Rena Barron - Kingdom of Souls

Someone clears her throat and I sit bolt upright – it’s not Terra. A short, stout woman with grey cornrows stands at the foot of my bed with her fists on her hips. She purses her lips in that way that leaves no doubt that she means business.

‘Ty!’ I slip out of bed in an instant. ‘Pardon my language. I thought you were Terra.’

She stares at me and blinks twice, and I brush the wrinkles out of my nightgown and stand a little straighter. Ty never comes herself. This isn’t her domain. She does all the cooking, and Terra takes care of the rest of the chores.

She shakes her head and taps her foot, a sign that she wants me to hurry up.

My cheeks warm as I rush into the washroom where my bath is waiting. I don’t linger long. Then I slip into a fresh cotton robe that smells like home. I inhale deeper, taking it in, trying to push the tribal lands out of my mind. When I return to my room, it’s pristine. The white sheets are as smooth as stretched papyrus, the pillows stacked in a neat row. Cold stabs through my slippers as I pad across the stone floor to my vanity in search of my favourite balm.

Ty sorts through the shelves of clothes in the armoire next to the window. When she doesn’t find what she’s looking for, she crosses the room to the closet by the door. On the way, she fluffs one of the velvet pillows on the settee in the centre of the room. She’s not the most cheerful person, but today she’s more somber than usual. It isn’t one of her bad days, but definitely not one of her good days either.

While she’s searching through my clothes, I go to the shrine next to the bed. Dust coats my collection: my very first bone charm, the one that my father gave me at Imebyé. The Kes necklace made of crystal beads to bring good luck. Two clay dolls, which Oshhe and I made to honour two of his favourite aunts, long since passed. In the right hands, these things amplify magic and our connection to the ancestors. But in my hands, they are only trinkets. No one touches my shrine, as is the Aatiri custom, so the whole lot of it needs cleaning after weeks away. I reach for a rag, but Ty clears her throat behind me again.

‘Yes, you’re right.’ I sigh. ‘I can do that after my lessons with the scribes.’

I mean after I see Rudjek. I wrote him a letter before we reached the city and gave it to Terra to deliver. If all goes well, he’ll meet me after my lessons in our secret place by the river.

When I turn to face Ty, she holds up a flowing teal sheath. It’s breathtaking, the way the sun catches on the beads and gathers on the fine silk. Essnai and her mother gave it to me on my last birth day. Ty may not usually help with my clothes, but she should know the sheath is too formal for lessons with the scribes.

‘I don’t think that’s quite appropriate,’ I say, heading to the armoire. I dig through piles of folded clothes and pull out my sea-blue tunic and matching trousers. Ty shakes her head and lays the sheath on the bed alongside a beaded belt and jewelled slippers.

Before I can protest again, my mother sweeps into my room, her gold Ka -Priestess’s kaftan rustling in her wake. The space between us feels too small and I cringe, as if caught doing something wrong. The morning light glows against her honey-golden skin, and her amber eyes shine like rare gemstones. When Oshhe and I got back last night, Arti was at the Almighty Temple. The seers sometimes hold vigils for days, so it’s never a surprise if she’s not home. I’ve always counted myself lucky then. It’s easier to avoid her.

My mother is the definition of beauty. Her ebony hair flows down her back in loose curls, threaded through with pale crystals. She bears Tribe Mulani’s softness and curves and small stature compared to the Aatiri. I am somewhere in the middle, taller than my mother, but much shorter than my very tall cousins. Although the resemblance between us is unmistakable, next to her, I might as well be a squat mule.

She never comes to visit me here. I can’t guess the meaning of this – unless she’s talked to my father already, and she knows.

Arti peers around the room, examining its condition, before her eyes land on Ty. The two women exchange a look – one of understanding that I’ve seen shared between them many times before.

Ty has never spoken to me, nor to anyone for that matter. I’ve heard her mumbling in the kitchen when she’s alone, but she stops as soon as someone else comes near. I don’t know why she doesn’t talk. My childhood questions about it always went unanswered. No different from Grandmother hesitating to answer my questions about the green-eyed serpent.

‘You may leave us, Ty,’ Arti says, tilting her head to show respect.

When Ty is gone, Arti’s sharp amber eyes fall upon me. ‘I trust that you’re well.’

‘I am, Mother,’ I say, resisting the urge to glance away. ‘Thank you for asking.’

‘Your father told me what happened at the Blood Moon Festival.’ Her attention shifts to the altar, and she wrinkles her nose. I can’t tell if she disapproves of the mix of tribal trinkets or the dust. ‘It’s time to let go of this foolish dream of having magic. Mulani show their gifts at a very young age. If it hasn’t happened by now, it won’t happen at all.’

My mother speaks in a matter-of-fact tone that sets my teeth on edge. She might as well be talking to a stranger on the street. Her words sting in my chest and leave me speechless.

She brushes her hand across the sheath. The luminous pearl of her Ka -Priestess’s ring shimmers in the sunlight. As her hand glides over the fabric, the colour of the pearl changes from onyx to slate to cyan. ‘It’s a shame to come from two powerful bloodlines and have no magic at all. No Mulani in my family has ever been without. But there is nothing to be done about it.’

‘There’s still a chance.’ My words come out feeble and desperate.

‘What makes you think so?’ Arti says in a voice devoid of any emotion. ‘This year the Aatiri chieftain positioned you directly in Heka’s path, and he didn’t see fit to give you magic. It was a bold gesture, and commendable, but has anything changed?’

Warmth creeps up my neck at the slight. She very well knows the answer, but she wants me to say it. ‘Grandmother had a vision,’ I say, rallying my nerves. ‘A demon could be blocking my magic.’ That wasn’t exactly what Grandmother saw, but it’s the most plausible reason for my magic not showing.

‘I do wish your grandmother would stop giving you false hope,’ Arti says after a deep sigh. ‘And this talk about demons?’ She laughs. ‘That’s the stuff of old wives’ tales, Arrah. They’ve been gone for five thousand years, and if they were back, what would one want with you? A girl without magic.’

Her words are a well-honed slap to the face – yet another reminder how much of a disappointment I am to her. What can I say? How can I fight back, when she’ll have an answer for everything? I believe Grandmother, but it’s not worth arguing. There’s no winning with my mother – no convincing her of anything other than what she chooses to believe.

‘I know that magic is important to you, daughter,’ Arti says, her words softer. ‘But don’t be so obsessed that you’d do something foolish for a taste of it.’

I bite my tongue as fire spreads through my belly. She’s eyeing the bone charm on the altar now. Does my mother think I would stoop so low, that I would consider trading my years for magic? Yes, I want it, but I’m not a fool. I’m not that desperate either. My mind falls on the night of Imebyé and the woman writhing in the sand. That was her choice. There are moments in your life that leave lasting impressions. The woman’s sallow skin and rotten teeth, the way magic came to her, the way it was destroying her – every detail has stayed with me over the years.