Excerpt from Spice Road by Maiya Ibrahim, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

The tea must be taken in silence, allowing the drinker to dwell on the Great Spirit's gift and prepare to receive the magic. The two dozen Shields in the room are silent, but it is my mind that chatters defiantly, and I am strangely afraid they know it, as if my thoughts are leaking from my ears. While I scoop the Spice into the silver teapot, I think of Atheer. While the tea steeps and the others meditate, I imagine the rough wilderness he mysteriously disappeared into. Which of the elements did he succumb to in the end? The unforgiving sun, the howling sandstorms, the freezing nights? Or perhaps it is like some cruel people whisper, and it was none of those, for he took his life before any could claim it.

Taha clears his throat. I open my eyes. Everyone is watching and waiting. My ears burn; heat swims under my leather armor. I pour tea into the small cups lined on the tray and take it around the circle before settling back in the center with my own. It is customary to wait for the one leading the ceremony, and everyone follows suit only when I put the cup to my lips. Then we drink.

The hot tea goes down biting and belligerent. The magic in it is an ancient gift from the Great Spirit of the Sahir, granted to protect our people, on the promise that we will in return protect the Sahir from monsters and outsiders. For a time, misra allows its drinker to manipulate one affinity of the land that the Great Spirit presides over. For some, it is the affinity of sand, or wind. In my late brother's case, he was a skin-changer, capable of transforming into a lion. For me, it is the affinity of iron, specifically the dagger I keep on me always. The duration that a cup of misra lasts depends on the sorcerer—the more skilled one is, the more efficient they are in the use of the magic.

"The tea will awaken in you an affinity that accords with your natural strengths," Auntie explained in our first private magic lesson. "Think of the misra as a seamstress who takes a sheet of silk and fashions something with perfect measurements, unique to you. At first, the silk will not look like much, but in time, it will be something new and yet entirely expected. So too will the affinity that the misra stirs in you. And if you wish to hone it, you must dedicate years of study, training, and reflection."

I am halfway Stealing my tea when a fast rapping interrupts the quiet and one of the arched doors to the ceremony room bursts open. Dalila, my younger sister's best friend, stands on the threshold. Her sweaty mahogany skin and pitching shoulders immediately set me on edge.

"Sorry," she gasps, looking across the solemn gathering.

"Why are you interrupting our ceremony?" asks Taha, getting to his feet.

Dalila shrinks half a head, holding on to the brass door handle for dear life. "I'm sorry. I just ... Imani, may I speak with you?"

I quickly drain my tea as Taha strides over to her. Like his infamous father, he is imposingly tall and muscular, and he liberally uses his frame to intimidate. It doesn't help that he is attractive, at least outwardly, with his burnished ebony hair and hard-cut jaw—and he knows it.

"Silence is sacred to tea ritual," he says in a pitiless voice. "Don't you know that basic tenet, girl? Shut the door and wait outside like you were supposed to."

"Easy, Taha. There's no need to berate her," I say, standing as well.

He turns and glares down his straight nose at me. "The rules apply equally to everyone, including you and your friends. Shocking, I know."

His squadmates trade smirks; the other Shields in the room look as uncomfortable as I feel. It's strange, I used to feel offended when Taha pretended I was invisible during lessons, given we share unique things in common. At seventeen, I am the youngest Shield in recent history, but at eighteen he is the second-youngest, and we both have family members on the Council of Al-Zahim that governs our nation. His father presides over the Council, and my auntie is Master of the Misra. Regardless of one's opinion on how Taha's father became Grand Zahim, I thought a boy from a modest clan, now the son of the most powerful man in the Sahir, would want to socialize with others in similar positions, like me. The sting only worsened once our squads began venturing out on missions. I would hear secondhand stories of the many people he heroically saved and the terrifying monsters he vanquished against impossible odds, and although I did the same, he never once acknowledged my existence. Perhaps that was a blessing in disguise.

Excerpted from Spice Road by Maiya Ibrahim. Copyright © 2023 by Maiya Ibrahim. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.