flow to the kitchens—it was purely ornamental, a living monument to the Iyom's privilege. Meanwhile, servants walked half a mile to the actual wells every morning.
Still, she couldn't deny the convenience it brought to someone as isolated as her. It had been a week since she'd last seen Borji, and no one had bothered her about paying greetings to the Ugoeze; so she minded her own business and kept herself busy.
Adding another stalk of sugarcane to her basket, she moved deeper into the grove, her eyes scanning for anything else useful. Anything that would supplement what Nkiru bought from the market.
The sound of crying stopped her mid-step.
Azul paused, lowering the machete, listening for the source. It was a high-pitched, hiccupping sob coming from somewhere to her left.
She hesitated. Palace children were not her concern. Getting involved with royal offspring, even unloved ones, when she was still not ready was a recipe for trouble.
The crying intensified, dissolving into genuine wails of distress.
Azul sighed and followed the sound, if only to make sure it wasn't an Ogbanje.
She found him in a small clearing, a boy no more than ten or eleven dressed in fine silks now muddied. His face was blotchy and tear-streaked, and he clutched his arm where angry red scratches marked his dark skin.
"Why are you crying?" Azul asked crudely.
The boy jumped, startled, then looked up at her with wide, frightened eyes. "I—I lost Mama's cat," he sobbed. "She's going to be so angry. Obi ran away and I can't find him and—" He dissolved into tears, leaving her exasperated.
It seems he's one of the lesser wives' children; he must be unfavoured, or they wouldn't let him wander around alone.
"What does the cat look like?" she heard herself ask.
The boy sniffled. "He's grey. With white paws. And he has a torn ear because he fights with the kitchen cats all the time."
"Alright. I'll help you look. But first, let me see that arm."
The scratches weren't deep, but they needed cleaning. Azul tore a strip of cloth from her skirt and dampened it in the stream.
"What's your name?" she asked as she cleaned the wounds.
"Chinedu," the boy whispered. "Son of—"
"I know who you are, little prince." She tied the makeshift bandage around his arm. "Now, where did you last see Obi?"
They found the cat not long after, sprawled in a patch of wild catnip near the base of an old tree, completely insensible with pleasure.
"Obi!" Chinedu rushed forward, but Azul caught his shoulder.
"Wait. He's been rolling in catnip. If you grab him now, he'll scratch you again."
She crouched down and carefully plucked several sprigs of the herb, tucking them into her basket. Useful for tea, if nothing else. Then she approached the cat slowly, grabbing it by the neck and lifting the fat, languid thing for the boy to see and be comforted.
Obi, drunk on catnip and happiness, merely purred as he hung mid-air.
"I'll carry him," Azul said. "You've been scratched enough for one day; I'm sure it would displease your mother to see it."
They walked back to the shrine in companionable silence, the boy trotting beside her, looking up to see the swaying cat that was being held at arm's length at all times.
When they arrived, Azul settled Chinedu on the wooden steps and went to prepare the sugarcane she'd cut earlier. She peeled back the tough outer layer and cut it into small cubes before handing him a piece.
"Chew and spit. It's sweet."
Chinedu's eyes shone as the sugar hit his tongue.
The sound of hurried footsteps made Azul look up. Nkiru emerged from the shrine, her arms full of washing, and froze when she saw the prince.
"Akwaugo—" Her voice pitched high with panic. "That boy—"
"His name is Chinedu," Azul said calmly. "He lost his cat. Now he's having some sugarcane. Come and eat with us."
Nkiru looked like she might faint.
"My Lady, he is a prince!"
"I know, come and eat; it's an order."
The child was more anxious than Azul had the energy to deal with.
The girl set down her washing with shaking hands and perched on the very edge of the steps, as far from the prince as possible whilst still technically obeying.
Azul handed her a piece of sugarcane. "Eat."
For several long minutes, they sat in awkward silence—the exiled princess, the anxious maid, and the prince happily gnawing on sugarcane whilst his recovered cat lounged in his lap.
Are children usually like this? Azul wondered, unsure if she was meant to give them a toy to ease the tension.
By the time she had returned indoors and re-emerged to check on them, Nkiru's shoulders had relaxed, and they were debating the rules of some children's hand-clapping song she'd never heard of.
The cat, for its part, seemed perfectly content with its adventure.
Azul watched them with half-closed eyes, feeling the warm sun on her face. Nkiru had dragged out an old reclining chair earlier in the week, which allowed her to watch the peaceful scene.
They are lively, she thought to herself as Nkiru snapped to attention, pointing at the prince, who stiffened as tears filled his eyes again. Part of her wondered if she was like that as a child, but of course, childhood memories were difficult to recall, especially after death.
And so, just like that, her eyes closed.
She woke to the absence of harsh sunlight on her face.
Blinking, Azul looked up to see Borji standing above her, holding an enormous leaf—easily two feet across—angled to shade her from the afternoon sun.
"You're going to burn," he said by way of greeting, that familiar half-smile playing on his lips. "Then you will be ugly."
Azul rolled her eyes; she was a Borjigin. Since when could Anyanwu's blessings turn her ugly?
"Where have you been?" she asked, her voice still rough with sleep. She sat up slowly, Chinedu and Nkiru had moved to the grass and were now trying to coax the cat into chasing a piece of string.
"Unlike some people," Borji said, settling the leaf against the wall so it continued to provide shade, "I have responsibilities.
Between court sessions, training, and pretending to care about trade negotiations, I am a very busy man.
" He dropped onto the steps beside her chair with an exhausted sigh. "It's exhausting being useful."
"My heart weeps for you."
"As it should." He reached into his robes and pulled out a small cloth-wrapped package. "But I did send someone to collect what you wanted from the blacksmith."
Azul's fingers closed around the package immediately, her exhaustion vanishing.
"Already?"
"I may complain, but I'm not useless." He watched her unwrap it with obvious curiosity.
"Though I still don't know what you commissioned."
"Thank you," Azul said quietly, closing her fingers around it. She met Borji's eyes. "Truly."
He waved her off but looked pleased with himself. His gaze shifted to Chinedu, who had finally succeeded in getting the cat to pounce on the string and was giggling delightedly.
"You've acquired a small prince," Borji observed.
"He lost a cat. I helped him find it."
"How magnanimous of you." Borji's tone was dry. "You should send someone to the Third Wife to come get him. They must be looking for him by now. If his mother finds out he's been here, she won't be happy."
"I know." Azul tucked the package carefully into her robes. "I'm not trying to make enemies of the lesser wives too. Just the important ones."
"How discriminating; unfavoured concubines deserve your loathing too."
She rolled her eyes; her loathing was precious to her, why waste it on people who caused her no harm?
Borji stood, brushing off his clothes. "I'll send a message to the Third Wife's quarters."
"You should probably clean him up a bit first, though. He looks like he's been rolling in the dirt. He's filthy, isn't he?"
Borji's eye twitched. "He's still a prince."
Azul shrugged; prince or not, he was half covered in mud. "He wheezes, so tell them to bring his medicine as well."
Borji frowned. "The prince is not ill, is he?"
"What do you mean? Does he not take medicine?"
Borji shook his head. "Did he get sick under your watch? Maybe it’s better if I take him back then, so they don't accuse you of maliciousness."
Sitting up, Azul looked at the boy. She hadn't been imagining it.
"Do you not know the boy has asthma?"
Borji raised a brow, waiting for her to explain herself.
No, he has definitely had it for longer than today, could it be they didn't notice? Impossible.
"If it is as you say, that the boy has been ill for a long time with that illness you mentioned. It could be that it was hidden," Borji suddenly said, crossing his arms as he looked at the children.
I see… Is having a child with a debilitating condition considered shameful here as well? Azul's lips pursed. I suppose a healthy prince is more loved than one with health issues.
"Do you still want me to tell the Third Wife?" Borji's question sat with her. And the more she considered, the more something akin to amusement rose in her.
"How interesting. Borji, does the Third Wife submit to the Iyom?"