Children of Blood and Bone (Legacy of Orisha)

er in the village. You would never guess a woman her age could be so lethal.

Not trusting myself to speak, I wrap my hands around her waist and inhale the familiar smell of freshly washed fabric and sweet tea.

my older brother, Tzain, standing in the entrance. The reed hut instantly shrinks in his massive presence, all muscle and strain. Tendons bulge against his dark skin.

“You know how to win,” she says. “Just make sure you know when to fight.”

Each symbol takes me back to another lesson, another story, another wisdom. I look at Mama, waiting. Is this a gift or what she’ll use to beat me?

I don’t remember when it happened, but the shift in Baba was undeniable. He stopped meeting my eyes, unable to look at me without seeing the face of his murdered wife.

Like Yemi, Mama Agba is a kosidán, an Orïshan who doesn’t have the potential to do magic.

“I teach you to be warriors in the garden so you will never be gardeners in the war.

“It avoids rather than hurts, it hurts rather than maims, it maims rather than kills—the staff does not destroy.”

“I teach the way of the staff to any girl who wants to learn, because in this world there will always be men who wish you harm. But I started this training for the divîners, for all the children of the fallen maji. Though your ability to become maji has disappeared, the hatred and violence toward you remains. That is why we are here. That is why we train.”