Chapter 29
Atired-eyed maid entered the Fourth Prince's chambers as she did every morning.
She was quiet and careful, her eyes downcast, her movements practised to disturb nothing.
The room was modest for a royal child, decorated with toys and drawings.
A small bed sat against the far wall, its curtains still drawn, its occupant not yet stirring.
She began with the hearth, sweeping cold ash into a pan. Then the windows, opening the shutters to let in the grey morning light. Then the toys scattered across the floor, picking them up one by one and placing them in their proper place.
She crept toward the bed to wake the young prince.
The curtains were drawn, as always. He liked his privacy, even at his age. She reached out, her hand finding the fabric, and stopped.
The sheets were damp; she considered if he wet the bed.
The curtains were pulled back.
And a heartbreaking wail left her lips.
Three deaths in two days.
The council chamber had become a mortuary of the soul, its walls pressed inward by the weight of grief and fear. Clearly something was wrong, and they all knew why. The Fourth Prince—a forgettable child who lived in peace had been found in his bed with blood pouring from all orifices.
No one had heard or seen anything. The guards at his door swore they had not slept, had not left their posts, and had not allowed anyone to pass. Yet the child was dead, and the killer walked free.
The Elders gathered again, their faces grey with exhaustion.
"The devil," someone whispered. "It has to be the devil."
"The Oracle warned us!"
"She walks among us, and we do nothing!"
The Elder of Justice raised his hand, demanding silence. It took long moments to achieve.
"We cannot act on rumours and fear alone," he said, though his voice lacked its usual conviction. "We need evidence or we descend into paranoia and madness like our ancestors had done!"
"Proof?" A noble laughed bitterly. "Three bodies are not proof enough? What more do you need? Are you waiting for the Okpalaeze to drop dead too!?"
The Elder of Justice frowned, not appreciating the accusation. "We need to be certain," he insisted. "If we execute the wrong person—"
"Better to be safe than sorry! Better to kill one and be wrong than to let her live and lose more!"
The chamber erupted again.
Through it all, Somadina sat in the seat next to his father's—not the throne, not until the Of? was passed and the elders confirmed his ascension—but close enough.
Execute her.
The words should have pleased him. He had dreamed of her death and imagined it in vivid detail. But now that the moment approached, now that the mob's fury focused on her. He hesitated.
She had finally agreed to grant him the mantle of a Divine King when her sister had failed. She had given him enough to work with. Her hand had caressed his face with such tenderness; if she truly hated him, her eyes wouldn't have been so beautiful.
"She must answer for her crimes."
Enoch stood in the centre of the chamber, his scholar's robes rumpled, mud staining the bottom.
"If we execute her without trial," he said, his voice carrying despite its quiet, "we become no better than the mobs in the streets. The people are watching. History is watching. We cannot fall to anarchy simply because we are afraid."
"He's right."
Somadina had risen from his seat, demanding attention like a leader taking control.
"My father is dead, my mother is dead, and now my brother. We cannot let grief drive us to madness. She will face justice, but we will do this as the law commands."
The chamber bristled, uncertain. Somadina was not loved, but he was the acting Igwe now, the only one who could lead until the succession was settled. His words carried weight.
They had no choice but to concede.
“My Lord,” the Elder of Justice raised his hand. “I took the liberty of questioning the girl’s closest maid; should I call her in?”
Somadina’s lips twitched downwards. “Send her in.”
Two guards dragged a small, broken figure—a girl, barely more than a child, her hair shaved in patches, her face bruised and swollen.
Nkiru.
"I have a confession," the Elder announced. He held up the parchment. "Signed and witnessed. The Akwaugo's maid has spoken."
He read aloud.
The faces of the Elders went purple with anger; the more the child spoke, the more they cursed the Akwaugo’s name.
Somadina's hands gripped the arms of his seat so hard the wood creaked. His face remained calm.
She vowed to kill every member of the royal family.
Including him.
Somadina felt his pulse quicken. His skin flushed and his breath grew shallow. He forced himself to speak. "Proof. She confessed under—" He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "We need proof that the Fourth Prince's death was her doing. Not just words."
The Elder of Justice nodded. "I sent men to the well behind the shrine. The maid said the Akwaugo disposed of the murder weapon there. If we find it—"
The doors burst open.
A guard stumbled in, soaked with rain, his face ashen. "Elder!” The room shifted their attention. “We found something! Please follow me.”
Confusion flickered through the Elder’s eyes; surely it was just a murder weapon; why did he need to see it for himself? Still, he and the other elders stood, heading to the Fourth Prince’s courtyard.
The night before, as the storm raged through Tarsyn, Enoch stood at the edge of the well behind the shrine, his injured arm screaming in protest, his good hand gripping a rope. The rain soaked through his robes, plastered his hair to his face, and turned the ground to mud beneath his feet.
He looked down into the darkness.
It took hours. Hours of hauling, of straining, of fighting against the weight and the dark and the horror of what he was doing. His injured arm screamed; his mind threatened to shut down entirely.
But he did not stop.
When the Fourth Wife's body finally emerged from the well, Enoch lifted it onto a large mat and dragged it.
The corpse was swollen, blue, and rotting in the water, but it had to be done.
The woman, said to have died at childbirth, was clearly still pregnant at the time of her death.
In her cell, Azul hummed.
A beautiful tune that mingled with the drip of water and the distant rumble of thunder. Her eyes were closed, her face peaceful, and her fingers combed through her hair.
She had been humming for hours.
The guards who passed her cell glanced in, then quickly away. There was something unsettling about her calm—about the way she sat in darkness and damp and sang as if she were in a garden.
“How did it go?” She spoke as though to herself, as though she were mad.
“Really? Thank you. Since they want to start this stupid game, I should push them a little more. It's best if they dig their own graves."
She went silent for a few moments, her brow rising.
“Ah… really? Hmm, I know I didn’t name you, but I like what I call you.”
“I mean, I know it's not appropriate but still…”
Her expression became more downcast as she listened to the voice rattling on in her head. Once it was done, she let out a dramatic sigh.
“Fine,” she pouted. “I’ll think about it.”
Arriving footsteps alerted her to the presence of someone she was expecting.
"Enoch! You've come."
He stopped before the bars, gripping them with both hands. His injured arm throbbed, reminding him of the arrow that had nearly taken her life and the choices he had made since.
“You seem to be in good spirits; I was hoping you weren’t worse off."
“They can only punish me superficially; they can’t do anything that the Great Khan will see should he return.”
He frowned. "Superficially?"
“Come! Tell me what happened.” She deflected his question, so he pursed his lips and didn’t pursue the matter further.
"The Fourth Wife's body," he said quietly. "They found it. Just as you wanted." Enoch hesitated. There was more—so much more—but the words lodged in his throat. "Khatun." His voice dropped. "There's something else."
She waited with clear eyes.
He told her everything, the news that came from Orda Naiman’s camp.
She listened attentively, and once he was done, she laughed.
Enoch watched her, searching for the emotion behind it—sorrow? Fear? Madness?
No.
Bliss.
"Tell him," she said, recovering from her joy. "Tell Somadina everything."
Enoch's blood ran cold. "Everything?"
Her golden eyes met his. “Everything.”
Chukwuemeka stepped into the indoor shrine, as he had done many times before.
Each time, he had felt the same prickle at the back of his neck, the same urge to turn back, the same knowledge that he was entering a place where men like him were guests at best and intruders at worst. But he had always pressed forward, because Chukwuemeka did not turn back from anything.
A paranoid man, with multiple plans and contingencies, planning his rise from the bottom up, and oh, how far he had risen.
From the destitute warrior who couldn't protect the woman he loved from the clutches of the imperial family, to a father and a successful advisor to the next Igwe of the Borjigin.
Today, the urge to run was stronger.
He ignored it.
Obiageli knelt before the altar of the Udamili, shaped in the form of a woman with her chest flayed open, water pouring out.
Her face was painted with white, her lips lined black. She wore the full regalia of the Oracle: coral beads weighing down her neck, brass rings circling her wrists, and a headpiece of eagle feathers casting shadows across her painted face.
She looked at Chukwuemeka coldly, as she'd always done. There was nothing out of the usual.
"Great Oracle," he said; taking a knee was custom.
He understood propriety and so did not overstep his bounds, though she was the daughter of a woman he held dear to his heart.
Obiageli's golden eyes met his as he regained his position standing tall, looking down on her.