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“You’re Camjiata,” I said.
He had a way of tilting his head that made it seem he was about to laugh but had decided not to. That made you want to have a chance to laugh with him, if only you could find a way to surprise that laugh out of him and earn the praise of having amused him. “Of course I am Camjiata. Who else would I be? At last, after the patient work of many years and many hands, I am free.”
Chartji stepped forward, offering the traditional bowl of water.
He doffed his hat politely, drank it all in one thirsty gulp, and wiped his lips with a sleeve. “And now we have business to do, and no time to wait.”
“Did you come looking for me?” said Bee breathlessly. I could not tell if she was terrified, or exhilarated, or making ready to punch him in the face. “Did she tell you how to find me? Your wife, I mean? The one who walked the dreams of dragons?”
“Yes. It was the final thing Helene said to me before they killed her. She told me that the eldest daughter of the Hassi Barahal clan would learn to walk the dreams of dragons. Find her, she said, because you will need her, as you have needed me.” He lifted his right hand in the orator’s classic gesture, and we all stared, waiting for his next words, because a person could not help but stare at him. He commanded our stares. “That’s what puzzled me on the road, you see. Because Helene said that the eldest Hassi Barahal daughter would lead me to Tara Bell’s child.”
“B-but I’m Tara Bell’s child,” I said, and everyone looked at me.
“Of course you are,” said Camjiata. “You could be no one else but who are you. So must we all be, even Helene, who knew that the gift of dreaming would be the curse that brought death to her. Yet even then, even at the end, the gift compelled her to speak. For those were Helene’s very last words, the very last words I ever heard her say.”
He paused. And I waited. We all waited. A log shifted on an unseen fire somewhere in the house. Beyond the closed door, the rising light brought the city of Adurnam to life with a new day.
“She said, ‘Where the hand of fortune branches, Tara Bell’s child must choose, and the road of war will be washed by the tide.’ ”
“A fanciful turn of phrase,” said Kehinde, “but as I have a pragmatical turn of mind, can you tell me what you think it means?”
He smiled as if, having meant to catch our interest, he had nevertheless not lost his ability to enjoy the pleasure of knowing he had done so. “Why, the depths of the words are easily sounded. She meant that Tara Bell’s child will choose a path that will change the course of the war.”
He looked at me. They all looked at me.
“Which means you, Catherine Bell Barahal. Because that child is you.”
