“And you carry around—you know what, never mind.” The girl gave wine to cats; dried monkey blood shouldn’t be that surprising.

Afua took the third statue from the row and placed it in the center of the fire. Karina yelled a warning, but when Afua pulled away, her hand was unharmed. Santrofie’s blank stone eyes stared at Karina, and Karina reminded herself that the actual deity was not in the cave with them.

“You can speak to the gods?” Karina whispered, her voice filled with awe.

“Anyone can speak to the gods. The real trick is getting them to speak back. And technically, I’m tapping into the statue’s nkra, which connects to the gods. Your left hand, please.” Karina obliged, and Afua cut a small incision in the back of her hand, squeezing it so three drops of blood fell onto the statue’s head. She tried to pull Karina’s hand toward the flames, but Karina jerked back.

“It won’t hurt you. I promise.”

Karina swallowed. If her mother could face a literal assassin in order to save her life, she could put her hand in a fire to save her mother’s. Karina gave her hand back to Afua, who placed it on the statue’s head. The flames were cool to the touch, but that didn’t stop Karina’s trembling.

“Praise be to Santrofie, He Born of Wind, Third Child of the Great Mother Who Birthed All,” Afua chanted in Kensiya. “Your child comes seeking answers only you may give her.”

Yellow tendrils of smoke pooled up from the statue. Still holding Karina’s hand to the flames, Afua leaned forward and breathed the smoke in. The air around them suddenly felt heavier, like another person had entered the cave. When Afua opened her eyes, they had rolled into the back of her head, leaving only the whites.

“What do you wish to know, my child?”

Though it was Afua’s mouth that moved, a man’s voice came out, heavy and booming. Karina fought down a scream.

Keeping the image of the Kestrel facing down the assassin in her mind, Karina asked, “I need to know if the Rite of Resurrection is real, and if so, exactly how it’s done.”

“The value of what you’ve lost is irreplaceable. Thus, the value of the information you seek is irreplaceable as well.”

This was much easier than she’d expected; Karina had more wealth than she knew what to do with. “Name your price. I’ll pay any amount.”

“The value of the information you seek is irreplaceable.”

Shouts came from beyond the cave. Afua’s body shook, and the fire between them lowered. Karina’s heart nearly stopped. Irreplaceable? What would a god consider irreplaceable?

More shouts came from outside, and Afua shook so hard that Karina could feel the tremors on the other side of the fire. Her eyes searched the cave frantically, until they landed on her oud. The last gift Baba had ever given her, more valuable to her than all the treasure in the world combined.

It was irreplaceable.

Karina recoiled at the realization. Baba had crafted that oud himself, had placed his hands over hers as he taught her how to strum its strings. But the flames sputtered ever lower, mere inches off the ground, and the shouts were growing more frantic. Before she could stop herself, Karina tossed her father’s oud into the fire, her heart breaking as the flames claimed the battered wood. Afua’s shudders subsided, though the unnatural whites of her eyes remained.

“During the week of the festival you call Solstasia, the fifty-year comet will pass directly over the city of Ziran. Only during this time will the human realm align with the Place with Many Stars, and a transfer of life back into your world will be possible.”

The shouts had grown to a fever pitch, joined now by the unmistakable clang of metal against metal.

“Where can I find the blood moon flower?” cried Karina, coughing through the smoke.

“The blood moon flower grows only in the darkness beyond the darkness, taking strength from the bones of the gods who weren’t. Trust the river to take you there.”

“What is the ‘darkness beyond darkness’? Who are the gods who weren’t?”

“Complete the ritual before the week’s end. Then and only then can you regain that which you have lost.”

Afua slumped forward. The fire died, and despair welled up in Karina’s chest as Afua came to herself.

“How did it go?” the girl asked before seeing the charred remains of Baba’s oud. “Oh no!”

Karina was too numb to speak. She’d given up the most important thing she’d owned for more riddles and nonsense.

But before she could summon her rage, a single voice cut through the night.

“Raid!”

17

Malik

“Raid!”

With one word, the Dancing Seal transformed into a panic zone. Half the patrons fled the building from every available exit, while the other half stole the items the first half had left behind before fleeing as well.

Memories of raids back in Oboure crashed over Malik, phantom pains from wounds long healed but never forgotten. However, he’d never heard of a raid happening within Ziran’s walls. Why here? Why now? Had they discovered the truth about him?

He shot to his feet. “This way!” he cried, but neither Driss nor Tunde moved.

“Someone must have done something awful to warrant all this,” said Tunde, watching the chaos unfold around them. “I’m sure once we tell the guards who we are, they’ll escort us back to the Azure Garden. Just do whatever they tell us to do, and we’ll be fine.”

Tunde said this with a certainty that made it clear he had never truly experienced a raid, but he had a point. Zirani soldiers weren’t looking for rich boys like Tunde or Driss when they conducted these searches.

But Malik was not Tunde or Driss. He was the kind of person who could be arrested at any time for any reason, who could do everything the soldiers told him to do and still leave the encounter harmed.

“That’s assuming they recognize us at all,” argued Malik, his skin growing itchy and uncomfortable. “When things gets bad in a raid, soldiers attack on sight. We’re not safe here.”

Driss narrowed his eyes. “Only someone with something to hide runs from soldiers.” Now a cloud of doubt passed over Tunde’s face as well.

Malik’s fingers dug into the tabletop. This wasn’t the reaction he was supposed to be having. If he didn’t calm down, he was going to rouse even more suspicion, and the last thing he needed was Driss looking into his background.

Two options lay before him: wait out the raid with Tunde and Driss, even if it meant willingly going with the soldiers, or run now, and ensure any trust they had in him disappeared, but potentially protect his disguise.

Staying was the smartest choice; no doubt that’s what Leila would want him to do. Overhead, the grim folk buzzed nervously, and Malik forced himself to drown them out. He was breathing. He was present. He was here. All he had to do now was wait, and he’d be all right.

A loud clang came from outside the building. With no regard for where he went, Malik bolted, ignoring Tunde’s cries for him to stop.

The grimy comfort of the Dancing Seal gave way to the crowded streets of River Market. Even as Malik ran, a part of him screamed to turn back before he ruined everything. But the fear that centuries of brutality had instilled in his people propelled him forward.

Frightened people ran in every direction, most still dressed in their Solstasia finery. The shatter of glass filled the air; the soldiers had shot arrows at the few lanterns, bathing the streets in a darkness that would leave no witnesses for the chaos to come. Experience taught Malik to stay away from the central areas and obvious hiding spots, so he ducked past several boarded-up shops and side streets until he found an alley tucked away between three buildings, almost invisible from the main road. If he could hide there until the raid ended, then he could make his way back to the Azure Garden and—

“Where do you think you’re going, boy?”

A high-pitched keening filled Malik’s ears as a Sentinel swooped down from the shadows with the grace of a cheetah. The warrior leered, his grip tight on a spear that towered over his head. All of Malik’s muscles locked in place. Not a Sentinel. Not here.

A true Zirani would stand their ground, explain that this was all a big misunderstanding and that he was a Solstasia Champion. Even casting an illusion or summoning the spirit blade was an option. But Malik’s fear was a creature with a will of its own, and it forced him to run.

The Sentinel caught Malik in seconds, twisting his arm behind his back and slamming him to the ground. Pain blossomed in Malik’s face, and he was powerless as the Sentinel hauled him to his feet and pulled him through River Market.

The Sentinel dragged Malik to a plaza bordered by closed up shops and houses on one side, a long wall on the other. A group of frightened people, most of them foreigners, huddled in the center of the plaza, surrounded on all sides by more Sentinels than Malik had ever seen. The one who had caught Malik threw him unceremoniously into the crowd before taking his place back in line.