Excerpt from Masquerade by O.O. Sangoyomi, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

The silver had been shaped into a cylinder. One of the cylinder's ends was open, while the other was fused to a star-shaped sheet of metal. It was meant to be a nearly completed daffodil—or, at least, what I could remember of a daffodil's appearance. I had only seen a real one once, when a trader gifted me the flower.

That day, the trader had arrived in Timbuktu after weeks of traveling with his colorful caravan of slaves, bodyguards, scholars, poets, and fellow traders. Like so many others, the trader had heard of my mother's and aunties' abilities, and he had come to request an iron dagger. My aunties always focused on the orders from generals and kings, leaving less important clientele like him to me. My hands had been less steady than they were now, and my eyes less attuned to identify flaws, yet the trader had marveled at my average dagger.

"My dear," he said in awe, "what is your name?"

Since he already knew my state-given name, I told him my personal name. His eyes widened. "Wait here—I have just the thing for you."

I thought he was one of those people who tried to skip out on payment, and I thought he was doing a poor job of it—as we spoke, his traveling companions had been paying my mother.

He proved me wrong, however, by returning. "A flower for the child whose name means flower," he proclaimed, handing me a flower that was a yellow unlike any gold I had ever seen. "This is a daffodil. They grow in distant lands far, far above the Sahara."

"It's beautiful," I said. Then I grew sad, remembering the flowers I always saw in the market. They bloomed in the day, but after the sun had set and the customers had gone, merchants disposed of wilted petals. "But it'll die."

"Daffodils do not fear dying, for they have conquered Death himself."

"Oh." A pause. Then, "Perhaps you should keep this…"

I tried to return the flower to the possibly delirious man, but he only laughed. "Do not be afraid of daffodils, my dear," he said, mistaking my wariness of him for fear of the flower. "They used neither strength nor sorcery to best Death. Just a simple song." He grinned. "From the look on your face, I am guessing you are wondering what that song is?"

I had actually been wondering how a flower could possibly sing. However, the trader was clearly motivated more by his own pride than by my curiosity. So, I simply said, "Okay."

He sang. He could not hold a tune, and he sped up in odd places only to slow much too abruptly. The beginning of the trader's song had since eluded me, and I was no longer certain about its ending. However, what I could remember of the song had burrowed deep into my mind.

The daffodil had succumbed to the desert heat two days later. Since then, I had rebirthed it countless times, using whatever metals my aunties spared me from their work. And with each flower I crafted, I sang the little of the trader's song that I knew, just as I did now.

"You listen to her tale

One her teacher always told

Of roads his son walked

Roads paved with petals of gold

See them bloom, see them shine

See this garden become a sky

With a thousand tiny suns

It's no lie, it's no lie

Light the world through the night

Keep this glow inside your heart

Flowers wilt, lands dwindle

But survival is in the art."

"Beautiful."

Excerpted from Masquerade by O.O. Sangoyomi. Copyright © 2024 by O.O. Sangoyomi. Excerpted by permission of Forge Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.