“Actually, she did,” Karina blurted out. “She told me this year’s prize.” This was a lie, but surely it wouldn’t be too difficult to think up something worth offering as the Solstasia grand prize. Most people would be content with even a rock from the palace grounds, or maybe even a pony.

“Then the matter is settled,” said Grand Vizier Jeneba, glancing at the window. The first morning bells had begun to ring, Ziran waking up for the day it had waited fifty years to see. “Haissa Sarahel’s death is not to be spoken of outside this room. For the duration of the festival, Her Majesty is to be addressed with her former titles and status. Mwale Farid, I trust that you will ensure that Her Highness has all the resources she’ll need.”

“Of course,” said Farid.

“I must say I am rather pleased by this turn of events,” said Mwani Zohra in her usual singsong lilt. “Driss has been eager to be Sun Champion since he was in diapers.”

Rat piss, Karina had completely forgotten about the Champions. Taking over the Kestrel’s duties meant she was now the one officially hosting them in Ksar Alahari. The Azure Garden, one of the many riads on her family’s property, was the traditional home of the Champions during the festival, and Karina grimaced at the thought of both Adetunde and Driss so close to her own living quarters.

“Is there anything I should know about the Champions before the Opening Ceremony?” Karina asked.

“Six of them are exactly who we expected,” said Grand Vizier Jeneba. Then she paused, a look of unease fluttering across her face. “But the seventh one . . . reports have come in that apparently Adanko appeared at the Life Temple and chose the Life Champion. Some boy from Talafri.”

“Tch, it’s all hallucinations triggered by drunk, overzealous minds. I wouldn’t put too much stock in it,” said Mwale Omar with a dismissive wave.

“Still, a mass hallucination of the Life Goddess the same night the sultana is murdered . . .” muttered Farid. He leaned forward, and the look on his face was one Karina knew well—it was the look he got when faced with a problem he had not yet managed to solve. “I don’t like this at all.”

“Neither do I, but I believe Her Majesty—my apologies, Her Highness—is right. We have more to gain from holding Solstasia than we do postponing it,” said the grand vizier. Triumph flooded through Karina. She had stood up to the council and won. She would renew the Barrier and keep Ziran safe, just as her ancestors had done for a thousand years.

Still, the victory felt hollow. Because what was the point of winning when the Kestrel wasn’t here to see it?

I’ll make things right, Mother, thought Karina, rising from her chair and heading out the door to prepare for Solstasia. I promise.

9

Malik

The frenzy of the crowd outside Life Temple was so loud that Malik barely heard Life Priestess ask him, “What is your name, son?”

He swayed on his feet. The rush of magic was gone, in its place now only an exhaustion that threatened to overtake his senses.

Name. Life Priestess wanted to know his name.

“Ma . . .” He began but stopped. Thanks in part to the current plague of river flu and the worsening violence between the clans, no Eshrans were allowed inside Ziran for the foreseeable future. Giving his true name would end this charade before it had even begun, and then who would save Nadia?

“A-Adil,” he stammered out, reciting the name on his forged passage papers. “Adil Asfour.”

Life Priestess beamed and turned to the adoring crowd once more. “My siblings, please raise your voices in adulation for Adanko’s chosen Champion, Adil Asfour!”

This last roar was the loudest of all, and it shook the statue of Adanko down to its foundation. The cheer was still going strong when Life Priestess called a team of soldiers onto the stage, all of them swathed in the dark purple of the Life-Aligned. Malik flinched, but Life Priestess said, “This way, please, Champion Adil.”

Where was Leila? He couldn’t leave without her. Malik scanned the crowd beneath him, but his view was quickly blocked by the soldiers falling into tight formation around him. They ushered him off the stage so briskly that he almost tripped over his own bruised feet trying to keep up.

“Clear a path!” the soldiers cried, though all the screaming in the world could not have placated the crowd. Frantic people climbed over the wooden barriers lining the street as if they were made of parchment.

“Solstasia afeshiya, Life Champion! Afeshiya!”

“Bless you, Champion, chosen by Adanko herself!”

“Champion Adil! Champion Adil! Over here, please!”

One woman tried to shove her infant into Malik’s arms and received a sharp jab from the dull end of a soldier’s spear. A new swarm of people rushed forward to fill her former space, engulfing her completely. Devotion lined their faces, awe filled their eyes, and with each blessing and adulation that tumbled from their lips, the pit of dread inside Malik’s stomach grew. Well past overwhelmed, he focused on putting one foot in front of the other, his hands twitching at his sides for his sisters.

Malik nearly wept for joy when their destination came into view: a purple-and-silver palanquin with the spiral symbol of Adanko carved into the side. The guards saluted Malik and opened the door of the vehicle to reveal an interior of dark ebony wood and inviting purple cushions.

“This way, please, Champion Adil.”

“But my sister!” The palanquin was only meant to fit one person. How would Leila ever find him if they carried him away in that thing?

“Now, please, Champion Adil.”

Ignoring Malik’s feeble protests, the soldiers guided him into the palanquin and shut the door in his face. He had only seconds to orient himself before the vehicle was moving, lifted onto the backs of several of the guards. They marched with surprising speed, almost as fast as the sand barges and wagons Malik had seen out in the Odjubai.

The last space Malik had been in that was this small had been the wagon that had transported him and his sisters across the desert. Though the luxurious interior of the palanquin was a far cry from the rotting, ancient wood of the wagon, the feeling of the walls closing in on him was the same. Malik pulled his knees to his chest and squeezed his eyes shut.

“Breathe. Stay present. Stay here,” he begged himself. “Breathe. Stay present. Stay here.”

But not even thinking about his lemon tree did anything to combat the growing knot in his chest. His one bit of solace was that he could see no signs of the wraiths or the other grim folk. Thank the Great Mother.

Malik tried to peer out the palanquin’s sole window, but the holes in the thick grate were so small that he couldn’t make out anything besides vague colors and stone. Would Haissa Sarahel and Princess Karina greet him when he arrived at the palace? The thought sent a shiver down Malik’s spine. Would it be possible to kill the princess right there before this madness spiraled further out of control?

But what if the guards weren’t taking him to the palace at all? What if Life Priestess had found out he was not really Adil Asfour, and they were taking him to the execution block for lying to a holy woman? Then Nadia would truly be doomed.

The thought of Nadia’s frightened face gave Malik a burst of energy, and he fumbled uselessly with the latch on the door. When that didn’t work, he turned to his magic.

He tried to focus on how he’d felt moments before the illusion of Adanko appeared—whole and complete, the chattering flurry of his mind for once fully under his control. But his mind was racing too fast for calm, and his magic remained out of reach. Malik gritted his teeth and tried again. He needed to be calm, he needed to be in control—nothing. By the time the palanquin came to a stop, all Malik had for his efforts was a sheen of sweat running down his brow, nausea in his stomach, and no magic whatsoever.

What a sight Malik must have made when the guards opened the door—wide-eyed and terrified, crouched in the corner like a hare in a trap. But if they had any doubts about Malik’s validity as a Champion, the guards kept them to themselves, simply bowing and gesturing for Malik to exit.

“We have arrived, Champion Adil.”

Fear screamed at Malik to stay put, but he forced himself to his feet. When he finally stepped out of the palanquin, the sight before him pulled the air from his lungs.

It was a traditional Zirani-style riad, four stories tall and painted in so many shimmering shades of blue that it seemed as if the ocean itself comprised its walls. To the west, all of Ziran lay spread before Malik in a colorful swirl, like the blankets Nana used to weave for him and his sisters. To the east, the rest of Ksar Alahari glittered beneath the light of the now-risen sun, indicating that he had been inside the palanquin for several hours.

It was there, standing higher than some birds flew with all of Ziran at his feet, that the truth of the moment hit Malik. A day ago, he had been just another Eshran refugee, hopeless and forgotten by the world. Now he had thousands of people looking to him to be the herald of a new era.