eng blood and bone

“It’s a diviner tax.” I grip the draped fabric of my pants, still haunted by the guard’s touch. “They came for Mama Agba, too. Probably hitting every home in Ilorin.”
  Tzain presses his fists to his forehead as if he could smash through his own skull. He wants to believe that playing by the monarchy’s rules will keep us safe, but nothing can protect us when those rules are rooted in hate. 



“I am afraid not, Your Highness. I saw it with my own eyes. Their magic was weak, but it was there.”
Skies…
What does this mean for us? What shall happen to the monarchy? Are the maji already planning an attack? Will we have any chance of fighting back?
Memories of Father before the Raid play in my head, a paranoid man with grinding teeth and forever graying hair. The man who forced Inan and me into the palace cellar, placing swords in our hands though we were far too young and weak to lift them.
The maji will come for you, he warned. The same words every time he forced us to spar. When they do, you must be prepared.


“Mama, are you okay?” 
Tears come to her eyes, spilling into the wrinkles of her dark skin. “It’s been so long,” she whispers. “I never thought I would feel the warmth of magic again”
…
“I feel,” she chokes through her silent sobs. “I feel like I can breathe again.”

 I pause for a moment, aghast at the number of them filling the narrow path. Before today, I caught only glimpses of the laborers brought in to staff the palace—always pleasant, clean, groomed to Mother’s satisfaction. Like Binta, I thought they lived simple lives, safe within the palace walls. I never considered where they came from, where else they might have ended up,
“Skies…” It’s almost too hard to bear the sight. Mostly diviners, the laborers outnumber the villagers by hordes, dressed in nothing but tattered rags. Their dark skin blisters under the scorching sun, marred by the dirt and sand seemingly burned into their beings. Each is hardly more than a walking skeleton.