THIS WILL WORK.
By the skies, this has to work.
I hold on to this flickering hope as Tzain and I slip down the alleys between the rusted structures of Gombe, blending into the shadows and darkness.
A city of iron and foundry, Gombe’s factories run late into the night. Erected by Welders before the Raid, metal structures rise and bend in impossible shapes.
Unlike the tiers dividing the classes of Lagos, Gombe is split into four quadrants, partitioning residential life from its iron exports. Through the dust-covered windows divîners work, forging Orïshan goods for the next day.
“Wait.” Tzain holds me back as a patrol of armored guards clunk by. “Okay,” he whispers when they pass, but his voice lacks its usual determination. This will work, I repeat in my head, wishing I could convince Tzain as well. When this is over, Zélie will be alright.
With time, the streets of cluttered, cramped mills transform into the towering iron domes of the downtown district. As bells ring, released workers swarm us, each covered in dust and ferrous metal burns. We follow the swell toward the music and drums pumping into the night. As the aroma of liquor replaces the stench of smoke, a cluster of bars appears, each nestled under a small, rusted dome.
“Will he be here?” I ask as we walk up to a particularly shoddy structure that hums quieter than the rest.
“It’s the best place to look. When I was in Gombe last year for the Orïshan Games, Kenyon and his team took me here every night.”
“Good.” I muster a smile for Tzain’s sake. “That’s all we need.”
“Don’t be so sure. Even if we find him, I doubt he’ll want to help.”
“He’s a divîner. He won’t have a choice.”
“Divîners rarely have choices.” Tzain raps his knuckles against the metal door. “When they do, they usually choose to look after themselves.”
Before I can respond, a slit in the door slides open. A gruff voice barks out, “Password?”
“Lo-ïsh.”
“That’s old.”
“Oh…” Tzain pauses, as if the right word might appear out of thin air. “That’s the only one I know.”
The man shrugs. “Password changes every quarter moon.”
I push Tzain aside and climb onto my tiptoes, straining to reach the slit. “We do not live in Gombe, sir. Please, help us.”
The man narrows his eyes and spits through the slit. I recoil in disgust. “No one gets in without a password,” he seethes. “Especially not some noble.”
“Sir, please—”
Tzain moves me aside. “If Kenyon’s in there, can you let him know I’m here? Tzain Adebola, from Ilorin?”
The slit slams shut. I stare at the metal door in dismay. If we don’t get inside, Zélie’s as good as gone.
“Is there another way in?” I ask.
“No,” Tzain groans. “This was never going to work. We’re wasting time. While we stand here, Zél’s probably de—” His voice catches and he closes his eyes, steeling everything inside. I unfold his clenched fists and reach for his face, placing my hands on his cheeks.
“Tzain, trust me. I will not let you down. If Kenyon isn’t here, we can find someone else—”
“Gods.” The door swings open and a large divîner appears, dark arms covered in sleeves of ornate tattoos. “I guess I owe Khani a gold piece.”
His white hair clumps in long, tight locs, all piled atop a bun on his head. He wraps his arms around Tzain, somehow eclipsing his massive frame.
“Man, what’re you doing here? I’m not supposed to beat your team for two weeks.”
Tzain forces a laugh. “It’s your team I’m worried about. Heard you twisted your knee?”
Kenyon pulls up the leg of his pants, revealing a metal brace anchored around his thigh. “Doctor says it’ll heal before qualifiers, but I’m not worried. I could take you in my sleep.” His eyes move to me, slow and indulging. “Please tell me a pretty little thing like you didn’t come here just to see Tzain lose.”
Tzain shoves Kenyon and he laughs, sliding his arm around Tzain’s neck. It amazes me that Kenyon can’t sense the desperation Tzain holds back.
“He’s good, D.” Kenyon turns to the bar’s guard. “Promise. I can vouch for him.”
The owner of the gruff voice peeks around the door. Though he appears to be only in his twenties, his face is marked with scars. “Even the girl?” He nods at me. Tzain slides his hand over mine.
“She’s fine,” Tzain vouches for me. “Won’t say a word.”
“D” hesitates but steps back, allowing Kenyon to lead us inside. Though he makes sure to glare at me until I disappear from his sight.
The thud of drums reverberates through my skin as we enter the ill-lit bar. The dome is packed, and the patrons are young; no one looks much older than Kenyon or Tzain.
Everyone shrinks in and out of shadows, shrouded by weak, flickering candlelight. Its glow illuminates the chipping paint and patches of rust marring the walls.
In the back corner, two men pound a soft beat on the canvas of their ashiko drums while another hits the wooden keys of a balafon. They play with a practiced ease, filling the iron walls with their lively sound.
“What is this place?” I whisper in Tzain’s ear.
Though I have never stepped foot in a bar, I soon realize why this one requires a password. Among all the patrons, almost everyone’s hair shines white, creating a sea overflowing with divîners. The few kosidán who made it inside are all visibly linked to the divîners who belong. The various couples sit hand in hand sharing kisses, closing the space between their hips.
“It’s called a tóju,” Tzain responds. “Divîners started them a few years ago. They have them in most cities. It’s one of the only places divîners can go to gather in peace.”
Suddenly the doorman’s animosity doesn’t feel as misplaced. I can only imagine how quickly the guards could dispatch a gathering like this.
“I’ve played against these guys for years,” Tzain whispers as Kenyon leads us toward a table in the back. “They’re loyal, but they’re guarded. Let me do the talking. I’ll ease them in.”
“We don’t have time for easing,” I whisper back. “If we don’t get them to fight—”
“There won’t be a fight if I can’t convince them to say yes.” Tzain gives me a gentle nudge. “I know we’re tight on time, but with them, we need to take it slow—”
“Tzain!”
A chorus of excitement erupts when we reach a table with the four divîners I can only assume complete Kenyon’s agbön team. Each player is bigger than the last. Even the twin girls Tzain calls Imani and Khani almost match his height.
Tzain’s presence incites smiles and laughter. Everyone rises, slapping his hand, patting his back, teasing Tzain about the coming agbön tournament. Tzain’s instructions to take it slow buzz in my mind, but his friends are so consumed with games, they do not even realize Tzain’s world is falling apart.
“We need your help.” I break through the noise, the first sentence I manage to get in. The team pauses to stare at me, as if noticing me for the first time.
Kenyon sips on his bright orange drink and turns to Tzain. “Talk. What do you need?”
They sit in silence as Tzain explains our precarious situation, hushed when they hear about the fall of the divîner settlement. He tells them everything from the origin of the scroll to the impending ritual, ending with Zélie’s capture.
“The solstice is in two days,” I add. “If we’re going to make it, we need to act fast.”
“Damn,” Ife sighs, his shaved head reflecting the candlelight. “I’m sorry. But if she’s in there, there’s no getting her out.”
“There has to be something we can do!” Tzain points to Femi, a broad divîner with a cropped beard. “Can’t your father help? Isn’t he still bribing the guards?”
Femi’s face darkens. Without a word, he jerks back, rising so fast he almost knocks over the table.
“They took his father a few moons ago.” Khani drops her voice. “It started as a tax mix-up, but…”
“Three days later they found his body,” Imani finishes.
Skies. I stare after Femi as he makes his way through the crowd. Another victim of Father’s power. One more reason we must act now.
Tzain’s face falls. He reaches out and grips someone’s metal cup so hard it dents under his touch.
“It’s not over,” I speak up. “If we can’t bribe our way in, we can break her out.”
Kenyon snorts and takes another long swig of his drink. “We’re big, not dumb.”
“How is this dumb?” I ask. “You don’t need your size, you just need your magic.”
At magic, the whole table freezes, as if I’ve hissed a hurtful slur. Everyone turns to look at one another, but Kenyon fixes a sharp glare on me.
“We don’t have magic.”
“Not yet.” I pull out the scroll from my pack. “But we can give you your powers back. The fortress was designed to hold back men, not maji.”
I expect at least one of them to take a closer look, but everyone stares at the scroll as if it’s a fuse about to blow. Kenyon backs up from the table.
“It’s time for you to go.”
In an instant, Imani and Khani rise, each gripping one of my arms.
“Hey!” Tzain yells. He struggles as Ife and Kenyon hold him back.
“Let go!”
The bar stops, not wanting to miss out on the entertainment. Though I kick and shout, the girls do not relent, instead rushing to the doors as if their very lives depend on it. But as Imani’s breath comes out in short rasps and Khani’s grip on me tightens, the realization sinks in.
They are not angry …
They’re afraid.
I twist out of their grasp with a maneuver Inan taught me moons ago. I grab the hilt of my sword, releasing the blade with a sharp flick.
“I am not here to hurt you.” I keep my voice low. “My only desire is to bring your magic back.”
“Who the hell are you?” Imani asks.
Tzain finally breaks free of Kenyon’s and Ife’s grasp. He pushes through divîners and the twins to get to my side.
“She’s with me.” He forces Imani to back up. “That’s all you need to know.”
“It’s alright.” I step out of Tzain’s shadow, leaving the circle of his protection. Every eye in the bar pierces through me, but for once I do not shrink away. I picture Mother before a crowd of oloyes, able to command a room with just the slightest arch of her brow. I must call on that power now.
“I am Princess Amari, daughter of King Saran, and…” Though the words have never left my lips, I now realize there is no other choice. I cannot let the line of succession stand in my way. “And I am the future queen of Orïsha.”
Tzain’s brows knit in surprise, but he doesn’t let himself rest in his shock for too long. The bar erupts in an unyielding chatter that takes forever to quiet down. Eventually he manages to silence the crowd.
“Eleven years ago my father took your magic away. If we don’t act now, we’ll lose the only chance we will ever have to bring it back.”
I look around the tóju, waiting for someone to challenge me or try to throw me out again. A few of the divîners leave, but most stay, hungry for more.
I unclench the scroll and hold it up so they can see its ancient script. A divîner leans in to touch it and yelps when a burst of air shoots from his hands. The accidental display gives me all the proof I need.
“There’s a sacred ritual, one that will restore your connection to the gods. If my friends and I don’t complete it during the centennial solstice in two days, magic will disappear forever.” And my father will run through the streets, slaughtering your people again. He will stab you in the heart. He’ll kill you like he killed my friend.
I look around the room, locking eyes with each divîner. “There is more than your magic at risk. Your very survival is on the line.”
The mutters continue until someone from the crowd shouts, “What do we have to do?”
I step forward, resheathing my blade and lifting my chin. “There is a girl trapped in the guard fortress outside Gombe. She is the key. I need your magic to get her out. If you save her, you save yourselves.”
The room remains silent for a long moment. Everyone stands still. But Kenyon leans back, crossing his arms with an expression I can’t discern.
“Even if we wanted to help, whatever magic that scroll gave us wouldn’t be strong enough.”
“Do not worry.” I reach into Zélie’s leather pack and pull out the sunstone. “If you agree to help, I will take care of that.”