Iyanu and her sister Moji stood hand in hand before the great bronze doors.
“I don’t want to do this,” Moji whispered, her dark eyes gleaming behind her jackal mask.
“Yes you do,” Iyanu said. “This is how we honor Mother’s memory.”
As servants fussed with the final touches of their ceremonial dress—dabbing at warpaint or adjusting a beaded braid—Moji said, “Mother always said you were the strongest.”
“But the ancestors could choose anyone,” Iyanu said. “Cousin Tuji is a master with the ida blade, and although Uncle Wele is old—”
“It’s going to be you,” Moji said. She gave a tight smile. “Everyone knows it. And I’m going to be captain of your quartet. Together, always.”
“Together always,” Iyanu said.
Then drumming began, cutting off further talk, and the doors shuddered opened.
Hundreds lined the courtyard that led to Lekeke Castle’s ancestral shrine: nobles from the city in flapping agbadas; servants up on the battlements, their faces painted gold and blue … Many cried out, their cheers competing with the drumming. The youngest waved their arms excitedly, for today they would see a noble-born invoke an ancestor.
Iyanu kept her eyes on the far end of the courtyard, feeling the weight of their gazes upon her. There stood her family’s shrine to their clan founder, Warlord Adatali. His bronze statue loomed over them all; a man with eight arms and a jackal’s head. Each of his hands held a different blade, and at his feet lay a sea of offerings—jewels, weapons, food.
Twenty members of the inner family strode at Iyanu’s back, hopefuls in the same warpaint, battle skirt, and mask as she. Though it was mere weeks since their mother had died in battle, there could be no delay in finding her replacement, with the iba horde so restive. Invoker Akanni’s daughters Iyanu and Moji might be, but that did not mean either of them would inherit their mother’s title. Every Lekeke Castle resident of the Adatali bloodline was eligible to present themselves at the shrine.
“Welcome!” cried Sister Olufa, Lekeke Castle’s senior nun. “Welcome to the day of Choosing!”
A hush fell over the crowd as the old woman stood before the shrine, her bald, dark brown head gleaming in the sun. The drummers, on a dais off to Iyanu’s left, fell still. Iyanu lined up with the other hopefuls, youngest to eldest, as was tradition. Sweat ran down the side of her face, under the calabash of her mask.
Sister Olufa lifted her hands to the sky, her yellow robes falling back to reveal tattooed arms. “Once,” she cried, turning to the crowd, “a great king ruled all the realm. A good king, and well loved by all. But one day, vis kingdom was set upon by creatures from the broiling wetwoods of the north: the iba, vile monstrosities of metal and decay. The king and vis eight warlords were barely able to drive them back. They knew that when a second wave came, they would need to be prepared. So together with the holy ones, the king devised a plan. When the enemy returned, the king’s eight mighty warlords would return as well. When their descendants sought help, the warlords would answer the call… even from beyond the pyre. No matter how many centuries had passed.”
Sister Olufa turned to the twenty hopefuls, a smile creasing her broad features. “Today, one of Warlord Adatali’s descendants will invoke his spirit and bond with him until their death. Let the first of his progeny present themselves. Benma, child of Falani!”
Benma, only twelve, stepped up to the shrine. Iyanu heard murmurs of appreciation from the crowd. Nobody expected the child to invoke, but Benma carried herself like a warrior blooded and scarred.
“I call upon you, Adatali!” Benma cried, throwing her hands high as she began the sacred dance. Iyanu knew the steps like she knew the contours of her own body. The girl spun, leaping in a dizzying circle around the slab of obsidian that formed the heart of the shrine.
Iyanu felt her heart stir. How many times had she watched her mother call down their foreparent’s spirit using those same movements? How many times had she dreamt of uttering those words, with an army at her back? Moji was more interested in drumming and poetry than in warfare, but Iyanu had longed for nothing else since she was old enough to draw an ida. A born warrior—they all said it, and Iyanu felt the weight of their expectation like a physical force.
The child, Benma, threw herself to the ground, hands and forehead pressed to the obsidian. Her narrow shoulders rose and fell with exertion.
Silence rippled around the courtyard until finally, with a condescending little smile, Sister Olufa stepped forward. “Perhaps the ancestors will answer your call another day. Let the next hopeful present themselves! Iyanu, child of Akanni!”
Iyanu strode forward, her cheeks burning beneath her mask. At seventeen, she was the second youngest hopeful, but their mother had been just as young when she had formed the bond. Iyanu swallowed, then lifted her hands, trying to calm her racing heart.
“I call upon you, Adatali!” she cried in a voice clear and strong. She fell at once into the first steps of the dance, movements to honor their ancestor, to please him, as well as to represent each of the eight blades Adatali could wield. Through her mask, she caught glimpses of the crowd, every face trained upon her, every eye following her actions. She knew her dancing was flawless; fluid and bold. She felt more at home dancing than she did walking. Every time she extended a hand, it was with a flourish. No part of her body was forgotten, just as her mother taught. And when, with the final movement, she turned towards the shrine, the crowd seemed to sigh in approval.
But then, as she lowered herself into the bow, her ankle rolled, and her foot twisted, and she was down, down in the dust of the courtyard, the startled cries of the spectators ringing in her ears.
Iyanu’s stomach tightened as she crawled to the shrine’s obsidian heart. How? How could she have fallen? She had danced the steps of invocation every day since she was old enough to stand. How could she fail when it mattered most?
In her head, she counted. One breath. Two. The nuns usually gave each hopeful a full ten breaths before moving on to the next. Four breaths, five. There was still time. Yes, she had dishonored the ancestors by her misstep, but surely they could see how skilled she was, how dedicated? Eight breaths, nine. There was still time. Still—
“Perhaps the ancestors will answer your call another day,” Sister Olufa said, her voice heavy with regret. “Let the next hopeful present themselves! Moji, child of Akanni!”
Iyanu stood, unable to meet her sister’s eyes as they passed. It could be years before another member of the family crossed the pyre, releasing another iteration of Adatali’s spirit. Years until Iyanu could present herself again.
Moji stepped forward, and the crowd murmured as they took in her characteristic stoop. Here came a woman who was daughter of Invoker Akanni in name alone. She possessed none of her mother’s poise, none of her presence. How could such a creature hope to perform the sacred dance to the ancestors’ satisfaction?
“I call upon you, Adatali!” Moji cried in a tremulous voice, and Iyanu felt the crowd’s attention drift. Moji spun. She knew the dance as well as Iyanu but had always made adaptations. When she bowed, it was never as low. When she twisted, it was with a step rather than a smooth sweep. But she made it through, and then flattened herself to the obsidian heart.
At once, the obsidian flared with white light and Moji’s body pulsed as the brilliance engulfed her. The spectators cried out in surprise, and Sister Olufa covered her mouth as Moji continued to spasm. Then finally, the light died, and Moji climbed to her feet. When she turned, the dark brown skin of her hands glowed gold, as though dipped in liquid sunlight. And when she lifted them high, the light poured out, twisting, taking on form.
The outline of a man stepped into the courtyard, thrice the size of a mortal. Moji laughed and looked at them all, her chest rising and falling with excitement as the man’s body solidified. Dark skin. Long, muscular limbs. A beaded battle skirt, and across his broad chest, warpaint in blue and gold. The spectators dipped their heads and opened their hands in reverence as Warlord Adatali, ancient forebear of their clan, stood before them.
The drummers struck up. Cheers rose, and cries of elation, but Iyanu felt her stomach twist in revulsion. It should have been her. Ancestors! It should have been her.
Then Moji staggered forward, fell to her knees, and the spirit snapped from existence.
“Praise the ancestors!” Sister Olufa cried. “The ninety-first spirit of Adatali has chosen a bond! Behold, Invoker Moji of Clan Adatali!”
That evening, they held a great banquet in the still of the castle gardens. Their finest dining rugs were unfurled in long rows. Swarms of servants in blue and gold poured out from the kitchens, platters of rice and yam balanced upon their heads, and everyone, from the inner family to the lowest herder from the surrounding grasslands, came to dine.
Moji sat on the dais, in their mother’s place, resplendent in an Invoker’s sweeping robes as she laughed and drank. Her every gesture spoke of astonishment and surprise. But Iyanu found she couldn’t look long upon her sister’s face.
A stream of well-wishers formed a snaking line, ready to kiss the hands of their new Invoker. Iyanu knew her place was up there, at her sister’s side, but she could not bring herself to move. Instead, she sat among her mother’s lieutenants, grizzled warriors in their middle years. But though their conversation rumbled on around her, talk of the movements of the iba horde and alliances with the neighboring provinces, none spoke to her. Then, when the first of the sweet courses arrived and Iyanu had drunk more than her share of palm wine, Lekeke Castle’s new Invoker rose to her feet.
“Today is a good day!” Moji said as her audience stilled to listen. Her shoulders sloped, as they always did, so that it looked as though she were slouching, or just about to sit. “Today, our ancestors honored their ancient vow to protect our clan and people. I raise an offering to them, in thanks for choosing me!” She took some rice from her plate and let it fall to the ground, and all around her, Iyanu saw others do the same. But Iyanu did not move. Did not lower her gaze from her sister. Why had she never noticed how smug Moji’s face could be?
“Today is also the day that I select the four warriors of my quartet!” Moji said. “Stand, lieutenant Ngili of the Third Battalion.”
A figure several rows away rose, a tall soul with thin features and close-shorn hair.
“I would like you to join my quartet,” Moji said.
“It would be my honor, Invoker,” Ngili replied, bowing down until they touched the floor with their hand, and then resuming their seat, to the grins and back-slaps of their neighbors.
“Lieutenant Reheema, of the Sixth Battalion!” Moji cried, and a squat woman of middling years rose with a grin. She had the lighter brown skin and arrow-straight hair of the distant land of Riani. “I would like you to join my quartet.”
Lieutenant Reheema pulled a face, as though considering, and laughter rang up all around, led by Moji herself. “Well, what can I say,” Reheema said finally. “Of course I bloody accept!” Then she leapt across the food mats and grabbed Moji around the waist.
Guffaws filled the air as Moji disentangled herself.
“Lieutenant Ifjar, of the Fourth Battalion,” Moji said. “Please stand.”
A young man, scarcely old enough to wear his warpaint, glanced uncertainly over one shoulder, before his companions shoved him to his feet. He stood, seemingly unsure what to do with his hands, as the crowd laughed gently at his awkwardness.
“Lieutenant Ifjar,” Moji said, “Before my mother died, she told me how you ran out alone to face three iba who had trapped a number of your squad. She said, thanks to your quick thinking and skill, that the lives of six human souls were saved. I would be honored if you would join my quartet.”
Ifjar let out a little stutter, then looked around him and said, “O-of course, Invoker. It would be the honor of my life to serve you.” He dropped into a bow so deep and so long that his companion had to nudge him when it was time to rise.
“An Invoker is nothing,” Moji said, “without their quartet. What use is our link with the ancestral realm if there is no one there to defend us when we enter the trance? What use our mighty ancestor, if the one who holds them present is undefended? There is only one person in the mortal realm whom I could ever think to entrust with leading this brave team.” She held out her hand, and it was that hand more than anything—more than the shame of having tripped during the ceremony, more than the carefully averted eyes of the onlookers—that hardened Iyanu’s heart. “Iyanu,” Moji said. “Dearest sister. I would like you to honor our ancestors as the captain of my quartet.”
They were staring, all of them. Some with sympathy. Some with amusement. It was the speech she and Moji had practiced together, thinking that Iyanu would be saying it. To hear those same words parroted back at her from her sister’s lips was more than Iyanu could bear.
“No,” Iyanu said, her voice carrying across the night. “I refuse. Find another.” Then, fists clenched, heart pounding, she turned and strode back into the castle.
In the days that followed, Iyanu kept to her rooms, pleading illness, and refusing all guests. Moji sent her many messages, but Iyanu left them unread. From her balcony, she watched her sister, down on the sparring lawn, throwing her hands to the sky as she danced.
Finally, near sunset perhaps a moon later, a knock came at her door, followed by Moji’s voice.
“Can we please just talk?” her sister said.
“I have nothing to say,” Iyanu said. “And nothing I want to hear.”
“If it makes any difference,” Moji said, “I didn’t want to be chosen. Invocation terrifies me. The responsibility terrifies me. I am sorry it wasn’t you.”
Iyanu crossed the bamboo floor and stepped out onto her balcony, from where she could see across the sparring lawn to the palisade and the open vastness of the grasslands beyond.
She heard a rattle, and then footsteps behind her.
“Whichever servant admitted you no longer has a place in the castle,” Iyanu said.
“I am sorry it wasn’t you,” Moji said. She wore their mother’s battle skirt, Iyanu noticed. “But we both agreed that we would honor the will of the ancestors.”
Iyanu turned away as Moji joined her, gripping the sandstone wall with both hands.
“Most of our clan will never invoke,” Moji said softly. “Very few of Adatali’s descendants are chosen for the bond. I was always jealous of you, you know. The way Mother looked at you. The way she smiled at you.”
“It should have been me,” Iyanu said, her words a whisper. “Mother said… mother always said it would be me.”
“Mother never thought the ancestors would pick someone so… unlike her,” Moji said, with just the faintest trace of bitterness. “She was wrong.”
A man on the sparring lawn below turned and waved. Handsome, perhaps five years or so older than Moji. He wore a captain’s warpaint, Iyanu realized, the eight blades of Adatali freshly tattooed across his back.
“You’ve selected another captain for your quartet?” Iyanu said.
“You refused me,” Moji said. “What was I to do?” The corner of her mouth twitched. “He is the son of the Invoker of Umuna. Uncle Wele thought it a good alliance to make. It is … possible we may become betrothed.” Her face split in a grin, and for a moment, Iyanu wanted to smile too, and gossip as they had done in easier days.
But instead, she turned away, “He seems a fine warrior.”
“Please, sister. Do you plan to hide here in your chambers until we grow old?”
“I’m not hiding,” Iyanu said. “Just go.”
The following morning, Iyanu woke to a sharp rapping at her door. After calling several times for a servant, Iyanu pushed aside the insect curtain and strode across the room herself.
A soldier stood on the other side, a squat soul with the high cheekbones and narrow eyes of the south.
“I am Panao,” they said, in their curious, southern accent. “Your new swordmaster. Invoker Moji sent me to begin your training.”
“I’m not interested,” Iyanu said, pushing the door closed.
Something slammed into her, sending her tumbling backwards onto the bamboo floor. She was on her feet in a heartbeat, but the swordmaster, Panao, stood over her, a wooden practice blade in their hand.
“You dare to strike one of noble blood?” Iyanu said.
Panao shrugged. “I am a swordmaster. It is my job.”
“I won’t fight,” Iyanu said, turning away, but a moment later, a force landed in the middle of her back, sending her staggering forwards.
This time she was ready, and maintained her footing. She twisted round, arms raised for combat and Panao tossed her the practice ida. “You have no choice,” they said. “I’m told you are the best in Lekeke Castle. Let us see if it is true.”
Iyanu charged, unable to suppress a grin. It felt good to hold a blade again, good to face an opponent again. Though Panao was unarmed now, they evaded her every strike and blow. Ancestors, but they were fast! Their long, black braid snapped as they feinted and ducked, and Iyanu found herself laughing.
“You’ll have to be quicker than that,” Panao said, dancing backwards and out into the hallway.
Iyanu chased Panao through the wide colonnades of the castle. Servants carrying baskets on their heads ducked out of their path, some smiling, some alarmed. By the time Panao had led her out onto the sparring lawns, Iyanu was wet with sweat and her breathing ragged. At some point, she had lost the ida. But she felt good. Yes, she felt good, and though the soldiers around her were careful not to stare, she knew they all watched.
Iyanu dove for the weapons rack, pulling out the first thing her hand closed upon—a stout, blunted spear.
“The daughter of an Invoker using the weapon of a commoner?” Panao said. “Surely you dishonor your ancestors?”
Iyanu grunted and thrust forward, but Panao dropped to the ground, then leapt up inside her guard. Their calloused hand closed on the spear, jerking roughly, and just like that, Iyanu found herself disarmed.
Iyanu sagged, breathing heavily. “Unfair,” she said.
“Do you yield?”
In response, Iyanu drove forward, and Panao smiled broadly.
Iyanu threw herself into her training. Panao was a relentless, but talented, teacher, and what she learned with them was nothing like her sterile lessons with her mother. They taught her stick-fighting and wrestling. Eye-gouging and locks. How to make use of sand and sunlight and a dozen other things she had never considered.
Several moons into Iyanu’s training, Moji came to her, her shadow falling over Iyanu as she sat on the ground, drinking water from a shared canteen.
“I hear your training is going well,” Moji said. “I knew you’d like Panao.”
Iyanu didn’t turn to meet her. “Can I help you, Invoker?”
Moji sighed. “Since you refused to join my quartet, I wondered if you’d like the position of commander of the Fifth Battalion? Panao will be joining as a captain and speaks highly of your skill.”
Iyanu was aware of the eyes of the common soldiers on her. She had come to see many of them as friends, sparring with them daily and listening to their chatter. They held the noble-born in disdain, she had learned, these souls who fought on the front lines. They gave their lives while the Invoker stayed safely within the circle of a quartet.
“I will join the Fifth,” Iyanu said. “But not as commander. I haven’t earned that right. I will join the common ranks. Just like any other soldier.”
She heard murmurs of approval behind her and felt her cheeks burn. Moji shook her head in disbelief and, without a word, strode away.
That night, a feast was held for Uncle Wele’s birthday, and Iyanu was officially sworn in with all the other new recruits to the Fifth. After the meal, when the arokin came out to sing stories, and the rise and fall of talking drums filled the night, Iyanu found Captain Gbanu, her sister’s betrothed, sitting alone, drinking steadily.
“Something troubling you?” Iyanu asked, dropping down onto the cushions beside him.
“She means to press into the grasslands,” Gbanu said. “To drive back the iba who have been troubling the villages there. I’ve told her it is a mistake. That our numbers are not great enough. But she will not listen.”
“My sister is a very driven soul,” Iyanu said. “For her, duty is everything.”
Gbanu glanced at her and snorted, then offered her his drink.
It would be a mistake to accept. Iyanu knew that. But she found herself unable to refuse.
Later that evening, when the arokin had finished singing and most of the household had retired, Gbanu’s hand brushed Iyanu’s thigh. She knew he’d meant nothing by it, but she clasped hold of his fingers anyway and pulled him to his feet.
In the morning, Iyanu woke to find the rains pounding down outside, and Gbanu dressing. He did not meet her gaze as she propped herself up on one elbow.
“This can’t happen again,” Gbanu said.
“If you say so,” Iyanu said.
“Moji can’t know,” he said, meeting her eyes at last, his gaze resolute.
“Don’t worry,” Iyanu said, more coldly than she’d intended. “She won’t hear a word from my lips.”
And she didn’t. But when Gbanu had gone, Iyanu rang the gong for a servant and didn’t trouble to tidy the sleeping mat.
“Lovers’ tea, please,” Iyanu said, and saw the way the girl’s eyes flashed as she bowed. Was it really Iyanu’s fault if servants liked to gossip?
That evening, as Iyanu took a light supper with Panao on her veranda, Moji appeared in a storm of robes and beads, her eyes red, her face puffy.
“Why?” she cried, pushing Iyanu’s head. “Why did you do it?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Iyanu said.
“Gbanu!” Moji cried, pushing Iyanu again, knocking her off her chair.
Iyanu rolled away and came to her feet. “I’m sorry,” she said. “We’d both drunk a little too much.”
“I should never have told you about him!” Moji cried, crossing to her. “But do you know what? I don’t care. I told him as much when he came to me and confessed. And he was disgusted. Disgusted with himself. He begged me to forgive him.”
Iyanu felt a twist of fury. “He didn’t seem so disgusted last night.”
Moji flew at her, fist coming round in a hook, but despite her sister’s newfound strength, it was still child’s play to simply bat Moji’s arm aside. Iyanu didn’t mean to laugh, but the laugh escaped her regardless.
“Please stop this!” Panao said, coming to their feet.
But rage had seized control of Moji. She lifted her arms, and her tattoos lit up with the fire of invocation.
“Go ahead,” Iyanu heard herself say. “Bring him out. Send him against his own descendent. You’ll make our ancestors proud.”
Iyanu caught a glimpse of the servants down in the gardens below. They looked on with alarm, but she saw something else, too. Revulsion. And it was not directed at Moji.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Iyanu muttered, dropping back into her seat.
Moji lowered her hands, the glow of the ancestral realm fading from her arms. Then, with no further comment, she stalked back into the castle.
The following morning, as Iyanu took a break from sparring, a messenger appeared with a papyrus from Moji. Iyanu ran her eyes over the words, aware of the gazes of those around her, then swept wordlessly past the messenger to find her sister.
Invoker Moji sat in her flower garden, taking a light breakfast with a white-skinned emissary from the distant land of Yenn.
“You monster,” Iyanu said.
Moji looked up. She wore a gold and blue wrapper that flared out around her feet, and her long braids were piled high upon her head.
“Is something the matter, sister?” Moji said.
“You’re sending me to the swamps.”
“I’m sending the Fifth Battalion to the Orandu Swamps,” Moji said. “They are the most successful at routing the iba.”
“That’s my new battalion,” Iyanu said.
“Yes, sister.”
The Yennish woman grinned up at her from behind a yellow fringe. Had Moji regaled this outlander with tales of her cruel, jealous sister? Clearly the woman delighted in every second of the drama unfolding before her.
“Clear out the Orandu Swamps,” Iyanu said, reading from the papyrus. “That could take years! No force—”
“You are not a commanding officer, sister,” Moji said. “Leave the details to your superiors.”
The Orandu Swamps were a bleak and miserable place: thick with flies, the grimy waters a haven for crocodiles and poisonous frogs. The Fifth’s leader, Commander Lanre, was a grim and unyielding man, with little sympathy for the suffering of his soldiers. As a mere recruit, Iyanu was not privy to their plans, and she spent the first few weeks wishing the ancestors would reclaim her soul as every muscle in her body ached and her skin burned with bites. It was only Panao’s determination, as captain of her squad, that carried her through, and for that, she would always love them.
The first iba Iyanu faced was a weak and wounded thing. It came charging out of the bush and Iyanu, at the back of her squad, had been nearest. She froze for a moment, taking in its all-too-human face, its yellow eyes, its silver skin. Then it flew at her with a rusty dagger, and Iyanu forgot all her training, stumbling backwards into the mud, fumbling with the knife at her belt. It was sheer luck that she got the blade free in time to slice the thing across its neck. Hot, grey blood splattered her face and arms. But that night, Panao placed the creature’s head upon a stake and sung songs to mark Iyanu’s first kill.
By the time Iyanu had been in the swamps half a year, she found herself feeling almost at home. The other soldiers came to lose their mistrust of her, and after Iyanu saved Panao from two iba using just a rock, they renamed her Stonewielder, and Commander Lanre offered her first promotion.
She thought of Moji often, sometimes with anger, sometimes with regret. She sent no messages home, nor did she receive any. A year passed, then two, and Iyanu climbed swiftly through the ranks, and though some claimed it was because of her birth, most ceased their grumbling once they witnessed her fury in battle. When Lanre, now a general, gave her command of her own squad, Iyanu spent half a year dealing with insubordination and hostility. But eventually, her soldiers fell into line. Eventually, they too came to respect her.
Within four years, over half of the Orandu Swamps had been declared safe. Lanre set up garrisons and hired builders to construct a new causeway. He granted Iyanu and Panao their own station, at the edge of the swamps and scarcely a day’s ride from Lekeke Castle. They had a dozen squads under their command now, souls who respected and feared them. And Iyanu found she could not imagine her life any other way.
“Commander Iyanu,” came the lieutenant’s voice from the other side of the door. “Commander, there’s a messenger here for you.”
“Send them in,” Iyanu said, looking up from the maps she’d been studying with Panao.
A woman entered, half dead and bleeding from the head, and so sodden Iyanu could scarcely decipher her warpaint.
“Commander,” the woman said, dropping into an exhausted bow. “Our scouts report iba coming over the grasslands towards Lekeke in great numbers. Two thousand at least, to hear the outriders tell it.”
“Lekeke has its own warriors,” Iyanu said. “This is no concern of ours.”
“Forgive me, Commander, but much of the force stationed in Lekeke is to the north, holding back an attack from the wetwoods. It seems this was a ruse to draw our people out. Yours is only company that could hope to reach Lekeke in time. Only a small force of warriors remains there… led by Invoker Moji herself.”
Iyanu turned away so that the woman would not see her face as a dozen thoughts crowded her mind. Moji’s force was doomed. Whoever rode to meet the iba would be crushed. Invoker or not, Moji could not stand against so many.
“If we march our warriors hard,” Panao said. “We can be there within the day. I can send a messenger to General Lanre for reinforcements, and—”
“No,” Iyanu said. “We have a task here. It is not the Fifth’s job to protect Lekeke.”
Panao cleared their throat. “If they are coming across the grasslands—”
“Are you deaf? I said no.”
Panao stared at her. They had become friends, and Iyanu trusted them more than any other soul alive. So it pained her when, wordlessly, they picked up the beaker of water by the map and tipped it over their bare arms.
“What are you doing?” Iyanu said.
“I have always supported you,” Panao said, scrubbing at the patterns of their company’s warpaint, blending the blue and gold into a muddy green mess. “Always championed you. But I will not be party to this.”
“Stop being ridiculous,” Iyanu said. She had meant her voice to sound firm, but instead she sounded like a child, pleading with a reluctant playmate to please stay for one more game.
Panao unbuckled their ida—the ida Iyanu had had commissioned for them. “This is not the way to inherit the spirit of Adatali,” they said.
“That’s not what this is about!” Iyanu cried, but Panao turned towards the door and left without another word.
When she was alone, Iyanu stripped off her battle vest and ida and dropped down by the map. Moji would not retreat. She would choose to fly to her death and re-join the ancestors in order to stall the attack until a greater force could arrive.
Iyanu snuffed out the candles, then knelt at her shrine and crumbled a little of her remaining dinner for the ancestors. But when she lay in the darkness, listening to the call of insects and the ceaseless drumming of the rain, she found sleep eluded her. Even when she drank the last of the ogogoro, it stayed away. A knot had formed in her chest, and it tightened with every breath she took.
Before long, it felt tight enough to choke her.
Iyanu rose and strode out of her hut into the center of the sleeping camp. Her warriors lay everywhere, those too lowly to have earned tents or a place in the huts drowsing out under the rains. “All of you!” she cried. “Listen to me! The iba have deceived us! The bulk of their force is coming across the grasses to attack Lekeke. If we march through the night, we can protect the Invoker. If we do not, she and her small force will be crushed. It is time to ready yourselves! Scouts, to me!”
Iyanu swept back into her command hut, not waiting to see their reaction. Her hands trembled, though she could not say why.
“Commander Iyanu?”
She turned. Seven scouts stood before her.
“Which of you has the fastest horse?” Iyanu said.
They looked at each other until finally a stocky young soul with thick braids said, “That’s probably me, commander.”
Dawn had fully broken by the time Iyanu galloped out alone onto the grasses. By then, a great panic had taken hold of her. Her sister was unprotected. Unprotected, and facing a force of many thousands.
The land before her seemed endless, punctuated only by the broad spread of the occasional acacia. The grasses rose almost to eye level, but if she sat straight, she could see ahead.
Then she spotted it: a flash of golden light, off to the west. There could be no mistaking the radiance of invocation; the brilliance of a doorway to the ancestral realm being torn open by an Invoker.
She muttered softly to her mount, and the horse wheeled towards it. The land rose gently but steadily. Iyanu was nearing the top of the ridge when she heard the chittering of the iba below.
A sea of darkness swarmed before her; more iba than Iyanu had ever seen in her life. Looming giants with blunt heads. Leaping, canine things. And creatures much like humans save for the curious glow of their eyes and their silver skin.
A tiny force faced them—no more than a few hundred souls—and among them danced a single Invoker. Even from there, Iyanu saw her sister’s arms held high. She felt a stir of joy, of pride. That was her sister! Her sister, facing a force that outnumbered her ten to one.
Iyanu charged down the hill, feeling more alive than she had in her life. The sky split open and Adatali strode out, his dark skin glowing, his eight blades manifesting from nothing. Moji knelt on the ground, the four warriors of her quartet surrounding her, her eyes squeezed tight as she maintained the link with the ancestral realm.
Adatali leapt, seven of his blades misting to nothing, and one remaining: the Sun Blade… Moji’s favorite. Adatali landed among the enemy, sending them scattering. He swung his ida, slicing through silver flesh and metal limb, sowing destruction wherever he turned.
Iyanu leapt from her horse mid-charge, rolled, and then came to her feet. She sprinted forwards, mere meters away now, but two of Moji’s quartet had fallen, and a third—Gbanu himself, she realized—had engaged a slavering iba with four arms, leaving Moji defenseless.
With a great cry, Iyanu leapt, sweeping her spear round. She landed, catching the first enemy blade, twisting it away. Her opponent looked almost human; two arms, two legs, a human head. But when it snarled at her, it displayed two rows of pointed teeth. The iba slashed down with its sword, a rusted, sorry-looking thing. Iyanu took her spear in two hands, just as Panao had taught her, meeting its blows, then pressing forward, sweeping its feet, then spinning the spear round to slam the head into its chest.
“I’m here!” Iyanu cried. “Moji, I’m here!”
“Iyanu?” Moji said, her voice feeble, her eyes still squeezed shut.
More iba leapt from left and right, but Iyanu caught them, swinging the spear, remembering Panao’s words, keeping them at a distance. How many iba had she killed, over the years? How many bandits, too? But it had never felt like this. Iyanu’s arms were not her own. Her will was not her own. It was as though the ancestors fought through her, with her, and though her chest burned and her face streamed with sweat, she had never felt more powerful.
“I’m losing him!” Moji cried, and up ahead, the towering form of Adatali flickered from existence.
“Protect the Invoker!” Iyanu cried. “Let her rest!”
The nearest warriors formed a tight circle around Moji, while Moji herself flopped forwards, her shoulders heaving. Moji’s link with the ancestral realm was strong; Iyanu knew her sister would need only a few minutes of rest before she was able to invoke again. But how long had she been fighting? How many times had she invoked already?
“I call upon you, Adatali!” Moji cried, coming to her feet to begin the dance.
Again the sky fissured, forming a line of light. Again, dark legs stepped through the opening, a towering form the height of three mortals. Out came the Sun Blade, humming, its length almost too bright to look upon. Iyanu felt her heart soar. This was where she belonged — at her sister’s side.
“Protect the Invoker!” Iyanu cried.
On and on they fought. The sun crept higher. At some point, the enemy broke their line and then what remained of their force fought in a tight circle. They had trained for this, had run through countless scenarios where all that remained was a single Invoker and those who protected them.
Near sunset, Iyanu heard distant war drums and her body flooded with relief. The high ululations of Lekeke warriors cut the air, followed by the crash of weapons, off to the left.
Perhaps the relief had weakened her defenses, or perhaps she had finally succumbed to exhaustion, but when a wedge-face iba with cloven feet leapt at Iyanu, she made an error, feinting left when she could already see the creature meant strike from that side. Its axe caught the meat of her arm, the blade lodging in her bone. Pain exploded down the left side of her body, and Iyanu crumbled. In a heartbeat, the iba was on her, a knife coming up, then—
The creature collapsed sideways, and there stood Panao. Smiling. Their warpaint was still smudged, and at this, Iyanu laughed.
“Protect the Invoker and her sibling!” Panao shouted, as Iyanu’s vision misted and exhaustion claimed her.
Iyanu woke to find her sister’s blood-streaked face looming over her. She lay in a tent. Sister Olufa lurked nearby, mixing something in a yam pounder. Tears stood in Moji’s eyes as she stroked Iyanu’s forehead.
Iyanu groped until she found her sister’s hand. Her chest felt tight—her breath hard to master. “I… I’m sorry,” she said. “Moji. I’m sorry. For everything.”
“I’m sorry too,” Moji said. Her eyes flicked down to Iyanu’s shoulder.
“That bad?” Iyanu said.
“That bad,” Moji said, a single tear spilling down her cheek.
“Gbanu?”
“Dead,” Moji said, with a crack in her voice. “As is poor Ifjar. I will need a new quartet, and—”
“Yes,” Iyanu said. “Yes, I accept! That is … if you will have me.”
Moji’s laugh caught in her throat. “Of course I will! An Invoker is only as strong as her quartet, and you are the strongest of us all. Just as Mother said.”
Sister Olufa appeared, her lips tight with concern. “Drink this,” she said, and pressed something foul-smelling to Iyanu’s mouth.
Iyanu drank. The room spun, then began to fade. “I love you, Moji,” she whispered.
Moji squeezed her hand. “I love you, too.”
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M. H. Ayinde was born in London’s East End. She is a runner, a chai lover, and a screen time enthusiast. Her short fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in FIYAH Literary Magazine, F&SF, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, and elsewhere, and she was the 2021 winner of the Future Worlds Prize for her novel A Shadow in Chains. She lives in London with three generations of her family and their Studio Ghibli obsession. |
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