Children of Virtue and Vengeance (Legacy of Orïsha, #2)

by Tomi Adeyemi

“From the gods comes the gift of life,” I whisper the Yoruba. “To the gods, that gift must be returned.”

Títí di òdí kejì. Until the other side.

FATHER USED TO SAY that Orïsha waits for no one. No man. No king. They were the words he used to justify any action. An excuse to excuse everything.

“I can’t be expected to carry the plight of my people forever.”

“You know, in my lands Zïtsōl is a term of endearment. It means ‘one who fears that which cannot hurt her.’”

But as we continue to rise, I glance back down at the people below. I almost wish I was boarding a ship with them. What would it be like to sail to the promise of peace? To live in a land where maji weren’t the enemy? If I could leave all this behind, would it still hurt this much to breathe?

All this time I believed in the gods’ greater plan. Their path when I couldn’t see. But all they led me to were the scars on my back. The open wounds on my heart. The gods used me like a pawn and cast me aside when magic returned. I can’t trust them to bring me anything but pain.

It doesn’t matter what I do. It doesn’t matter how hard I fight. The maji will never be free. All that awaits us in this world is heartache.

“If you really want to leave Orïsha, we’ll help you run. I may not agree, but you’ve suffered enough. I understand why you want to be free.”

At the end of the day, Inan is my blood. To her, he’s just the bastard who broke her heart.

I nod, beginning to understand what it means to be an elder. All this time I assumed it was like occupying the throne, but now I realize that it’s so much more. It isn’t simply a position of power. An elder forms the foundation of their clan’s home.

“You promised me you wouldn’t use what I taught you against a maji,” I say. “I know, but I didn’t have a choice—” “You always have a choice,” I snap. “You just chose wrong.” I shake my head, putting the canister of pigment down. “You chose to win at any cost. Like your father. Like Inan.” Anger sizzles in the air between us. It takes all my effort not to walk away. I try to block out the sight of her white streak, the reminder of her people and all the ways they continue to hurt those like me.

“These are sacred incantations,” I explain. “Histories of our people that will be lost to time!” “This is war.” She meets my impassioned words with a cold stare. “These are weapons.

“You cannot blame Zélie for her actions any more than you can blame Inan for his past mistakes.

“Do you know the meaning of your name?” Mama Agba asks. “My name doesn’t mean anything.” “Every name means something, child. Yours means ‘possesses great strength.’”

“You’re just going to let the monarchy win—” “This is our home! Where would we even go?” “What about the rest of the maji?” How do I get them to see the truth? That there’s more beyond this endless fight? What’s the point of staying here if we know we can’t win?

My cheeks burn with shame, but I refuse to hide my pain. They have to understand that there is no winning this fight. Only bloodshed awaits us in a kingdom that will always see us as maggots.

“But this is our home.” Kâmarū steps forward, deep voice shrunk to a whisper. More than confusion, more than rage, he offers his heartbreak. I know he speaks the pain none of us want to face. “When the elders built this place, it was only bare mountaintops.” I look to the crowd. “It didn’t become a home because they filled it with towers. It became a home because they built it together. This land, these temples—they’re not what matters. As long as we have each other, we will carry Orïsha in our veins. No one can ever take that away.”

I feel the part of me that wants to explain, but I keep it inside. The last time someone was this close to my heart, he didn’t just stab me in the back. He took the people I love. He left me with wounds that will never heal.

This is how Inan gets in. How he always wins. He’s gotten so good at lying he doesn’t even know when he’s lying to himself.

The pain is too much to take, yet the same agony spurs me on. The pain I’ve been so afraid to feel is how I know I’m still alive. It’s how I know there’s still something inside me that can fight.

“Anguish and anarchy are far better than the tyranny we’ve known,” Zélie says. “The future of Orïsha will no longer be corrupted by a crown.”

“You do not have to do this by yourself. You carry all of us in your heart.” She takes my hand and lays it over my chest, lacing our fingers together. “We shall live in every breath you take. Every incantation you speak.” A smile spreads across her dark skin, crinkling the skin around her eyes. “You are the children of the gods. You shall never be alone.”

“You are not your mistakes.” Mama Agba holds both of her shoulders, making Amari cry harder. “Do not let one moment define or destroy you.

Mother’s shriek is like a prison cell closing me in. Looking at her, I see myself. The path she set me on. I think of all the blood she put on my hands.