“No time to close the wise-woman passageway,” Djola told the haints in Anawanama. Opening corridors was easy, no danger of getting caught in a collapsing fold; closing one could take a month. “The enemy snapped at our heels.” Tessa and Quint hissed at his excuses. Djola had never seen his dead children so clearly. As he marched from the coast to Holy City, they’d come as blurs, torment, as wishful thinking. He’d dispelled them easily. In the shadows of Mount Eidhou, on ground they’d walked and near rivers they’d tasted in life, his children claimed the power of ancestors to challenge him. Where was Bal? They should all be together, unless Bal was ashamed of her father, unless Bal refused to haunt a monster. “I’m not a common murderer raining down terror on the Arkhysian Empire.” Speaking this lie in Anawanama burned his mouth. What was he then? “Tell your sister.”
Tessa’s and Quint’s hissing replies got snatched by the wind. Djola only heard last breath. Cathedral saplings wove these words into their red-leaf song. The transgressor girl added a soothing harmony. She patted his thigh and startled him.
“Not yet the hour for my last breath,” he said. “Basawili.” One word in Anawanama yet so much to do. “In Arkhys City, I must lay disaster at Azizi’s feet and force Council to give up the Dream Gate illusion, before it’s too late to save anything. Years they’ve wasted.” Haints whistled from behind rocks and bushes. “Stop! I promised your mother. She still loves the world. I do what she asks.” Time enough for his death after that. “Where is your sister, where is Bal? She must honor her father.”
His haint-children went silent and dissolved into cold shadows, leaving a reproach rustling through the leaves. The warhorse pricked up her ears and swiveled them.
The transgressor girl narrowed her eyes. “What?”
“Azizi banished me. Masters killed my half-brother, and…” Djola licked dry lips. “Since my wife and children were … Since they died, I’m not always in my right mind.”
“I knew a Sprite named Bal.” Love and longing colored these words. The transgressor girl leaned back against him. She smelled of horse dung, cinnamony tree oil, and rot. He should tend her wounds when they made camp.
“Where my people are from,” he said evenly, “Bal is the name for a second child, born under a mango moon, a gift of fire and wind.”
“Bal went off to soldier, when lapsed Elders and northlanders raided our enclave.”
“Northern tribes raided Green Elders?”
“To kill vesons or convert them, and Bal was fearless, resisting—”
“No glory or love for soldiers these days, only destruction and death.”
“How do you know?” The girl let anger flare. “Bal is a shadow warrior, determined to survive. She loves life. No matter her fate, that is glorious.”
“I suppose.”
“What happened to your Bal?” the girl demanded.
“I don’t wish to speak of her.” Hope was a pointless distraction. He squinted down the road. Abandoned cathedral stumps rotted in the gravel. The lush young grove was farther up than he thought.
The girl stroked the horse. “How many more leagues?”
The road looked endless. “This steep incline and whispering shades saved those trees above from elephant brigades.”
“Just say you don’t know.” Her boldness was strange comfort. “Sorry…”
“Keep speaking your mind. It’s refreshing, like cathedral tree song.”
The warhorse sidestepped pink fungus glowing in twilight and got tangled in strangle vines creeping around rocks. The barbs were sharp enough to tear up her legs. The warhorse halted, snorting steam. Sweat foamed on twitching flanks. She was too hot even in icy drizzle.
Djola stroked silky ears. “Standing still on the road, I feel like a target too, but nobody ambushes us now. Just ornery weeds seizing an opportunity.” He drew the thin blade with a diamond tip from his boot and hacked at thorny stalks and creepers. “We need to reach the highest ground no matter how far. The other horses followed our scent through the wise-woman corridor. They track us still.”
“Kurakao!” The transgressor girl perked up.
“You give praises for an ambush?”
“Reunion. My friends galloped off on Fannie’s friends. Those horses would follow her into fire—”
“Fannie?” A cloud burst overhead and fist-sized hail battered them. Freed from barbed vines, the warhorse charged up the almost vertical road as if she hadn’t already carried them too many leagues. “Good girl,” he said as the road wound through a thicket of bushes and boulders and levelled off. “The weather is wrong in the valley, but here—”
Supple young trees swayed in the storm. Seedpods waved a welcome. The warhorse slowed to a walk under whispering branches. An umbrella canopy of elephant leaves, nut vines, and weaver-ant nests kept the rain and hail out. The air was oily and warm. The warhorse snorted relief but wouldn’t go much farther. Crows circled above them and cackled joy. He cackled back.
“Your friends?” the girl asked as the crows disappeared behind leaves. “Not my favorite birds.”
He chuckled, his chin grazing her head. “They always know something we don’t.”
“Crows make me think of death.”
“We all live by death,” he sang, “yet we hold hope for the lives to come.”
“You’re not making fun, are you? Of The Songs, I mean.”
“What you say you become.” Without thinking, he stroked her head.
“You sound like a Green Elder.”
“I was never much more than a Garden Sprite like you.” He scanned for a campsite.
“Do you believe we all cast a spell with our words?” She was earnest, like Tessa.
“I did once. I believed all The Songs, all the old ways.” He closed his eyes. “Today forgotten Elder words return to me.” He shivered at visions of his youth with Yari then opened his eyes. “Conjure is a long game. Maybe if I chant the verses, I’ll believe again.”
“What twisted you into a monster?” The girl bit her bottom lip.
“Sometimes monster is the only choice,” he whispered.
She whispered also. “Many times in the huts, I came to a life-and-death crossroads and chose monster too.”
“I don’t believe that,” he said. “Take better measure of yourself.”
She spluttered. “Yari speaks through you.”
“The famed griot? No. Yari speaks no more.” Grain reported this in his last letter. Djola got this news just after he started for Holy City. Grief laid him up for days. “Vie is lost to us.”
“Dead?” The girl squirmed. “Are you sure? Did you see a body?”
“Iyalawo Kyrie saw Yari surrounded by a mountain of spirit-slaves in Smokeland. She couldn’t reach vie. A priest holds vie captive in Smokeland. Dead would be better.”
Tears burst from Awa’s eyes.
“Ah. You knew sweet Yari, fierce Yari.” Djola was flooded with old passion and grief. “I wish it weren’t true.”
The girl crumpled, her anguish hot on his chest. Djola hugged her close, marveling that a new someone had slipped through the fortress around his heart. A miracle.
17
Names
The road ended at a cliff face. The warhorse halted by a giant elder tree. Muscles trembling, sides heaving, she stepped inside the trunk-tower. The girl blubbered grief into her mane. High up, bees buzzed around a hive sculpted between several knots. Circular tiers of bright yellow honeycombs reminded him of festival flatbread. Several bees flew close. One landed in the girl’s tears. It climbed from cheek to forehead, settling in wiry hair. Another bee poked a wiggly birthmark. The girl swallowed sobs.
“Better? Good. Yari lives on in our hearts.”
“Survive,” she muttered with a Lahesh accent.
“We’ll have to go around the cliff.” He scanned the dusky environs, weary. “I don’t know if we’ve come far enough to camp. The other riders are close.”
“We have the high ground.” The girl cleared her t
hroat. “A forest of shades and a wall of brambles protects us. They won’t let our enemies through.”
“You felt the spirits, saw them too?” Kyrie had extended her Mountain Gates this far. “Still, we should not underestimate our pursuers.”
The girl clenched her jaw. “Fannie needs food and rest.”
The warhorse lifted her head.
“You really named this warrior mare Fannie?”
Fannie pawed the ground, neighing.
“Let us rest. The tree cave is a boon.” The girl looked around. “I’ve seen it before.”
“In Smokeland?”
“Crow-distance is sky measure. By road, the riders could still be far. Don’t worry.”
He snorted. “Will you protect us with visions?”
“Meera and Rokiat will rest also. They won’t ride their horses to death.”
“Hezram and his priests would.”
“Hezram and his horde are no match for the conjure on your hands or in your bag. Your heart is a fortress. They are pampered fools who should fear you.”
He studied her, shaking his head. “You have a sharp mind.”
“But a sharp tongue is a fool’s tool.”
“You’re no fool. You can read, conjure, and speak with rivers, crows, and trees. Perhaps even these bees. Do they fly with you to Smokeland?”
The girl froze.
“Don’t worry. I mean you no harm.” He patted her shoulder, delighted—someone worthy of ancestor spells and conjure from the floating cities. “A miracle that our paths crossed. I’m the end of a story. You are a prelude to change.” He untangled a piece of who knows what knotted in her hair. Silver-mesh gloves made him clumsy.
“Thank you,” she muttered.
“You’ve saved my life.” He carried song cloth from the ancestors, a library from the floating cities, and conjure scrolls from around the Golden Gulf. This girl-woman who knew the language of bees, rivers, horses, and dirt might actually be able to bear the weight. He squeezed her shoulder. “What do they call you?”
“Awa. And what shall I call you besides the Master of Poisons?”
“My name is lost. I’m only what I do. You’re bold, naming soldier horses Fannie.” He chuckled. “Call me whatever you like.”
Awa sputtered at him.
“Crow distance?” He nodded. “And shade sentinels. Sound reasoning. We’ll rest here before heading on to Arkhys City.” He swung a leg over Awa’s head and dismounted.
Startled, Awa slid from the wet horse onto slippery ground. Her battered leg crumpled. She clutched Fannie’s bushy red tail and leaned against sturdy haunches. “You’re strong and brave.” She stroked the exhausted horse.
“So are you.” He pulled bandages and healing herbs from his bag. “May I?”
Awa stared at him wide-eyed. “I’m filthy.”
He pointed at water gushing from a hole in the trunk-tower.
Awa took off bracelets and a snake-head necklace. She undid her belt and Aido bag, wincing as her tunic got tangled. “I can’t manage the rest. My bad arm is caught.”
He pulled his diamond-tipped blade and sliced the shoulders of the filthy green shift. It landed in a heap at her feet. Skin hung from her bones; her breasts were as flat as a child’s. She thrust the Aido bag at him and closed her eyes, shuddering, yet trusting him. Unlike good citizens, Green Elders saw no shame in naked bodies. In Holy City, acolytes and priests abused transgressors regularly. What torment had she survived? Avoiding rage, he removed the mesh glove from his right hand and drew her under the warm, fragrant water. The bees flew back to the hive, and Awa sighed as filth and crusted blood washed away. He stuck his head in the spicy wetness too.
“You crack my heart.” His voice was rough. “I … I feel you.”
“High praise,” she replied. “I feel you too.”
“For hunger cramps.” He made her drink an herb potion then drizzled a healing salve onto her festering arm and leg. She flinched but tolerated cloud-silk and silver-mesh bandages. He pulled a black robe and pants from his bag, smooth outside, furry inside, what Vandana wore for mountain travel. “A Mama Zamba cloak.” He cut a foot from the hem using the thin blade.
“A Green Elder knife.” She struggled into the pants. “This can slice rock.”
“The Lahesh first crafted such knives.” He slipped the robe over her head; it caressed her ankles—a perfect length. “Better?” he asked.
“Hmm.” She hugged the robe close with her good arm as he cinched the waist with her belt and Aido bag.
“Shadow-warrior’s cloth.” He touched the bag. “A gift from your Bal?”
Awa nodded. She wiped a squall of tears with the bandaged arm and gazed at him defiantly. He put the viper’s necklace back around her neck. A recent kill, the venom sacs were full. She could have poisoned him and ridden off on Fannie.
“That arm will heal, but the bones in your leg have grown crooked—potions and mesh won’t fix that.” He handed her a pair of Vandana’s boots. “Stuff in rags if they’re too big.” He turned to the horse with a brush from his bag. Using firm, gentle strokes, he cleaned away the journey’s dirt and debris. “Did they break your leg in the huts?”
She slipped the boots on. “No, before the huts, a wedding gift from northlanders.”
“Which people?”
She furrowed her brow. “Zamanzi.”
“Mmendi and Thalit’s desert clan, freedom fighters, harrying the Empire.”
“Zamanzi stole me from a Green Elder enclave, not an Empire village.”
He combed Fannie’s mane. “Zamanzi wouldn’t have sold you to Hezram. They despise Hezram more than they hate vesons.”
“Open-minded thief-lords raided the Zamanzi and sold me to Hezram.”
“Of course.” The crack in his heart throbbed. He shook grain and sweetgrass from his bag. Fannie buried her nose in the food. Awa eyed the rough oats and straw, spit drooling from her lips. “I’m surprised the boots fit. Vandana is … or was a tall woman.” He held out nut bread and hunks of mango for her.
She grabbed the food. “Everyone in my family has big feet, tall or short.”
“Tell me how you managed not to lose yourself in the huts.”
“You need much heart spirit to hear such a story.” She swallowed great chunks, barely chewing. “You’re not eating?”
“Food dulls my senses. I’ll eat again when we’re out of danger.”
“You should eat before then. I’m sure you’re well stocked.”
Laughing, he threw off cape, pants, and a sweaty tunic of leather and copper-mesh. He even removed the glove from his left hand and stood naked in the water pouring into the tree cave.
A polyrhythm of emotions played on Awa’s face. She pointed at the wheel of flames tattooed over his heart. “Vie who sees every direction.” Interlocking stars formed the wheel’s center and glowed in the dimness.
“And vie who does not burn out, who shines ever bright.” He gingerly touched the signs. “Vévés to call down the gods of the crossroads.”
“We should all fear you.” Unafraid, Awa crammed a last hunk of mango into her mouth. She nodded at the leather-and copper-mesh tunic. “I thought conjure armor from the Anawanama had been outlawed and their spell-scrolls burned.”
“I’m an outlaw who traveled to the floating cities where Iyalawos and Babalawos aren’t witches and witchdoctors, where many are vesons, and no one burns wisdom. Yet.” He gave her more nut bread and donned pants and smock of Aido spider-weave cloth.
Awa paused chewing to exclaim, “I know that pattern. Stars and eyes. It means something wonderful.”
“All patterns hold meaning. To see new patterns, you need new eyes.”
Awa smiled. “One of Bal’s favorite weaves.”
“Your Bal is a wise warrior.”
Spider-weave cloth, every color strong, was dress well-suited to renegades and free spirits. Easy to fade into shadows or dazzle in sunlight. His achy skin was grateful for a light touch. He put silver-m
esh gloves back on. No need to risk rogue impulses or accidents. The Anawanama travel cape was a breeze on his shoulders and impervious to weather and weapons. When climbing boots had been cinched, he shook out a few figs for Fannie then slung Vandana’s bag across his chest. It felt heavier.
Outside the trunk, crows fussed and fumed. The thicket of brambles and haints slithered across the road—Kyrie’s Mountain Gates were closing tight—against what threat? The crows screeched. Sighing, he pulled two large rat corpses from the tree roots and shoved them outside for the crows. Azizi would have left the rats to rot in peace and feed the roots—
“But I am the Master of Weeds and Wild Things.”
“Djola?” Awa almost choked.
“How do you know my name?”
“Watch over us, Fannie.” Bees flew down from the hive toward their heads. “Guard our breath bodies.” Fannie shook her mane at Awa and gobbled the last fig.
“How do you know what you shouldn’t know?” Djola said as Awa strode toward him, a crown of bees in her hair. “Answer me.” Djola backed out of the tree cave.
Awa and Fannie followed. “Master of Weeds and Wild Things.” Awa gripped his arm. Her heartbeat rang in his ears. The rhythm made him swoon. “You’ve been lost, but not your name or true spirit.”
BOOK
IV
1
Debts
Before Djola could protest or resist, before he realized what was happening, Awa lifted his spirit body up. He marveled at her craft and audacity as they flew above rocky cliffs, higher and higher. Lahesh crystals filled with trickster spirits were scattered in Kyrie’s thicket of leaves, vines, boulders, and haints. Her Mountain Gates were a weave of Smokeland and the everyday without a wisp of void-smoke thanks to the crystals.
“I promised,” Awa said. Her heart was even stronger than he thought.
A sliver of moon lurked beyond the mist, a crooked smile in the dark. Djola longed to wipe the awful grin from the sky. Samina had always loved the scar moon, especially when it dangled low over the Salty Sea. A wound in the night, it tugs my spirit she would say and paddle Djola into waves higher than their house. This was reckless conjure on a flimsy raft, and he’d loved her for taking his breath away …
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