Ìlú-?ba – The Capital City First Ring, Kingdom of Oru
L’?R?
L’?r? kept still as the older man dug his hot-inked needle into her back. As it pierced her skin, she distracted herself from the pain by keeping her eyes fixed on the row of ants making away with clumps of chewed sugar cane scattered across the sandy wooden floor. Alawani hadn’t been at the shop when she arrived from the Holy Order’s vile demonstrations, and while she could’ve gone back home, she needed to prove to Alawani how committed she was to their pact. If she were being honest, she needed him to show how committed he was too, and yet he wasn’t here.
She tensed her body against the table. Her fingers firmly gripped its frayed edges, digging splinters into her skin. She squeezed her eyes, trying to keep the tears from falling every time the needle tore through her. Like a hammer to a nail, the short rhythmic taps of the stick sent spikes throughout her body. She repeatedly took deep breaths and forced air out of her lungs to keep herself from fainting.
The old man muttered, ‘Even person wey get belle no do reach this one, Wetin do you? Abeg dey one place make this circle no turn square.’
L’?r? stilled for a moment then peeped at the entranceto the shop. No sign of Alawani. Hoping he was fine and just late as usual, her attention returned to the needle point going in and out of her back. Why did she ever think it was a good idea to get a tattoo from a man whose shop ceiling was a thin sheet of metal rusting in more places than she could count? She sighed. She’d been the one to ask for it. Insist on it even. She could already see her father’s face scrunched with tight, angry lines when he saw what she’d done. But getting the double rings of fire inked into their skin was the perfect reminder of her and Alawani’s bond. She could’ve waited for him, but if her gut was right and he was having doubts, she hoped seeing her inked skin would remind him of their sacred pact.
The man placed the needle down and picked up another. From the cracked mirror, L’?r? could see him channel his agbára to his hands and use his fingers to burn and sterilize the sharp end of the new tool. The next puncture sent pain throughout her body. That definitely hit bone. L’?r? clenched her jaw and forced herself to swallow the scream that rose from her guts.
‘E j, sir, are you sure no one came here earlier today asking for the same tattoo?’ she asked, still looking back. The artist was, no doubt, ready to pin her down if she kept disturbing his work.
‘I told you before. You are my first customer for today.’
She peered at him when he said nothing more, then quietly lay back down on the table. It wasn’t lost to her that every strike of the needle felt harder and deeper, but she didn’t care anymore. Something was wrong.
‘Oga Busco! Oga Busco!’ a young man came shouting into the shop. ‘Dem say the prince na Àlùfáà. All of Ìlú-?ba wan craze,’ he said, practically bouncing. ‘I never hear this kain thing before for my whole life, abi you don hear am before?’
L’?r? sprang up from the table. ‘What did you just say?’
‘?m?’ba Alawani, the one and only son of our late king, e don accept the call to be Àlùfáà just today! Them say he go enter the trials for priesthood,’ the man said enthusiastically.
‘Liar!’ L’?r? barked at him. ‘Who told you that?’
‘Everybody don hear am. You no hear as kasala don burst for outside?’ the man replied, a deep frown etched on his face.
L’?r?’s head spun, and it wasn’t the pain from her sore skin. Her sight blurred, and she groaned as she climbed off the table. The tattoo was just below her left shoulder, and she flexed her arm to bring it back to life. She could hardly steady herself.
‘Sit down, j. I never finish,’ Oga Busco said. ‘The gods no fit allow royalty become Àlùfáà. Abi the law don change?’
The man who brought the news shook his head. ‘E be like everything don scatter because na the High Priest been call the prince, na e the prince follow am go temple.’
‘The prince go die for that temple,’ Oga Busco said plainly. ‘If hin try enter that trial, na death go meet am for there.’
L’?r? jumped off the table and grabbed her cloak. Blood rushed into her head, and everything around her seemed to buzz.
She kept walking, one shaky step after the other. Crimson trickled down her back like rain. Through the haze, she could hear the same words –The gods have spoken. The prince is Àlùfáà– over and over again as she walked through the stream of people heading towards the palace.
Rage blinded her as she stomped through the cobbled streets that led to the palace. The gods had started looking for her trouble again. Ordinarily, nothing they did or said interested her. Now they’d crossed the line.
As she crossed the bridge that separated the royal islandfrom the rest of Ìlú-?ba, the river reflected the sun’s waning light. Crushed on every side, pain surged through her like lightning, and she yelled so loudly that the people around her stopped and moved out of her way. She marched through, holding her blood-stained arm, her anger growing with each passing moment. So this was why Alawani hadn’t come with her? Why would anyone choose near-certain death over life? His life was something she could only dream about having. He was the prince. He had everything he’d ever want and yet no obligation to his people. Most of all, he had her.
What else did he want?
Did Alawani really want to be a priest of the Holy Order? To spend the rest of his life as a shadow of his former self, a slave to the Order, and executioner of all whom they deemed worthy of death? He was risking everything – his life, his family, and any chance of having a family of his own. Even as an outcast, if she was offered life in the sanctuary of their order, she’d never take it. So how could he?
The sound of the dùndún welcomed L’?r? onto the island, playing a tune she couldn’t get out of her head. The talking drum didn’t care how you felt; when it spoke, you listened. The drummers held the hourglass-shaped drums firmly under their arms and beat the flat animal-hide surfaces with curved sticks. The tone made the crowd grow wild. L’?r? wearily eyed the masquerades that danced in the circle made for them by the crowd. She watched their tall figures dance, their feet barely touching the floor. The fringes of their colourful fabrics swayed with the wind, their faces well hidden beneath masks of straw. Nothing good could come from this.
The sun had nearly set when L’?r? reached the first of the palace gates. It never ceased to amaze her how different the oasis that was the royal island was from the dusty haze that was the rest of the kingdom. The clear waters that spranginto the air from the fountains and the deep green plants that decorated the surroundings always drew her attention. Hardly a speck of sand could be found through its cobbled streets. If not for the sun that shone down on the rich and poor alike, the royals of Oru would not have noticed that their kingdom was a desert.
As she walked in with the others who had come to witness this unprecedented event, she noticed the long shadows cast by the row of ten-foot-tall golden statues of the former kings and queens of Oru. Opposite them, on her left, were the bronze statues of their regents wearing their priestly robes. For every king or queen that died, there was a regent who held the throne after them until the firstborn son and heir had seen eighteen suns. During that time the regent’s role in the kingdom was one of dual authority. They also held the position of High Priest of the Holy Order. The rulers of Oru had lived and ruled as the gods demanded. And there she was in the middle, forcing her way through, trying to change the will of the gods.
As she stormed through their path, she felt the heat of their judgment on her sore skin. She didn’t dare look up at them until she reached the end of the walkway. The soaring towers of the enormous buildings in front of her still felt as intimidating as the first time she had seen them. The palace grounds were the most magnificent thing L’?r? had set eyes on in her life. The vast dome-shaped building that housed the Lord Regent was surrounded in a half circle by five large mansions, one for each of his councils. And behind those were smaller manors that housed the rest of the royal court.
L’?r? raced towards the south side of the palace, away from the group that had crossed onto the royal island with her. Her face contorted in rage when she reached the doorstep of Alawani’s quarters and saw that some of the crowdhad gotten there before her. They’d grown louder and had already planted the vase of sinking sand next to his door. A ritualistic sign that the gods had spoken, and the people accepted his calling despite his position as prince. Anger flared in her chest, and the sting of the needle still burned in her back – a reminder of what she’d begun and what she had to lose.
