Rena Barron - Kingdom of Souls

Sukar and Essnai spring into action. My friends bat away the rocks two of the Litho boys hurtle at us with their magic, neither lifting a finger. I catch a rock and send it flying. It hits the boy who knocked me down square in the chest. He lets out a little squeak and I can’t hide my satisfaction. Serves him right.

I’m on my feet again, my eyes narrowed on the bubble boy. He calls for help, but Sukar and Essnai already have his friends battered and bruised on their knees. The bubble falters before I even reach the boy, and he runs away. I don’t bother going after him. He got the point. Once the bubble’s gone, the sounds of the night’s celebrations rush back into the clearing. The rest of the Litho boys run away too.

My hands shake as I clutch the staff. They weren’t even that powerful. Yet, if not for Sukar and Essnai’s help, things could’ve ended much worse. How could Heka bless scum like that with magic and skip me? At the first beats of the djembe drums, dread slips between my ribs like a sharp blade. It’s time to face the thing I’ve been dreading all day.

My tests with Grandmother – the great Aatiri chieftain.

Grandmother’s dome pavilion looms over the smaller, squat tents in the Aatiri camp. Its patchwork of bright cloth billows in the gentle breeze in the valley. My legs ache as I weave through the throng of people preparing for the second night of the blood moon. I wish I could lose myself in them and find a place to hide from my tests. I don’t want to fail again.

I suck in a deep breath as I finally reach the tent. My cousin Nenii pins back the flap and ducks inside. She and Semma clear away teacups and wash down the long, low table. Magic strung in glass beads, draped along the walls, lights the room. I’m always amazed by Grandmother’s endless ways to bend magic to her will.

I press two fingers to my forehead and dip my head in a slight bow. ‘Blessed night, cousins,’ I say in Aatiri. The greeting twists on my tongue, but the girls don’t make fun of my accent. These cousins have always been kind and accepting, even if I’m an outsider. Still, it’s hard not to wonder if it’s only because of Grandmother. Plenty of people are polite to me in Tamar out of respect for my mother.

They chime back, ‘You honour us, granddaughter of our great chieftain.’

‘Join me, Little Priestess,’ Grandmother calls from another room.

Her voice brims with authority, but it’s not unkind.

Nenii and Semma give me encouraging smiles as they fluff pillows. Before I slip into my Grandmother’s private quarters, Nenii whispers, ‘Come by our tent later so we can help braid your hair.’ My cheeks warm, but I’m glad of the offer. It’s long overdue and would take me forever. I shake off my doubts about them. Not everyone cares that I don’t have magic.

I pull back the curtains that separate the salon from Grandmother’s private quarters. She sits cross-legged on a mat in the middle of the floor. She isn’t wearing her bone charms, only a yellow kaftan with coloured beads across her shoulders. Light flickers from the jars of burning oil in the corners and leaves the rest of the room in shadows. Her quarters smell of cloves, cinnamon, and cardamom – the spices of her favourite tea. ‘Grandmother,’ I say, bowing to her. ‘Honoured Chieftain of Tribe Aatiri, blessed night.’

‘Welcome, Granddaughter.’ She smiles. ‘Sit.’

Grandmother clutches her hands on her lap, and when I squat on the reed floor facing her, she flips her wrists and lets the bones fly. They land between us in the same position they did all those years ago when she first tried to teach me magic. As they do every year. Her whispers fill the room as she channels the ancestors’ spirits through the bones. Several voices come across at once. My belly twinges at the clipped, guttural words that are neither Aatiri nor Tamaran. The language doesn’t sound like that of any nation near the Kingdom or the tribal lands. In the corner, one of the candles flickers and goes out.

Grandmother has never told me what the message means. Whenever I ask, she answers, ‘The time is not yet right for me to say.’

Still the question burns on my lips. What does it mean? I almost beg for an answer but bite my tongue. It isn’t fair that she’s keeping it from me. Why would she? Unless it’s something bad, or if it means that I’ll never come into my magic. The blank expression on her face gives nothing away.

‘People are upset about me entering the sacred circle,’ I start, then my words catch in my throat. She had to know they would be. Grandmother stares at me with one eyebrow arched in anticipation. She bears the angular face, prominent cheeks, and proud nose common among the Aatiri. Her look, as always, is one of slight amusement – as if she’s privy to a secret that no one else knows.

The phantom of Heka’s magic still lingers on my skin. It was the first time that magic ever came to me . It didn’t just brush by on its way to answer someone else’s call. It sparked in my soul like a vital organ I hadn’t known was missing. I want to tell Grandmother this, but I’m afraid of what it means that the magic didn’t stay.

She risked angering the other edam and the entirety of the tribal people – for what reason ? I bite my lip and drop my gaze to my hands. ‘Why did you do it?’

‘People should mind their own business,’ Grandmother says, her voice sharp. When I meet her eyes again, she smiles. ‘As for your question, let me try to explain.’ She waves her hand over the bones and they arrange themselves into a neat pile. ‘Our magic presents in different ways. It’s no small thing that you can see magic and your mind resists it. I’ve long wondered if, perhaps, your magic is simply asleep. I brought you into the sacred circle in an attempt to awaken it.’

A flush of heat creeps up my neck. ‘I guess there’s only one way to see if it worked.’

‘Take the bones,’ Grandmother says. ‘Tell me what you see.’

So begin my tests.

The bones feel smooth and polished, and slippery against my hands. They don’t hum with magic or speak to me. It’s no different from Imebyé all those years ago, or any blood moon since then. I clutch the bones with my eyes closed, my pulse pounding in my ears. I will them to tell me their secrets. Please let this work.

When I can’t stand waiting any longer, I throw them.

The bones scatter in a random pattern that means nothing to me. Grandmother studies them, her eyes lingering on each bone, then lets out a soft sigh. They don’t mean anything to her either.

Why do I keep failing at this? What am I doing wrong?

She allows me no time to lament, only snaps her fingers. Nenii enters the room carrying a mortar and pestle, a knife, and piles of herbs. Once she’s gone, Grandmother says, ‘Make a blood medicine of your choice.’

That I can do. I’ve learned how to make dozens while helping my father in his shop. But without magic, all blood medicine does is give a person a stomachache. Or a hangover.

I crush herbs, adding a bit at a time to get the right consistency. The medicine calls for white nightshade smoothed into a paste and a dozen other herbs. It isn’t long before I’m lost in the work, my mind at peace for the first time at the festival. I’ve always found making blood medicine calming, even if challenging. Juices stain my fingers green and a pungent odour stings my nose by the time it’s done.

To seal the spell, I need to add my blood, but I hesitate. I don’t want to disappoint Grandmother or myself again. After this, we’ll know if last night had been worth it, if my true magic was only asleep. I nick the tip of my finger, add blood, and whisper the incantation in one breath.