“Good question. Smart girl.”
“I’m a woman now.”
“You starve Dream Gates.”
“Of course. Without blood and oil, Nightmare Gates crumble. No other way?”
“Bring the void to the gates.” He balled his lethal hand. “It all adds to the poison desert.”
Awa frowned. “So this is how witch-woman Kyrie crafts Mountain Gates?”
“No.” He quivered. “All gates require sacrifice, but sacrifice need not be unwilling.”
Awa kissed her teeth. “Who’d willingly give up life to power a gate?”
“You call power from recent ancestors, trees, bushes, vines, even rocks.” He peered at her, holding something back. Something important, perhaps about the haints he recognized in Kyrie’s gates. Had witch-woman Kyrie used Djola’s children as sacrifice?
“So, teach me what Hezram does,” she pleaded.
“We don’t need more Nightmare Gates. Void-spells consume you and turn the world to poison.”
“Is that what turned you into a monster?”
“Yes. Xhalan Xhala. Take care. Arrogance is strength and weakness.”
“I’m not you.” Elders always thought Sprites would make the same mistakes they had. She’d make her own mistakes. “What of spirit slaves who powered fallen gates?”
“If they haven’t died in the everyday, they might come back to themselves.”
Awa bit her lip. “Snake venom stops the heart here and everywhere. Hard to come back from that.”
“You didn’t kill Yari.”
“I know.” A lie. She’d stabbed Yari’s heart, killing on purpose. It seemed the only choice. She poked her head out of Djola’s cape to blink away tears and spied a blue-and-brown marble just beyond a haze of clouds. “Is that the end?”
Djola poked his head out too. The marble vanished behind an hourglass of golden stars. “That looks like a talking drum.”
“More like a Lahesh timepiece.” Awa frowned. “We’ve seen these same stars twice.”
Djola squinted, closing his right eye completely. “Three times.”
“We’re going in circles.”
“The bridge is a spiral. This journey is a wonder. Someone should do a sky map.”
“Not me.” Awa was impatient with wonder. No matter how dazzling, nothing here would bring Yari and their enclave back.
“I’ll teach you how to weave Anawanama conjure armor. You’ll enjoy puzzling this.”
He was almost right. The outlaw spells were intricate and mysterious. Singing metal-and glass stories, memorizing formulas to trap gasses, and learning the rhythm of rocks left little energy for anger (at herself or anyone). He also explained how to fashion a Lahesh bag like the one he carried, a gift, he said, from his Mama Zamba friend. “A wild woman with dagger teeth.” He smiled. Awa had barely grasped the intricate weave of time and thread that offered limitless space when he started reciting life-and-death herb recipes and explaining the language of wind and stars. Endless, never repeating polyrhythms … Awa was dizzy. She ached for solid ground under her feet. “All my knowledge and spells are in that bag. Vandana’s bag, yours now.”
“Just until you heal.” Awa didn’t want his dead mountains and haints.
“Too heavy for you?” he teased in the middle of running for their lives. “I have talking books from Smokeland and Yari’s stories.”
“What good is the song without the singer?” Nobody conjured a choir of voices like Yari, except maybe Bal …
“True.” Djola wiped a bloody tear. “Do a thing until it is yours. Pass the bag on when the right time comes.” He taught her Orca’s organizing spell and made her promise to read every scroll and watch for dangers from within and without, seen and unseen. She was to be bold and humble, cautious and loving, reckless and judicious. He exhorted her to be of many minds before acting. Always. Awa barely listened.
“Yes, hold the polyrhythms for truth.” She sighed. “And if that doesn’t work?”
He clamped his lips tightly and glowered, good humor gone.
Awa uncinched the conjure bag. “Is there anything for your eye or foot in here?”
Djola closed the bag quickly. “We dare not search on the bridge.”
“Why?”
His breath turned sour, his heart flickered. “The bag is similar to the bridge, a fold of time and space. The folds might interfere with each other.”
“That makes sense.” She shifted the bag to her withered arm. The talking drum grumbled. “How did you bring down Ice Mountain? Explain that.”
Djola dampened the tones on the drumheads. Bells and seeds rattled on defiantly, only quieting when bees woke and buzzed through them. “Did you know the Lahesh called Smokeland Jumbajabbaland, a place to think and make miracles?” he asked. “Back when the border-void was just a gasp of empty breath and a blink of smoke. Yari taught me that.”
“Yari told me Smokeland had many names, and I should find one that suited.”
“You must tell me about—”
She shook her head.
“We promised Yari to tell stories.”
“You promised.” The drum banged her back, but she didn’t care.
The Lahesh claimed a master musician filled an instrument with heart spirit that any player could tap. Griot tales for children—a drum was just dead skin and wasted seeds. How Yari’s drum played on when she barely touched it was a mystery.
6
Antidote
“Fatazz!” Djola swallowed curses. The light bridge was a blur in one eye and red streaks of pain in the other. A traveler had to imagine a specific future, had to conjure the end to get there, like for Xhalan Xhala. Navigating Awa’s grief (guilt?) and his mountain of regret—that’s what was taking so long. Tell a different story.
“Do you want to know how I first met the griot of griots?” He managed a sly grin.
Awa clenched her mangled fist. “What good are stories?”
“Griots ask that question every day.” Djola blew warmth onto her stiff fingers, and whispered Anawanama. Change the language, change the mind. “I was close to your age when I met Yari. Azizi’s father had a demented rascal for Master of Arms who ordered a raid on a rebel enclave. He lusted after vesons and insisted we bring him captives, not sliced throats.”
“You were a shadow warrior, like Bal?” Awa spoke Anawanama too.
“No, a bastard mercenary. I fought for gold and sky rocks.”
“Elders defend their enclaves fiercely. You’re lucky to be alive.”
“I had my sword at Yari’s neck, and that ax-wielding rogue seduced me, with stories about talking books, iron horses, and cloud cities across a green sea where behemoths danced on water and sang, where shadow warriors first learned to weave Aido cloth. Jumbajabbaland, home of miracles. I dropped the sword. Yari dropped the ax, leaned against my chest, and sang like a demon choir. Vie added drum, and rhythms snuck in between my heartbeats, stole my breath. Vie left me dazed in the dirt, desire unquenched, clutching a rope of hair I’d cut. Not what the Master of Arms hoped for, but a treasure for me. I danced with myself, singing harmony to echoes, while Yari galloped away on my warhorse, a stallion who stomped anyone who came near except me.” He chuckled. “Yari seduced the horse.”
“The horse?” Awa chortled and sobbed and pounded her thighs, revving the bees into a roar. Djola hugged her as grief tore through them both.
“Folly. Not even our mission.” He stroked her head. “We mercenaries and bastards had been sent to subdue the Zamanzi, my grandmother’s people.” He shivered.
Awa rubbed warmth into him. “You, Zamanzi ancestors too?”
“My father’s father was a southern barbarian hoping to steal back his lands from the Empire. My Zamanzi grandmother captured him in the sweet desert. They joined forces and resisted Azizi’s grandfather. Yari and the Elders also refused to be conquered. That thrilled me, and I had to find Jumbajabbaland. The Master of Arms let me join an enclave, to spy on green-land freaks. Yari ta
ught this spy The Green Elder Songs for Living and Dying. A true Lahesh, vie answered any question and came to me for delicious nights. Make love to your enemy—a foolish creed sometimes, but not always.” Heat burst through the crack in his heart.
“You’re leaking light.” Awa put her hands over his Vévés.
He held up a diamond-tipped blade. “This pierces the rhythm of rocks and metal.”
“An Elder weapon. I saw you cut chains on the hovel doors.”
“Lahesh conjure.” Djola set the blade against his neck. “I woke one morning in Yari’s bed. Vie put this knife in my hand, saying, Slit my throat or join us.” Djola trembled, cutting a line of blood on his throat. Awa gripped his hand. Startled, Djola continued. “That week, southern barbarians killed the Master of Arms. Warriors and mercenaries charged off to tame thief-lords, and I joined Yari’s enclave. We traveled across the Empire and beyond. Sweet times.”
The drum jingled. Muscular arms—haint arms—crushed Djola close and braids tickled his cheek. Djola swallowed a breath of coconut oil and desert rose. He luxuriated in the memory of Yari’s embrace. Memory was the master of death. Awa took the knife.
“After my crossover ceremony, I returned to Arkhys City and used Elder wisdom to save Zizi’s life, end the wars, and guide Council for twenty years. Zizi named me Master of Poisons for knowing the antidote to everything.” Djola scoffed. “Yari was Azizi’s trusted advisor too, until we fought. Yari wanted me to run away from Council and bring my family to the enclave to teach the future. Instead I betrayed my family.”
“Council betrayed them.”
“I’m still the bastard mercenary, ruthless and vengeful. Xhalan Xhala. I called up Hezram’s future. That’s how I brought down Ice Mountain.”
“You brought the void to the mountain?”
“Destroying Holy City was revenge, bloodlust.” The Vévés on his head throbbed. “I’m the end of that story, but you—”
“Loving an enemy is good for the heart.” Awa read Lahesh words on the knife. “Isra said Yari could seduce a crocodile.” She held the knife out to Djola. “Basawili.”
He stowed the blade in his boot. “Yari trusted you and me to defeat Hezram, and as long as we live—Basawili—not yet vie’s last breath.”
“Yari was no match for Hezram.” Awa squeezed the drum. “How can we defeat the Master of Illusion?”
“We escaped his tower of fiends, didn’t we?”
“That wasn’t victory.”
“What does victory look like?”
Awa shrugged.
Djola tapped the drum. “Yari came back from living death because of your conjure. Never forget that.”
“Our victory was at great cost.”
“Like every victory.” Djola’s cape billowed open, wings fluttering in the wind.
The light bridge ended, and they plummeted through clouds faster than thought. The bees buzzed ahead. Awa squealed. “Glaciers. And beyond, evergreen woods and snowfields.”
“Samina won’t be far. This is her realm.”
“Your dead wife, she calls you to your true name?”
“Samina chose a Lahesh way to end war: marry the enemy.”
Awa sighed. “You’ve lost both enemy lovers.”
“Samina cheats death. She’ll help us defeat Hezram and save the Empire.”
“Well, I won’t marry Hezram. Kill him quickly perhaps.”
“Mercy.” Djola laughed.
As they raced toward the glint of glaciers, Awa pressed her forehead against his, a daughterly gesture. Djola hugged her close. Awa was the antidote he'd been looking for.
7
Gate Power
The aurora gave way to snowy plains and glacial peaks. Djola’s useless right eye oozed bloody pus. He moaned, resisting the pain flaring from foot to knee to back. His heartbeat was dim. His last breath would be sooner than planned. Spirit debt for doing Xhalan Xhala as revenge. He let Awa take his weight. Dead weight. She charged on, ferocious and gentle, like the warhorse. “Fannie,” he murmured.
Awa dropped down by a hot spring steaming out of heather-covered rocks. Even bleary with exhaustion, she was as graceful as … Samina riding a thirty-foot wave under the scar moon. A crow cawed, and Djola blinked this memory away. Awa dipped her feet in warm water and stuck her head into a cloud of steam. Her bee clan buzzed around an enormous hive. Would they be let in? Cathedral trees waved bushy crowns filled with rare songbirds. Purple vines crawled up the trunks. All else was the white, black, and gray of moonlight and dreams. On a ridge high above the trees, someone played a frozen waterfall. Icy tones made Djola shiver.
“Do you live for change, not revenge?”
The cracks in his heart quaked. No seed and silk potion dulled his sensibilities. Samina slid down elephant leaves like dew dripping into shadows. She was shade and memory, the afterglow of life. A cloak of sleet covered her breasts and frothed at hips and ankles. Her heart beat a lightning storm. Bare feet were whisper quiet on ash-colored grass. Djola wanted to run far away or swallow poison and die in her arms. Actually, he longed to rush through the gloom and gather her close. But her skin would feel like death; her breath would be a cold ache sucking warmth and spirit. Djola kept his distance. Samina was a haint, close kin to Hezram’s fiends, deadly and unpredictable.
Unaware of Samina behind her, Awa shook mist from her hair and studied Djola. She pulled a gray marble eye from her Aido bag. “Try this.” She dropped it in Djola’s gloved hand. “Rogue impulse.” She gestured at his blank eye.
“Nothing to lose.” Djola pressed the marble into the socket. It dissolved with a flash of light and searing pain, a knife through his head. He winced as shadowy grays burst into colors. Samina looked as she did when alive. Her sandy skin was tinged green, her silver hair streaked red. Blue-violet eyes sparkled.
“Can you see?” Awa peered at him. “Better?”
When Djola nodded, Awa drew a metal wheel from her Aido bag and faster than thought pressed it through the crossroads Vévés on his chest. Howling, Djola yanked her hand out. “What is this?” He stared at a golden wheel spinning over the cracks in his heart. He took a deep breath. Vigor returned as the wheel burned bright.
“Jumbajabbaland gifts. Bal gave them to me.” Awa grinned. “A conjurer stole Bal’s memories to protect her from her parents’ dangerous lives. Yari would do that for you and Samina, so perhaps my Bal is your Bal.”
Djola wanted to disagree and agree.
“Choose what to believe.” Awa sank down near the giant hive. Bees swarmed her.
“Yes, choose,” Samina said, drifting close. Snowflake tattoos glinted.
Awa turned. “Kurakao! You’re here.” She tried to sit up. “I kept my promise.”
“Thank you.” Samina passed through her like mist through thin fabric. “Now rest.” Awa fell asleep in the heather. Her bees flew into the hive, escorted by sluggish sentinels. Samina slithered close to Djola. Chilly breath prickled his skin. A whiff of raintree made him quiver. “Speak, my love,” she said. “The dead are too quiet, but the living, I hear you crashing through the world.” She circled him. “I worried you might never visit me again.”
“I didn’t want a fight.” The wheel in his heart whirred. “Our last day, before I went to Council, we fought, and I don’t know why—”
“You don’t?” Samina scoffed. “Well, you’ve finally come again and aren’t drugged.” Her hand hovered over the Vévés on his chest. “What cracked your heart?”
Djola swallowed every word that came and shrugged.
She touched his foot, freezing pain. “This wound poisons your blood. It won’t heal.”
“I know.” He drew a breath of her. The raintree aroma was faint, but not just imagined. On previous trips, potions and despair had blunted a desire to cup her breasts, kiss her navel, and draw his tongue along her thighs. This time the longing to be inside her and hold her inside of him made him gasp, gave him strength.
“The golden wheel is good medicine.” Sa
mina glanced at Awa. “An antidote to poison.”
Djola gathered himself and declared, “I have a plan.”
“You brought down Ice Mountain. The Amethyst River is a ruin.” Samina bared granite teeth, as if to tear his flesh and suck spirit blood, like demon Yari. “You will soon be shadow and ash, a lament on the wind. What plan?”
“I thought I was rescuing a girl from the huts,” he said, “yet Awa rescued me. She is the cure that Zizi needs.”
Samina released a bee caught in Awa’s bushy kinks. “What of Awa’s own plans?”
“She’ll come around. When grief dulls.”
“Have you come around?”
He looked away from her. “Yari—”
“Dances with the ancestors.”
“You felt this?” Djola scanned from the hot spring to the glaciers. “Are we alone?”
“Sister Kyrie came with news. She leaves her mountain and travels to Arkhys City. Hezram travels also, to sit at Council and whisper in Zizi’s ear. He tells everyone you're to blame for poison desert.”
“Only half a lie.”
“You must arrive when Hezram does. Tembe makes corridors for him. High priest Ernold and the Masters of Water and Money welcome him.” Samina’s granite teeth glistened. “They lust after Kyrie’s mountain.”
“Twelve rivers are fed by Eidhou’s peaks,” Djola said.
“Zizi can’t hold out much longer.”
“What of the Master of Grain?”
Samina’s breath had the tang of a lightning storm. “Zizi needs you. Kyrie too. Grain fears someone will discover vie’s secret. They all fight. Too proud to collaborate.”
“Grain is a veson?” How had Djola missed this?
“You can weave peace between them.”
Djola gripped Samina’s hand. The cold didn’t bite through his mesh glove. “You and I must talk first. About the transgressor hut, about our children.”
“No.”
He blew warmth into her fingers. “We never talk about them.”
“They put me in a hut to torture you. Our children got lost in poison sand. What more to say?”
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