Rena Barron - Kingdom of Souls

The crowd on the streets hushes and the Vizier’s words fill the silence.

‘You honour us with your presence, Almighty One, Crown Prince Darnek, and Second Son Tyrek.’ His voice blasts in the West Market. ‘May your wisdom guide our hearts and minds. May our orisha lords look upon the Kingdom favourably for as long as your great family reigns.’

The Vizier pauses a heartbeat. ‘If the public will allow me a small indulgence, I would like my son, Rudjek Omari, to join me on the first tier.’

My stomach sinks. I hope Rudjek isn’t as caught off guard as I was this morning. In the new silence, I imagine him weaving through people and climbing the steps to reach his father.

I hold my breath as we draw closer to the coliseum. I expect the labourers to stop at the giant doors, but they rush us straight into the heart of the assembly. The crowd gasps, drowning out the Vizier’s next words. When the labourers set the litter down, Arti gives me a meaningful glance. Follow my lead, or else .

As she descends from the litter, her head held high, triumph flashes in her amber eyes. The pieces fall into place. She wanted to be late so that she could interrupt the Vizier as he introduced Rudjek as his heir.

The voices fall silent upon seeing the Ka -Priestess. I follow my mother, resisting the urge to shrink beneath hundreds of stares. The Vizier stands on the first tier of the raised platform, shiny shotels sheathed on either side of his waist. His swords look like they belong in a museum, not like they’ve ever seen a day of battle.

My eyes find Rudjek, and when his dark gaze meets mine, my stomach flutters. I hold back a smile. He stands beside his father, clad in a purple elara to the Vizier’s white and gold. The handles of his half-moon swords are dull and well-worn. His face is angular and lean, and recently met with a sharp razor. There’s a shadow of a bruise under his right eye, no doubt from a fight in the arena. I should’ve known he couldn’t stay out of trouble while I was gone.

He doesn’t have his father’s rich brown skin, but they share the same lush eyebrows and chiselled jawline. His colouring is between his father’s shade and his Northern mother’s paler, diaphanous skin. His hair is a mess of tangled black curls. I soak up everything about his face, as if we haven’t seen each other in ages when it’s been mere weeks.

He and his father both wear a craven-bone crest pinned to their collar, a mark of their family’s importance. It signals their rank above all others in the Kingdom, except for the royal family. While the Omaris’ crest is a lion’s head, the royal family’s – the Sukkaras’ – ram is a symbol of their blood connection to the sun orisha, Re’Mec. There are others in the audience with crests that show their rank or position. And many more royal cousins proudly displaying their crests too.

‘Don’t let me interrupt,’ Arti says, her sweet voice echoing in the coliseum. Behind us the labourers take away the empty litter with practised stealth. ‘By all means continue.’

‘ Ka -Priestess,’ the Vizier spits out her title. ‘I’m glad you were gracious enough to join us. Although the assembly starts at tenth morning bells, in case you’ve forgotten.’

Arti looks up to the second tier, which sits high above the first. The Almighty One and his sons lounge in velvety thrones with an attendant at each of their sides.

‘My apologies, Almighty One, for my tardiness,’ Arti says, casting her glance to the floor. ‘I am late for reasons that will become apparent during the assembly.’

The Almighty One leans forward on his throne, his eyes combing the length of her body, then says, ‘Begin.’

While the Vizier’s attention is on the Almighty One, Rudjek seizes his opportunity. He’s halfway down the stairs before his father even notices. He returns to his empty seat, while I’m stuck counting down the moments until I can do the same.

The crowd perches on benches facing each other that stretch up around the curved rotunda. Some sit so high that shadows shroud their faces. There’s two thousand of the most influential people in Tamar here. People with an interest in the outcome of political decisions. They’re as polished as the quarry stone that makes up the round building. And they glow too, for the mosaic ceiling casts a prism of colours upon them. My sheath pales in comparison to the beaded kabas and jewelled headwraps worn by some of the women. Not to be outdone, the men dress in fancy agbadas, elaras, or the latest imported fashion.

The platform where the assembly meets is a two-tiered crescent moon. On the right of the first tier is a curved table and high-backed chairs for the Vizier and his four guildmasters. On the left, Arti and her seers sit in an identical arrangement. A spiral staircase leads up to the second tier. It’s more for show than anything else. There’s a pulley concealed behind a curtain that lifts each of the royals up to their private booth.

When Arti finally takes her place, I look for a seat. Sukar waves to get my attention. He and Essnai are sitting across from Rudjek, on the opposite side of the coliseum. Two blue-robed scribes look put out when I squeeze between my friends, forcing them to move over.

‘Uncle said the Ka -Priestess was up to something,’ Sukar whispers, a gleam of excitement in his eyes. ‘I didn’t think it was this. Interrupting the Vizier in his moment of glory … well played.’

‘Bring forth the first order of business.’ The Vizier barks the command to the courtier standing at the edge of the first tier. The man steps forward and clears his throat as he unties a scroll that reaches to his knees. He begins reading a summary of today’s agenda. Taxes, tithes, plans for a new public building, and another million mundane things that buzz in my ears. I’m starting to think that like my father, I’m allergic to politics.

‘Does he have to stare like that?’ Sukar whispers. ‘He looks like a lost puppy.’

I don’t ask who. I know who. Instead of listening to his father and my mother bickering, Rudjek is fanning himself with my letter . There’s an expertly drawn donkey on the front – he knows the reason why. He grins at me and starts flourishing his hand in bolder strokes. I have a sudden urge to poke my tongue out at him but think better of it.

High above us, the Almighty One carries on a hushed conversation with Crown Prince Darnek. The only royal who seems interested in the proceedings is Second Son Tyrek. He’s the same age as me, two years younger than his brother. He leans forward on his throne and follows the debate. But the Almighty One is never called upon to vote unless there is a tie, and today there are none.

I spend the entire assembly counting down the time to freedom. After two solid hours of debating and voting, the Vizier turns to the audience. ‘Does the public have any concerns to bring forth today?’

In the few times I’ve been in attendance, no one in the audience has brought an issue for debate. People seem content to sit and listen to the squabbles between the Guild and the Temple instead. I sit up straight, itching for him to adjourn the assembly. From the bored looks around me, I’m not the only one.

‘With no further concerns,’ the Vizier says, ‘I hereby close—’

‘I’d like to raise a concern that we have overlooked,’ Arti says from her perch among the seers. Her kaftan shines the richest gold while the other seers’ kaftans are pale yellow. The striking contrast leaves no doubt that she, and she alone, is the voice of the Almighty Temple. Much the same as Rudjek’s father in his pristine white and gold elara. In all the Kingdom, only the Vizier wears white silks. His guildmasters wear a variety of colours. The Master of Arms, Rudjek’s aunt. The Master of Scribes, the Master of Scholars, the Master of Labourers. Half of whom look utterly disinterested in the proceedings.