Cursed are the sands that bury our bones.
Cursed are the gods that made us so.
12
Ìlú-Ìm, Second Ring, Kingdom of Oru
L’?R?
L’?r? had always known when she was in a dream because she only ever had one dream. When she drifted to sleep, she always found herself alone in the middle of the desert, the sky as red as the sand. She stood on a raised platform, with two pillars either side of her. Although the pillars weren’t holding anything up, she somehow knew they were keeping her safe from the elements. Sometimes in the dreams she was exhausted and dehydrated – other times, she pressed herself up against one or other of the pillars and felt safe. In her nearly eighteen first suns, that image never changed. Not when it popped up in her mind’s eye during the day nor when she was fast asleep at night.
The sands were always as slow-moving as a lazy river, the sun was so hot that she could see the heat simmering in the air, and there was nothing and no one as far as her eyes could see. And even if there was, she’d never know since she couldn’t move from the platform of pillars that protected her. Her father was the pillar to her right, the one she always leaned on. And Alawani was the pillar to her left, the one that shielded her from the glare of the sun. This was her life. And then the gods called her best friend to his death, andher pillars started to crack and bleed, and the winds picked up and every time she closed her eyes, the nightmare flooded her mind.
L’?r? forced open her eyes and sprang up from her bed, breathing heavily and drenched in a pool of sweat. She took a few deep breaths and surveyed her hands for any of the blood that had sullied them in her dream. She sighed deeply, relieved that nothing from her dream world had made its way to reality. She’d fallen asleep waiting for the sun to set. Waiting for the dark of night to hide her as she stole a prince from the temple of the gods. Her heart raced at the thought of that and hoped that Kyà would hold up his side of their bargain. Outside her window, the sun was still high in the sky and she slumped back to her bed. She still had a few more light beads to wait so she walked out of her room and roamed the dark halls of the house. Her fingers gathered dust as she traced her own jagged writings on the wall from when she was much younger. On those walls, she had learned to map out the stars she saw from her window in the years before her father let her out of the house for the first time.
Their home was big enough to fit at least a dozen rooms, but Baba-Ìtàn’s thousands of books occupied more space with every passing day. His great-grandfather had built the house as a lab on the edge of town for his family’s research, exploring books, stars, hills and dunes – everywhere, secrets and treasures were hidden from plain sight. Once upon a time, Baba-Ìtàn’s family of scholars and inventors had wealth and status. They’d been the pride of Ìlú-Ìm – the land of knowledge. Then the gods called their youngest son, and oaths were broken, so their heads were severed, and Baba-Ìtàn became the last of his family line. A reminder to the kingdom of what happened when anyone dared to turn their backs on the gods or the Holy Order. This building had become his refuge aswell as their home, and so he hoarded and preserved everything that the house held. Holding on tightly to the remnants of what once was.
L’?r? crept into the dark hall turned library. The chandeliers hanging from the ceiling had layers of cobwebs swinging through them. Bookshelves stretched up the walls and a ladder on each side reached the top layers. She imagined it might have once been a dance hall or used for something fancy, but to her, it was the room she’d spent most of her life in. Reading and reading and reading. She hadn’t gone to school like the other children, so this was where she had learned all she knew. Well, all Baba-Ìtàn knew – which was mostly history. In that way, she was like the elites of the state. Only the poor sent their children to school. The richer families, usually descendants of monarchs who had rebuilt their lives outside the royal island, had enough collections of libraries and tutors within the family to teach generations of children at home without doing something as disreputable as stepping foot in a school.
She curtsied low to her father and as usual he nodded without looking up. They worked in silence a few feet from each other, binding and sewing books and fixing spines. Finally, the sun began to set. L’?r? avoided speaking with her father because she knew he’d bring up Alawani, reminding her that he had made his choice. She didn’t need to hear any of that. Especially not today. As convincing as her father had been the last time they spoke about the prince, she’d woken up this morning with a fury that gave her more courage than she’d ever had before. The gods of the sun and sands simply could not have her best friend.
‘What’s the time?’ Baba-Ìtàn said quietly.
L’?r? looked out the window and then to her time beads. She paused. He had taught her everything she knew aboutold magic as he’d learned from his days as a priest in the Sun Temple. Yet, in all her life, she’d never seen him use it. He claimed that none of the old gods answered him when he called but L’?r? found that especially hard to believe. But much like everything that pertained to his time in the temple, it was off-limits for discussion.
‘What’s the time, L’?r??’ Baba-Ìtàn asked again, this time looking at her.
She took a deep breath and whispered, ‘Ago.’ Calling forth the time.
Nothing happened. She repeated the words a little louder, and the beads remained as they were. Dull and without light.
She looked at Baba-Ìtàn, whose eyes were now fixed on hers.
‘You’re saying it wrong,’ he said, his voice etched with concern. ‘Try again.’
She did.
Nothing.
Baba-Ìtàn rose from his desk in haste and ran to hold her wrist. He inspected the beads. ‘Have you been practising your spells?’ he said, tugging at the band.
‘Yes,’ L’?r? said, pulling her hand away. ‘Every morning, like you said.’
Baba-Ìtàn’s eyes widened. ‘You didn’t call upon any other Òrì?à, did you? I told you, choose an old god and never stray –’
‘I didn’t,’ L’?r? said, cutting him off. Frustrated, she shouted, ‘Ago.’
The sixth bead lit up. Six past noon. She let out a breath and a nervous chuckle. ‘It’s nothing, I told you. Just the gods being fickle as usual.’
‘Don’t say that.’ Baba-Ìtàn exhaled, holding his chest as if he’d been holding his breath too. ‘Old magic is the onlyreason no one has discovered your secret. If the Òrì?à of fire and thunder turns his ears from you, what then?’
L’?r? shrugged off his words. ‘He won’t. ?àngó and I have an understanding of sorts. He keeps me from getting my head chopped off, and I keep his name alive. With the Holy Order’s murderous rules, people are too scared even to remember the names of the old gods.’
Baba-Ìtàn shook his head. ‘What will I do with you, child?’
L’?r? plastered on a fake smile as he walked out of the room, still complaining about how she hadn’t learned the old tongue as well as he’d taught her. Her sweat-soaked shirt made every move uncomfortable and she moved to open one of the windows – the only one her father permitted them to open on smouldering days like this one. She almost wished ?ya, the goddess of winds and storms, had been the one to answer her when she called the old gods by name. Sure, ?àngó was keeping her alive but the heat might get her before the Holy Order did.
Once Baba-Ìtàn was out of sight, and his grumbles were a distant sound, she rushed to his worktable. He was hardly ever away from this room, and she couldn’t miss the chance to search places she hadn’t dared before. Her mission was clear in her mind. Search and run. She’d always known about the hidden space beneath her father’s table, she’d just never opened it before, but if he had anything regarding the Sun Temple, that was where he’d hide it.
