Kingdom of Souls. Rena Barron
recalling the conversation between my father and me. Now is not the time to say, not until we know more. ‘Nothing yet.’
‘Be as patient as a lion stalking the night.’ He winks at me. ‘The edam will find an answer.’
At the end of the hall, we come upon the fourteenth orisha, called the Unnamed. Her face has no memorable features, so there’s little to recognize her by, save for the cobras around each of her arms. I pause to examine her, or rather the serpents with their heads poised to strike at her wrists. The other statues are majestic, intimidating, but this one feels wrong. Staring too long at her, darkness begins to seep into the corners of my eyes and my heartbeat quickens. The room seems to tilt, and panic unfolds in my mind. I force myself to look away.
I’m in the middle of reading another script when Tam, one of Rudjek’s sparring partners, ambles towards us. He has kinky golden hair paired with the sky blue eyes and bronze skin of a Yöomi set against Tamaran features. A face that’s lean and athletic, noble. His look is striking, one that draws eyes, and he knows it. He was recently named a first-year scribe and has been teaching at the Temple.
Tam clucks his tongue, a sly grin on his lips. ‘Is the Ka-Priestess’s daughter skipping lessons again?’ He casts a pointed look at me, then turns to Sukar. ‘… and the Zu seer’s nephew shunning his duties. Need I remind you that the orishas demand our fealty, and such disregard is frowned upon?’
Sukar rolls his eyes. ‘Get lost, Tam. Can’t you see we’re busy?’
‘Barasa is looking for you.’ Tam shrugs. ‘Something about misplaced scrolls.’
‘Twenty-gods,’ Sukar says after a deep sigh. ‘I swear my uncle is hopeless without me.’
‘A Temple attendant swearing in this sacred place.’ Tam cringes, his sly grin fading. ‘That doesn’t bode well.’
‘Shut it, will you, Tam,’ Sukar snaps, then excuses himself before rushing to answer his uncle’s summons.
When Sukar is gone, Tam leans against the throne upon which the orisha of life and death sits. Fram is duality and balance, depicted with two heads to represent their fluid nature.
‘They didn’t want any part in the War with the Demon King.’ Tam tilts his chin up at Fram. ‘For them, life and death are different sides of the same coin, so they refused when Re’Mec and Koré asked for their help. The whole duality thing is a double-edged sword … but they eventually came around.’
I cross my arms. ‘I never thought you’d end up a scribe; you love the arena too much.’
‘I considered the gendars’ – he grins again – ‘but my real talents lie in education.’
He says it with such sarcasm that I laugh. I’m about to write him off when I think again. Maybe he can help me find out more about demons.
‘So tell me something about the orishas that most people don’t know.’
‘The universe began with a bang.’ He whistles, drawing death stares from the other patrons in the hall. ‘You call it the Supreme Cataclysm, but it has many names. Think of it as a void of profound darkness that destroys and creates without beginning or end. Over the course of aeons, the first orishas crawled from its belly and cut their umbilical cords – so to speak. Each of them possesses some piece of the Supreme Cataclysm’s nature. Like the Cataclysm, the orishas love their creations.’ Tam adjusts his position, his focus turning to the Unnamed. ‘Unfortunately for us, a god’s love is both beautiful and terrifying.’
‘I’ve never heard the origin story told quite like that,’ I say, surprised.
‘I embellished it a little,’ he admits. ‘I became a scribe so I can tell lies once in a while.’
‘Tell me about her … the Unnamed.’ I point up. ‘The truth.’
‘We don’t speak of her.’ Tam shakes his head, his words clipped. ‘There’s nothing to tell.’
My eyes linger on the serpents again. There was someone here … something, Grandmother had said. Someone who does not belong. Perhaps a relic from the past, I do not know, or an omen of the future.
‘A green-eyed serpent.’ I swallow. ‘Is that a symbol of demons?’
Tam startles and stares at me with one eyebrow quirked. ‘That’s an interesting question.’
‘Why interesting?’ I say, catching the sombre note in his voice.
‘That’s the name the orishas gave to the demons, yes,’ Tam confirms. ‘For though they possessed many forms, they all had green eyes, a mark of their race.’
My dread from earlier comes back in full force. If my father is right about the connection between both visions, then I have my answer. I know what a demon would want with children … with me.
This can’t be possible. It can’t be. The demon race perished in the War with the orishas, but had one survived? Could there be more? If demons have an insatiable hunger for souls, there are none more sacred and pure than the kas of children.
Long after leaving the Temple, I struggle to catch my breath. I take a short cut near the sacred Gaer tree on my way to the East Market. The tree stands naked and alone in iridescent dark soil – its black branches, crooked and bare. The magic here is so thick that it’s palpable. I don’t linger, but as I pass, the branches shudder. Outside of the Almighty Temple, it’s the most magical place in Tamar. How powerful had the first Ka-Priest of the Kingdom been to cheat death by taking up roots and becoming a tree?
When I set foot in the East Market, I see Familiars swarming like a nest of agitated wasps. Hundreds slither among the crowd and crawl across every place imaginable. Dogs howl at them, while most people are none the wiser. They draw the heat from the air, and even though it’s midday, a cool draught settles over the market. The sun is behind the clouds – a rare thing in Tamar, which enjoys sunshine on more days than not. Does the sun orisha Re’Mec feel the disturbance too?
On the surface, everything looks normal. People haggle over prices, and merchants outbid each other to attract patrons. Some older children play an upbeat tempo on the bottom of wooden crates, and people drop copper coins in a bowl in front of them. But bad energy hums through the crowd like the charge in the air before lightning strikes. Several fights break out and the City Guard steps in. It hits me at once. All the amulets with the orisha Kiva in the market today – now that the news is out about the children. When I was little, his bulbous face and lopsided eyes scared me. But Kiva protects the innocent. People wear his likeness when disease sweeps through the city, or when crops are poor. It’s a sign of fear.
I spot Rudjek ahead, fending off a street charlatan trying to peddle him charms. The charlatan wears a dozen bone necklaces and another two dozen on each arm. He gapes at Rudjek, his cataract-laden eyes stretched wide. His cheeks are sunken, his skin ashen and weathered – his movements slow and lethargic. People might think he’s drunk, but his face bears the signs of someone who’s been trading years for magic. Not all the charlatans do it, but this man clearly has.
‘You need protection,’ he proclaims, his voice like cracked eggshells. ‘I have a necklace for you. All the way from the tribal lands. Blessed by a great witchdoctor.’
The charlatan’s words stop me cold in the thicket of the crowd before I reach Rudjek. Patrons divide around me, some yelling to get out of their way, but I can’t move. I’ve always thought the charlatans weak. In truth, some have more magic than me even without trading their years. They flood this corner of the market, offering charms, sacks of herbs, and potions promising to deliver your heart’s desire.
I know what it feels like to want magic so bad that it hurts. To watch your parents impose their will