We laughed as she flirted with her reflection. The lounge belonged to Olugbade’s council, and jewelry and sashes draped a dozen floor-length mirrors. Servants had brought oranges and cream cakes, but the baskets lay untouched; excitement must have killed my siblings’ appetites. Several carafes of palm wine, however, lay open around the room.

“I’ll need some of that,” I said, and Sanjeet placed a goblet in my hand. Dayo lifted his cup to me from across the room, with a desperate stare that twisted my stomach. He wore an immaculate Oluwan agbada: a pale gold kaftan with heavily draped sleeves, winking with sunstones and raised white braid. Judging from the bags beneath his eyes, he had slept no better than I had.

I’m sorry, he Ray-spoke. I know sentencing your mother today will be hard—

Let’s not talk about it, I replied, avoiding his gaze, then said aloud, “Can we start?” I shivered in my thin robe. “I’m tired of being naked.”

Attendants signaled for a wizened griot to enter the chamber, and my dressing ritual began. The griot sang a parable about the triumph of justice, keeping time on a hand drum while, one by one, each of my council siblings handed me an item of clothing.

“As High Priestess, I will lean on you,” said Kirah, handing me part of my gown. “So as High Lady Judge, you may lean on me.”

“As High Lord General, I will lean on you,” said Sanjeet, handing me a bangle. “So as High Lady Judge, you may lean on me.”

“As High Lady of Castles,” said Mayazatyl, painting a dot on my brow, “I will lean on you …”

Soon all eleven of my siblings had murmured the vow of support, and I stood fully dressed before the semicircle of mirrors, not recognizing my maze of reflections.

My empire-cloth gown was so white, I was surprised it did not chill my skin. The fabric wrapped snugly around my frame and stopped beneath my arms, leaving my collarbone bare. An avalanche of cloth unfurled in a train from my shoulder blades. A necklace of polished cowrie shells draped in strands across my breast. Dots of paint, Swana-style, scattered the bridge of my nose, and arched over each eye. The tall points of a spiked halo headdress gleamed in my hair, ivory spears framing my face like moonbeams.

High Judge Thaddace would escort me into the ruling. When he arrived at the lounge, I curtsied, barely able to bend beneath the stiff fabric. I noticed then that we matched; instead of the plaid wool of Mewe, he wore an empire-cloth tunic, bleached white clashing uneasily with his pale complexion.

He offered his arm. When I laid mine on top, he leaned down and murmured, “There is no justice …”

“There is only order,” I finished tonelessly, and he nodded with approval. We left the lounge, Dayo and my council following in a silent procession.

I heard the Imperial Hall before I saw it.

The rumble of thousands: courtiers, commoners, royalty from all twelve realms, dialects colliding through the cavernous gilded chamber. Sandstone gleamed beneath the domed ceiling’s skylights. Twelve onyx pillars loomed overhead. Each was chiseled in the shape of a man or a woman, one for each realm of Aritsar. Their features were hauntingly detailed, and their bodies thick as cedar trees, several stories high. Together, the giants supported the Imperial Hall dome on their stone shoulders.

Usually, the hall held twelve thrones. Today there were twenty-four raised on a multilevel dais: a united front of emperor, prince, and both imperial councils. Olugbade and his council were already seated. All of them had dressed in the ghostly white empire cloth.

The rest of the hall was standing space, with people teeming on the floor and on tiers and balconies that stacked all the way up to the ceiling. Drummers and dancers lined the hall, leading the crowds in a chant as I walked toward the dais. The song was deafening, and to understand the words, I had to read the crowd’s lips. Kwesi Idajo. Seneca Idajo. Jiao Idajo. Mawusi Idajo. Helene Idajo. Obafemi Idajo. Thaddace Idajo. The names and title of every past Anointed High Judge, culminating at last with one phrase, over and over: Ta-ri-sai Idajo. Ta-ri-sai Idajo. Ta-ri-sai Idajo: Tarisai the Just.

My council took their seats. Then I climbed the great dais, my train rustling with each step. When I sank into the wood-carved throne by Dayo’s side, the crowd hushed to a hiss, like the icy Obasi Ocean. I looked straight ahead, holding my ivory-crowned head high, as a thousand gazes bored into my skin.

I cleared my throat, and winced as the sound ricocheted. Quetzalan architects had fashioned the dais from the same echo-stone used on the Theatre Garden stage. Dayo reached to give my arm a reassuring squeeze … and then thought better of it, folding his hands in his lap. Even now, the monster inside me hungered to hurt him, scanning the dais for easily accessible weapons. Again, I convinced her to wait. The world is watching. Too many contingencies. Then I swallowed and forced the rehearsed words up my throat.

“As heir to Thaddace of Mewe,” I said, “High Lord Judge of Aritsar, I invoke my right to preside over this hearing. Who brings a case before this court?”

“I do,” said Olugbade, also as rehearsed. He sat on a throne behind me, so I was spared seeing the pleasure on his face. “I, Olugbade, King of Oluwan and Oba of Aritsar, accuse Lady X, a Swana woman, of treason against the empire.”

More whispers, then booing and jeering, as from the entrance guards marched a figure in chains down the Imperial Hall. They had cleaned her up, I noticed, which on their part was a foolish mistake. Even in a threadbare wrapper, hair matted about her head, The Lady was stunning. Her posture was perfect, muscles taut beneath her weather-scarred skin. Chains clanked as the guards shoved her, forcing her shackled legs to buckle and kneel a few hundred feet from my dais. But she held herself erect, like a warrior—or an empress.

“The accused is before you, High Judge Apparent,” Olugbade intoned, barely containing the smugness in his voice. “You have reviewed the evidence. The punishment for treason is death. Shall you accept this case for your ruling?”

I stood, as he expected me to, and assessed the The Lady. She ignored my gaze, expression as blank and cold as her bust in the Bhekina House study. I heard Dayo shift in his seat next to me, and remembered my grim promise.

“No,” I replied to the emperor’s question. “I will hear another case today.”

The crowd hummed with surprise. Before Olugbade or Thaddace could interfere, I announced hastily, “According to the ancient rites set in place by Enoba the Perfect, a High Judge Apparent may hear any case that she sees fit. I remind the court that the First Ruling, once passed, is irreversible. Who else brings a case before me?”

“I do,” cried a voice from the entrance. Amid a cacophony of murmurs, Keeya the merchant marched into the hall, brandishing her new son, barely three months old. Captain Bunmi and her Imperial Guard cohort, whom I had asked to protect Keeya on her journey to court, escorted the mother and child.

She stopped at the dais beside The Lady, who turned her eyes on me with brilliant curiosity. Keeya bobbed a curtsy, her waist-length cornrowed braids sweeping the floor. She held herself with dignity before the twenty-four looming thrones, though her voice shook as she said, “Please hear my case, High Judge Apparent.”

I gave her a smile of encouragement. “Whom do you accuse?”

Keeya took a deep breath, then pointed at Thaddace where he sat, speechless, on his throne. “His Anointed Honor, High Lord Judge Thaddace of Mewe.”

More gasps, and an enraged scoff from Olugbade. I held up a hand for the crowd’s silence. “With what do you charge him?”

Keeya held up the baby in her arms. “Causing discord between a husband and wife,” she said. “I want to give our son a Swana name: Bopelo. It has been in my family for generations, and I dishonor my ancestors by failing to pass on their legacy. But my husband disagrees. He fears that unless our newborn son has an empire name, he will never become a successful merchant. Anointed Honor Thaddace’s Unity Edict has caused all of this. If he had not requested that Arits give up realm names, I would not be fighting with my husband—and my son would have a name besides Baby.”

Shocked silence. Then the crowd began to buzz with laughter. It was ludicrous for a commoner to charge a High Lord Judge with causing her marital disputes. But according to the scrolls I had dug up in the Imperial Library … it was perfectly legal.

“I accept your case,” I said. “At this point in a ruling, a High Judge is supposed to ask for evidence. But I don’t need to. The evidence is all over Aritsar.” I turned my face up to the tiers of commoners and nobility, returning their wide-eyed stares. The crowds were grouped by realm, a semicircle of nations around the room.