I pointed through the hall’s towering arched windows, where bonfire clouds still stained the horizon. “The sky is burning with your stories,” I said. “The lives of your ancestors, the legacy of your children, vanished in smoke. Does unity cause strife between wives and husbands? Does it make an old woman weep in the streets? Does it make generals take up arms against their own people?”

Uneasy murmurs. I addressed the section of commoners and nobility from Swana, switching from Arit to their native tongue. Then I faced another part of the hall, repeating the phrase in Nyamban. Then I swallowed hard and faced another, and another, until I had addressed the crowd in Moreyaoese, Sparti, Biraslovian, Nontish, Quetzalan, Mewish, Oluwani, Djbanti, Dhyrmish, and Blessid. “Uniformity is not unity. Silence is not peace.”

The crowd was quiet now. I could feel Olugbade’s rage simmering behind me, ready to burst. I did not have much time. Quickly I switched back to Arit, bellowing so my words could not be undone. “I, Tarisai Idajo, rule in favor of Keeya of Swana. Peace comes when stories are celebrated, not erased. Henceforth, the Unity Edict shall be revoked”—I persevered over a sea of gasps—“and replaced with the Imperial Griot Games. Every twentieth moon, all realms must send their best griot to perform the stories of their people at the capital. The most talented griot shall be rewarded from the treasury, and all performers shall receive imperial titles, for their stories bring great honor to the empire. Let the record be sealed. My First Ruling is passed.”

“No,” Thaddace and the emperor roared in unison, leaping to their feet. But they were drowned out by a sound that made the hair stand on my arms. A sound that set my heart swelling in my chest, and my legs trembling with joy and fear.

Cheers. From every side of the Imperial Hall, people were cheering, pumping fists and stamping feet, chanting in a deafening din: Idajo. Idajo. Tarisai Idajo. Beside Keeya, The Lady turned in a slow circle. Her eyes widened to moons as she watched my name on the lips of thousands, and when she looked at me again, an expression that I had never seen before transformed her features.

Wonder.

A hand clamped around mine, sending a thrill to the monster inside me: Dayo. Heart pounding, I looked up at his face expecting to see disappointment. I had purposely misled him the night before. He had thought I would kill The Lady.

But he only looked worried. “You need to get out of here,” he whispered. “Now.”

“Let go of her,” Olugbade snapped at his son. “Guards. Guards!”

Sanjeet leapt to his feet, shielding me with his arm, and in a fluid movement my council siblings joined him, surrounding me and Dayo as we hurried down from the dais. “After them,” rasped the emperor, but when I looked back, Thaddace was restraining him.

“They’ve done nothing illegal,” the High Lord Judge said, and then gestured at the crowd and hissed, “The world is watching, Olu. It is not the time for rash decisions. Let them go.” He shot a sharp look my way. “We will sort this out in private.”

Captain Bunmi and her cohort escorted me, Dayo, and Keeya through a side door, our council siblings in tow. Keeya pressed her infant to her chest, protecting his ears from the noise still blaring from the hall.

“You can return to your village in a few months,” I told her. By then, I hoped, no imperialist vigilantes would be searching for the commoner who had dared challenge Thaddace. “For now, I’ve arranged a safe house in the Swana capital. Captain Bunmi will escort you. Your family will meet you there; I’ve made sure they will want for nothing.” I began to tell her where the house was, and then stopped, aware that palace walls had ears. I squeezed her hand instead, sending my memories of the safe house into her mind. “Thank you, Keeya.”

Her face glowed. “Thank you,” she said with a grin. “I think Tegoso will not question what I name our babies again.” She winked as Bunmi’s cohort led her away, raising her son’s tiny hand. “Wave goodbye, Bopelo. Goodbye to the High Lady Judge.”

MY COUNCIL SIBLINGS, GIDDY WITH EXCITEMENT, insisted on my return to the Children’s Palace.

“You don’t need to be alone now,” Mayazatyl pointed out. “You’re done studying. Your ruling’s over.”

I shook my head. Nothing was over. The ground shivered as Idajo, Idajo continued to echo through An-Ileyoba. Then the sound surged, and all I heard was drumming, pounding in my ears: It was always inside.

My blood ran cold as pieces of a puzzle came together in my mind. “I have to go,” I said.

Escaping from my council siblings’ protective huddle, I dashed across the palace, ripping off my ivory crown, unhooking my train, and discarding my slippers as I ran. Sanjeet was hard on my bare heels. “You can’t be alone,” he barked. “Not now. It’s not safe.” I ignored him, not stopping until we both reached my room in the north tower.

Aiyetoro’s drum lay by the window, next to The Lady’s mirror. I snatched it up, then looked around wildly. “I need something sharp.”

At my own request, I had not wielded a weapon since the night I had stabbed Dayo. Puzzled, Sanjeet unsheathed a dagger from his belt and handed it to me. Then he watched as I sliced open the head of Aiyetoro’s drum.

Several pieces of crumpled journal paper, thick with the rounded handwriting of Old Arit, toppled out … and then two objects clinked onto the stone floor.

Hands shaking, I picked up the jewel-toned masks and turned them in the light. They were shaped like the heads of lionesses, and each was carved with a word: Obabirin. Iyaloye. Empress. Crown Princess. Both masks roared with the memories of beating hearts, the strident voices of Kunleo girls, of Raybearers who refused to be silenced.

The obabirin mask had several stripes, representing the council members anointed by The Lady and her birth immunity. The iyaloye mask had only one stripe. Bright red, for the immunity I had been born with: burning.

“There have always been four,” I whispered. “Two rulers and two heirs. Raybearers. All of them.” An image flashed in my mind: the mural in the ceiling of Aiyetoro’s library. Overlapping gold discs. Two suns, surrounded by linking hands—a united Aritsar.

Sanjeet’s expression was calm. “After what just happened in that hall,” he said, leaning down and pressing his lips to mine, “if anyone doubts you, they’re a damned fool.”

“You shouldn’t kiss me,” I giggled, manic with nerves. “I’m still cursed. Still dangerous.”

“Very,” he said. “Very, very dangerous. And all of Aritsar knows it.” He kissed me again, and I trembled with laughter, heart thudding in my chest.

“Thaddace will challenge my ruling,” I said when we parted for air. “It’ll take him a while, but he’ll find a way to reverse it. I haven’t accomplished anything.”

“You’ve won the people’s hearts.” Sanjeet traced my brow, where my cloud of hair, unfettered by the ivory crown, now sprang around my face. “Not to mention the Imperial Guard. They remember what you did for Captain Bunmi, and they were miserable enforcing Thaddace’s edict. No matter how the emperor sullies your name, Aritsar won’t give up the hope you gave them today. Not without a fight.” He smiled and touched the crown princess mask with its mark of iyaloye. “You should call it. Say its name.”

I sucked in a breath, remembering how Dayo’s mask had flashed with light. It was the last test: the ultimate proof of a Raybearer.

“All right,” I murmured. “Iyalo—”

Then footsteps padded on the tower landing. Sanjeet held me close, putting a hand on his scimitar hilt—but it was Kirah who burst through the door.

“The emperor,” she panted. “He’s sentenced The Lady to death. He’s taken her back to Heaven, where she’ll be executed on the hour.” Her pupils were dilated, and tears spilled on her round cheeks. “I’m sorry, Tarisai.”

A warrior blocked our way at the bottom of the staircase to Heaven. “Pardon, Anointed Honors,” he stammered at me, Sanjeet, and Kirah. “I have orders from the emperor. Everyone authorized to facilitate the execution is already upstairs. If you like, you can watch downstairs from the courtyard, with the rest of the court—”

Arm darting out like a snake, I clasped the warrior’s neck, releasing him just as quickly. He stumbled back, brandishing his spear.

“Anointed Honor. Why did you—”

“What were your orders?”

He blinked and frowned, rubbing his head. “I … I’m sorry, Anointed Honors. I don’t remember.”

“Then let us pass,” I snapped, and the three of us pushed past him and launched up the stairs. There were more guards on the landing; I took the memory of one while Sanjeet and Kirah restrained three more. “We’ll hold them,” Sanjeet told me. “Go.” Then I charged through the iron door into the brow-beating sunshine of Heaven.

Olugbade and his Eleven stood in a semicircle around The Lady, who stood as tall and impassive as the tower itself. All except the emperor held bows, cocking arrows at The Lady’s heart. A warrior beat a mallet drum, counting down.