“A rank is reached long before it is witnessed. The Chronicle merely ensures that the world remembers.”
— Bàkàré
Khepri was falling.
The river below him curved through a broad expanse of forest. Sunlight caught the water in bright strips, and beyond the distant trees the rooftops of Vos rose through the afternoon haze.
He turned onto his back. Wind rushed through his thick black twists, scattering them across his forehead. Six years had sharpened his once-soft features. His cheekbones were more defined now, his jaw leaner against deep-brown skin. Behind thin, gold-rimmed spectacles, his dark eyes remained remarkably untroubled by the distance between himself and the rapidly approaching earth. An ivory bead hung from his right ear, its three indigo threads snapping in the wind beneath a slender bronze hoop.
An excellent sky for travelling, in his opinion. Clear visibility. A steady wind. Not a cloud large enough to spoil the view.
The ground, admittedly, was approaching at a considerable speed.
He glanced down and judged the distance.
“Not bad.”
The device at the back of his neck pulsed. Wind speed, weight, descent angle: the calculations came so quickly they seemed almost visible. Unfortunately, the ground was equally quick to offer its opinion.
He considered the wind, the height and the weight strapped across his shoulders.
Then he gave a silent command.
The folded wings opened.
* * *
Earlier that morning, the first quarrel of the Festival of Vos began over a meat pie. At the next stall, a grandmother showed two children how to fold palm leaves into little festival birds, ignoring the argument until it grew loud enough to interrupt her counting.
“You charged me twice!”
“Then you must have ordered two.”
“I haven’t received one!”
“That’s hardly my fault.”
By the time a fourth spectator joined the argument, the customer had threatened to report the baker, and the baker had threatened to summon the city guards. A small boy quietly removed the disputed pie from the corner of the tray.
Nobody noticed until he was halfway down the avenue.
“MY PIE!” the baker shouted.
The boy ran. Two musicians laughed, a spectator offered to wager on the pursuit, and a drummer struck up loudly enough to drown out the argument.
Vos was celebrating.
Banners in crimson, indigo and gold stretched between balconies. Food stalls lined the avenues, filling them with the scents of roasted grain, spiced bean cakes and warm pastries. Children followed dancers through the squares. Travellers argued about music, recipes and whose home branch held the best coming-of-age procession.
The Festival of Vos was one of many such celebrations across Tembara, though its public recognition ceremony was among the best known. Young practitioners wore necklaces issued for the occasion. Their central stones remained dark until the Living Chronicle displayed the cultivation rank each person had already earned.
Most participants would reveal red, the colour of Awakened. Yellow marked Initiate, an impressive result for many sixteen-year-olds. Blue belonged to Refined practitioners; any higher rank would attract extraordinary attention among the young.
None of this prevented boasting.
A girl insisted her brother would reveal blue. Her brother denied it while checking his necklace again. Two boys argued over whether a royal prince might have progressed beyond the expectations of his age.
Their friends began taking bets.
For the participants, the festival promised a moment when years of effort would finally be visible to others. For the Guilds whose representatives crowded the square, it offered a chance to discover the people who might shape their futures.
One particular Guild scout had begun the day with a promising rumour, an excellent appetite and an unfortunate amount of confidence.
Omotoyosi was enjoying herself.
She had eaten two pastries, heard a useful rumour and persuaded a scarf merchant to lower his price before he admitted that bargaining was possible.
“Too expensive,” she said, holding a green scarf against her hair.
“You haven’t asked the price.”
“Your eyes told me.”
“My eyes?”
“Terrible greed. I almost felt obliged to leave.”
“Then perhaps you should.”
“Impossible. I’ve visited seven stalls. You’re the first person with the intelligence to negotiate.”
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The merchant tried not to look pleased.
He failed.
A few minutes later, Omotoyosi left with the scarf and considerably more money than he had hoped to let her keep. She paused beside a polished metal tray to admire the result. The green suited her long black braids and warm-brown skin rather well, she decided. She tilted her heart-shaped face, bright eyes narrowing as she inspected the knot, then smiled at her reflection.
“That isn’t a mirror,” said the tray’s owner.
“An additional use for your merchandise. You’re welcome.”
She returned it before he could object.
At festivals, people often revealed more than they intended. Merchants complained about taxes, travellers discussed unsafe roads, and parents boasted about their children.
Omotoyosi liked people. She liked understanding what they wanted and what they might do when they thought nobody important was listening.
She stopped beside a stall of carved wooden animals, where a girl of about sixteen was trying to explain her festival necklace to her younger brother.
“It might not.”
“Why not?”
“Because I might not be Refined.”
“Then make it blue.”
“That isn’t how the Chronicle works.”
“Try harder.”
The girl looked desperately towards her mother, who had become absorbed in examining a carved antelope.
Omotoyosi leaned towards the boy.
“Have you tried shouting at it?”
He considered this seriously.
“Would that help?”
“Not at all. Your sister’s reaction might be entertaining, though.”
The girl glared at her. Omotoyosi grinned. Their mother intervened before the boy could put the theory to the test.
The necklaces remained dark until the ceremony, yet almost everyone kept checking. Hope was difficult to leave alone.
Omotoyosi knew that feeling. Her colleagues would argue that ambition had carried her in the wrong direction more than once.
A group of young men nearby were discussing the royal house of Adéyẹmí. One insisted the Sọ́márí prodigy would reveal blue. Another laughed at him.
“Blue? You think that’s the limit?”
A third asked where the claim had come from.
“Tavern,” the second boy replied.
The others groaned.
Omotoyosi slowed.
She had heard the rumours. Some were absurd; others were worth pursuing.
She followed the discussion just long enough to learn which part of the festival the royal party might visit.
She tucked the scarf away and headed towards the Guild pavilions.
* * *
The Guild pavilions occupied a broad avenue above the festival square.
Some were little more than tables beneath striped awnings. Others resembled small palaces. One organisation had prepared a banquet for prospective recruits; another guarded a display of gleaming weapons and expedition trophies. A young woman waited at a recruitment table with her training records clasped to her chest. Nearby, two boys took turns urging each other towards a passing scout, then abruptly pretended to admire the banners when she looked their way.
Omotoyosi surveyed the largest pavilion with professional resentment.
“Show-offs.”
“You’ve said that already.”
A woman in a dark blue sash stood behind the neighbouring recruitment table.
“Only once?”
“Three times.”
“Then I’m becoming restrained.”
The woman indicated a tidy pile of registration forms.
“We’ve already signed twelve expressions of interest.”
“Twelve people who enjoy paperwork. Congratulations.”
“And Golden Baobab?”
Omotoyosi considered her morning.
“None.”
The woman’s smile broadened.
“Yet,” Omotoyosi added.
“Of course.”
Omotoyosi leaned over the display and examined the polished awards arranged beside the forms.
“Do you shine these yourself?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“They’re magnificent. I can practically see my future reflected in that one.”
“If you’re interested in joining us, we can discuss your suitability.”
“I’d hate to disappoint you.”
She left before the woman could think of a reply.
Golden Baobab’s pavilion stood farther along beneath green-and-gold cloth. Its chairs were sturdy, its displays maintained with care, and its representatives busy explaining contracts to visitors. It was not an impoverished Guild. Hunters still carried out dangerous assignments, protected communities and returned from expeditions with valuable experience.
Its reputation, however, had begun to fade.
Years earlier, the Guild’s name had drawn attention wherever its emblem appeared. Now young applicants sometimes recognised it only because their parents remembered its achievements.
Omotoyosi heard two boys talking beside the display.
“Are they still important?”
“I don’t know.”
The boys moved along without asking a question.
She waited until they were gone before looking back at the emblem.
The hunters beneath that emblem had not lost their courage or skill. They had lost the attention that once brought them new opportunities.
Golden Baobab needed more than another name on its rolls. It needed someone the rival Guilds could not ignore.
Omotoyosi had heard a rumour about exactly such a person.
An unlikely rumour.
Possibly a ridiculous one.
Yet an experienced scout did not dismiss a lead merely because it sounded impossible over breakfast.
She adjusted her green scarf.
And if she succeeded, perhaps the next generation would speak about Golden Baobab in the present tense.
* * *
Omotoyosi stepped between two market stalls and opened Tavern on her communication device.
The discussion feeds were overflowing with Festival reports. Participants posted photographs of their dark necklaces. Relatives predicted ranks with extravagant confidence. Travellers compared the celebrations taking place at different branches across Tembara.
She ignored most of it and opened a picture saved earlier that morning.
Tàíwò Adéyẹmí looked back at her from the screen.
Sixteen years old. A prince of Sọ́márí. Dark Spark. An expression so composed that he appeared mildly inconvenienced by the photographer’s existence.
And, according to one rapidly spreading rumour, already an Adept.
Omotoyosi made an incredulous noise.
“Certainly. Why stop there?”
She was Refined herself, a Rank Three practitioner whose progress had taken years of disciplined training and long stretches of frustration. She knew capable adults who had yet to reach blue and might never do so.
Adept at sixteen would be extraordinary even among prodigies.
She wanted evidence.
Other accounts were more useful. Witnesses described unusual control of his abilities, remarkable tactical judgment and feats suggesting he had progressed far beyond ordinary expectations for his age. The details varied, and most had reached Tavern through people eager to embellish a story.
Still, they were worth investigating.
Even an Initiate of his age with royal connections would be unusual. If he had reached Refined, his talent would be difficult to ignore.
Omotoyosi enlarged the photograph.
A royal mark appeared on one cheek. She studied his features and compared them with another palace image, checking the details she would need to recognise him in the crowd.
One Tavern contributor claimed he had advanced through consuming a rare cultivation fruit that appeared once a century. Asked to identify the fruit, the contributor had stopped answering.
“An unfortunate loss to scholarship,” she murmured.
She closed that post.
First she needed to find the prince and learn what interested him. Only then could she judge whether Golden Baobab had anything to offer.
Her screen flashed.
“Any promising discoveries?” asked a colleague.
She typed: “Several.”
Deleted it.
“Possibly.”
Deleted that too.
Finally: “I have a very good feeling about today.”
The reply arrived at once.
“Please don’t do anything outrageous.”
Omotoyosi stared.
“Define outrageous.”
This time her colleague took longer to respond.
“Omotoyosi.”
She tucked the device away before her colleague could object again.
Beyond the awning, the drums grew louder as another procession entered the square.
Omotoyosi adjusted her scarf and joined the crowd.
Somewhere in Vos was a young man whose decision could alter Golden Baobab’s fortunes.
She intended to find him before a rival Guild did.