Raybearer by Jordan Ifueko

Author:Jordan Ifueko [Jordan Ifueko]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bonnier Publishing Fiction
Published: 2020-02-27T16:00:00+00:00

I WOULD NOT DISOBEY CAPTAIN BUNMI AGAIN.

Stay by the kiriwi. I walked so close to the fragrant bushes, their branches scraped my sore legs. The Bush had transported me away from the border the moment I left the path. Sanjeet—the real Sanjeet—must have watched me disappear. Had he made it through to the other side?

At least I didn’t have to worry about human adversaries. Most bandits and thieves valued their lives too dearly to risk the Bush.

With each step, my head throbbed; the afternoon heat stifled me. I had not eaten before I left Yorua, unwilling to face my council siblings at breakfast. Kirah had lied to them and said Thaddace had sent me to officiate a court case. Far, far away. If I died in this wilderness, my only friends would never know what had happened to me.

Phantom murmurs seeped from the shadows of the corkwood trees. I heard the voices of my council siblings, sweet and forgiving.

“Tar? Is that you?”

“It is! It’s Tarisai!”

“Thank Am …”

“We’ve been looking ever since you left the keep. We don’t blame you about Dayo, Tar. We know it wasn’t your fault. Come home—”

“Stop trying so hard,” I snapped at the shadows. “I’m not leaving this path, so you might as well shut up!” Then I summoned the last of my strength and flung the Ray’s heat into the Bush, searching. I felt him. Sanjeet was still alive.

Hope buoyed my footsteps, though when I tried to Ray-speak, he didn’t respond. His mind felt submerged in water; the normal guard around it was gone. A snippet of his thoughts bled through the fog.

Look at you, brother. I can’t believe you’re so strong.

Sanjeet was happy. Delighted. Who on earth was he talking to? I searched with the Ray again, and sensed him farther up the path. I heard young voices, and a sound like the clack of wooden practice weapons.

“What in Am’s name?” I muttered. Then, with a single step, the landscape changed.

I spun and blinked rapidly. Tents dotted the previously empty grass, and smoke rose from campfires. Scruffy uniformed youths drilled with their captains, each bearing the sigil of a cobra. From their accents, the warriors appeared to be Dhyrmish mercenaries. Cautiously, I stepped back.

The camp disappeared.

I crept forward, and the mercenaries blossomed again into view.

The scene was staggeringly lifelike. I could even smell the cooking spices wafting from each fire. But when I hunted for mistakes in the illusion, I found them. Tents that failed to cast a shadow. Warriors wrestling on the ground without making an imprint in the mud. “Am’s Story,” I muttered. Why would the spirits make such an elaborate pantomime?

Then I saw him: the only living person in a camp full of ghosts.

“Jeet,” I cried out.

He was facing away, laughing. That rare, thunderous sound gave me so much joy, I wondered if the Bush had conjured it to seduce me. But it was real. He was real, the solid center around which the transparent illusion shifted. Sanjeet was sparring with one of the mercenaries, a clean-shaven young man with a scimitar.

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