In this sequel to Raybearer, seventeen-year-old Tarisai Kunleo, as the Empress of Aritsar, makes a deal with demons to stop the annual sacrifices of two hundred children.
For miles around the city, in thousands of tents and makeshift camp towns, the Imperial Army of Twelve Realms waited—some million warriors strong—headed by Sanjeet and my living royal council siblings.
The Ray sweltered over my skin—a hot beam at my back, as though Dayo’s vision were a coal, growing cooler and cooler until the vast stone doors shut, separating us for what could be eternity.
The vertigo of freefalling lasted only a moment, replaced by a sickeningly slow descent, as though the air had thickened, and I fell through cold, brackish water.
Farther down my arm, some of the glyphs coalesced around a crosshatched square, shifting into words I could understand: BRIDGE OF THE WARLORD’S DEATHS.
“I’m a good empress. And a good person.”
Again, laughter shook the bridge, causing bile to roil in my stomach.
“Such hubris,” hissed Poison, a boil-covered beast with foul green breath.
Compared to the rest of the Underworld, the stairs were pleasantly bright—a steep, spiraling staircase several yards wide, lit ethereally by floating green lamps.
The lamps were amplified, however, by the mirrors; the floor, ceiling, and walls enclosing the staircase were all hewn from dizzyingly spotless glass and when we entered, every movement we made seemed to echo on forever.
What if this better, improved Tarisai could help me? Impart knowledge that could change the trajectory of Aritsar, and make me the ruler I so ached to be?
There was even Dancer Tarisai, resplendent in body paint and the envy of every festival, navigating her many partners with grace and rolling her perfect hips in sultry time to the music.
This reflection was slightly older, perhaps nine or ten, mousy and fidgeting, and we were not quite twins, though her features strongly resembled mine.
That last phrase—that thread of my mother’s indignant pride, which she could not relinquish even here, in the heart of hell—removed any doubt that this shade was my mother.
a crisscross design or a cloth having such a design
Warriors of the new Djbanti commonwealth fight shoulder to shoulder with Spartian soldiers, and Mewish berserkers, fierce in bright blue war paint and capes of tartan, share mounts with Dhyrmish charioteers.
skillful in physical movements; especially of the hands
Then I nodded at Iranti...and in one deft movement, she lowered her horn to press between my eyes, and I touched a finger to the spear of Warlord Fire.
Outside Ebujo City, the Army of Twelve Realms would watch in confusion as their undying adversaries dropped one by one, bodies washed away by a cleansing river of amethyst.
But I could feel his trepidation. Once I had returned from the Underworld, little more than a barely warmed corpse draped over Iranti’s back, Sanjeet had gathered me to his chest, sobbing tears of relief into my neck.
“On one condition,” I said, closing my eyes as the revelries began in the Imperial Hall below, vibrating the floor of my bedchamber with a raucous chant.
Without the Ray, a child wouldn’t be my legacy: the small, frightened receptacle of all my life’s ambitions. A child—should I ever choose to have one—would be just that.
A child.
Created on Wed Nov 09 10:16:26 EST 2022
(updated Wed Aug 30 10:49:19 EDT 2023)
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