Chapter 9
The path to the Ancestral Shrine had become too familiar.
Borji counted the bridges as he crossed them, each step taking him further from the main palace and deeper into a part of himself he didn't quite recognise.
A month ago, he would have laughed if someone told him he'd be spending his afternoons visiting his wayward sister in a forgotten corner of the palace grounds.
Now, it felt inevitable.
His mind churned as he walked, turning over the same uncomfortable thoughts that had plagued him since their last conversation.
You would use a child? The question had left his lips before he could school it, and her answer—or rather, her non-answer, the way she wouldn't even look at him—had weighed heavily on him ever since.
A woman who has sworn to kill someone is not above using innocent people.
It disturbed him, but Borji could not say if he simply felt challenged by her; perhaps he had been too lax in his own path to vengeance. As though he had forgotten the scar that cut down his back and the tears he had shed in his father's palace, kneeling and begging.
How could he have forgotten all that pain?
His thoughts plagued him during court sessions, during training, and during the endless political theatre that was palace life.
His father's wives continued to smile at him and his brothers postured and preened.
He had overthought himself into believing Azul was actually a masterful strategist, and for that he wished to slap himself.
What did a village girl know? She merely worked on her instincts, dangerous as they were.
The shrine appeared through the trees; he could see Nkiru hanging washing on a line, her voice a pleasant accompaniment to the humid air.
Borji's steps slowed as he approached the main building.
Azul was there, squatting in the grass near the edge of the grove, her attention fixed intently on something at her feet. She looked younger with her hair pulled back in two buns.
Curious despite his conflicted thoughts, he moved closer, his footsteps quiet on the damp grass. He crouched beside her, following her gaze downward to a small white snake.
It coiled in the grass, barely two feet long, its scales gleaming like pale jade in the sunlight. Its head swayed slightly, tongue flicking out to taste the air. It seemed to slither back and forth aimlessly, unsure where to go.
"Why does it seem so lost?" Borji asked, his voice quiet so as not to startle the creature.
Azul didn't look away from the snake, but he saw the corner of her mouth quirk up. "This is the first time I've released it. I'm seeing if it will run."
This is what she's been cultivating?
He stared more carefully, trying to pinpoint what was so special about this snake in particular.
The snake's head turned toward them, and Borji found himself meeting its emerald-green eyes, all three pairs.
"Of course it won't run," Azul sighed, more to herself than to him. There was satisfaction in her voice, as though her hard work had paid off. "It knows where its food comes from. Where safety is. Why would it run when everything it needs is here?"
Borji felt his stomach lurch, the scar down his spine radiating with newfound pain as though it had grown weary of dormancy.
She reached down and the snake didn't resist as she lifted it. It wound around her wrist, then up her forearm, finally disappearing into the sleeve of her robe with such ease that it made Borji's skin crawl.
Azul stood and finally looked at him directly.
"Where have you been?" she asked. "Any news?"
"It might not be of any interest to you, but news from the Ameachi. One of the Princess Consorts has died."
Crossing her arms, she shifted her weight, waiting for him to continue.
"She walked into the Udamili at night and did not come out."
"Suicide?"
Borji nodded. "It seems she was under great stress; many are speculating it might have to do with her fertility, or lack thereof. Recently the Igwe gifted his third son a new concubine; it must’ve upset her—the main wife."
Azul pursed her lips; they both knew the kind of harsh words that would be said about the poor girl.
Jealousy was not an emotion designated for a first wife; it was only for petty women and whores.
To commit suicide over something as trivial as a co-wife was a great shame to the Princess Consort’s family.
"You should send a letter to the grieving prince."
"Who? Me?" Borji asked, flabbergasted. He barely knew the Third Prince, and such a matter was already shameful as is; why would he ever do such a thing?
Azul nodded. "I will write it; you only need to send it. But I’d like to think that’s not all you’re here to tell me."
Borji struggled to speak; finding the right words suddenly seemed difficult.
"Azul," he said finally, his voice rougher than he intended. "If your father came to visit you... would you want to see him?"
Azul's expression didn't change immediately. She simply glanced to the side, to the forest. Borji followed her gaze, unsure what had drawn her attention.
"My father came to see me?" she asked.
Borji nodded, heart pounding.
After a long pause, she finally spoke again. What graced her lips was a smile so beautiful that what he felt could only be described in one way.
"I will go meet him."
The fear of god.
Borji stood outside, doors closed behind him.
The corridor was silent; not a guard in sight.
Sun shone through the open arches, stopping just beyond his feet.
For a moment all he could hear was crickets and the rustling of leaves—the natural symphony of a palace corner left deliberately unguarded for the sake of privacy.
When Azul had entered, Borji glimpsed the man who was her father, someone he hadn't seen since the day she had been brought to the palace.
Chukwuemeka.
A warrior of the Borjigin sat with the rigid posture of a soldier even in repose, though age had begun to mark him.
He must have been in his late forties, perhaps fifty, with the kind of weathered face that spoke of years spent under harsh sun and harsher circumstances.
His skin was dark and deeply lined, particularly around his eyes.
His hair had greyed at the temples and was cropped close to his skull.
Scars marked his exposed forearms—some thin and clean from blades, others puckered and twisted from burns or poorly healed wounds. His hands, resting on his knees, were broad and calloused, the knuckles prominent and slightly swollen from decades of gripping weapons and reins.
Borji felt that the strangest part of his appearance was his clothing. Local warriors were beloved hunters and protectors of their neighbourhoods; they won wrestling matches and were the pride and joy of their people.
They didn't usually wear standardised Imperial armour.
Beside Chukwuemeka sat a young woman, and the resemblance to Azul was striking.
She must have been seventeen at most, with the same golden-brown complexion and the same soft cheeks and full lips.
Her face was softer than Azul's but held that same intelligence in her dark eyes.
Brown hair braided down her back ending with wooden beads just below her shoulder blades, and a simple wrapper in faded green, the cloth worn thin at the edges but clean and carefully maintained.
A few brass bangles circled her wrists and gold anklets on bare feet.
The more he pondered, the more Borji reconsidered. They weren’t much alike at all; they were just beautiful with similar basic features.
Borji closed the door after Azul entered and took her seat first; he took one more look at Chidinma and Chukwuemeka as they both sank back down onto their cushions. Because Azul, the adopted princess and Akwaugo of the Borjigin, had now surpassed them in status.
Inside the room, Azul was rather quiet, and for good reason.
Her family knew the original Azul more than anyone else—they would notice any oddities in her behaviour.
Though she had no memories of civilians burning possessed people, she had no interest in finding out if they would accuse her of something and have her executed.
"Are you still angry?" Her father broke the silence; his despondent tone made her feel strangely isolated in that room, as though there was an immeasurable gap between her and her family, rather than just one tea table.
"I hope you understand—I couldn't decline the Igwe."
Azul felt her lips quirk up. "I understand."
"Then you should be more considerate of us. Why have you not sent anything home?"
Her lips stretched wider. Did he come here to beg her for money? While she was being starved and humiliated? What money could she possibly have?
"Have you not heard of the situation in the palace?" Azul reached out for a cup. She had no interest in drinking, but it gave her something to do with her hands. "You should know how much they dislike me here. How do you expect me to provide for any of you?"
His eyes narrowed. "I expected more from you. When I heard you'd snuck your way into the Okpalaeze's bed, I thought at least I'd hear of your union. Don't tell me you sold your body to him without proper reparations?"
Anger flared in her suddenly. And though she was not typically an impulsive person, she found herself throwing the full cup of tea past them, watching it smash against the opposite wall.
Hot liquid splattered across the expensive silk hangings.
Ceramic shards scattered across the floor like broken teeth.
They, of all people, knew Azul, so why did they assume such baseless rumours were true?
The three sat in stunned silence as the temperature in the room dropped, tension rising to fill the space left by civility.
"Have you lost your mind, girl!?" Her father hissed, slamming his fist on the table between them. The tea set rattled. "Do not forget your place because of your meagre title."