“Yari would have saved any one of them vie could find.” Djola kissed her fingertips. His lips burned. “Bal doesn’t haunt me.”
“You want to be haunted?” She slipped free and floated up to the frozen waterfall.
“Yes.” Djola followed her. “Did you see their bodies? Did Kyrie?”
“You want to believe Bal lives, but I can’t help you with that.” She seized a wooden mallet and played a familiar melody on hanging crystals and icicles. A few thudded, leaving holes in her song.
Djola found a mallet and played harmony. “I speak the world I want. Don’t you?”
“I’m not who I once was,” Samina said.
“Why didn’t you live?”
“No matter how I look to you, I’m—”
“Why didn’t you fight?”
“Council masters tricked me. Your half-brother said they had our children.”
“Money and Water poisoned Nuar at Council.” Djola’s tongue ached.
“Nuar came to me in the huts.” Samina swayed in melancholy vibrations. “He was dying. They’d poisoned him. I was not Kyrie. She knows better how to cheat death.”
“So you sacrificed yourself. You’re the power in her Mountain Gates? Don’t lie. I felt you there as I passed through. Tessa and Quint as well. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Eidhou means—all rivers flow from my heart.” She played gurgling river music. “All gates require sacrifice, spirit blood.”
“You abandoned me.”
“You left us for Council, doing what you believed. Could I do less?”
“A clown’s crusade,” he muttered. “Kyrie saved her mountain, but not you, not Tessa, Quint, or Nuar.”
“I gave my life willingly.” She sighed a squall of sleet.
“Urzula betrayed you. She took her children to the floating cities while ours died in the desert.”
“Don’t hold the children against Urzula or Kyrie, and neither are we to blame.”
“Whose fault then?” Djola played dissonant tones.
Samina’s deep-throated moan echoed through the cave. “Come to Mount Eidhou. We’ll tell a different story of Nuar and our children.” Samina reached for his mallet. He held onto it. They struggled, flailing against icicles. Several giant ones fell and shattered. Splinters of ice and crystal passed through Samina and cut Djola’s cheeks. He lost hold of his mallet as they leapt from the ice shower to the hot spring.
“You know why we fought.” Samina pounded him with both mallets. “Why pretend you don’t know?” She flung the mallets into the trees.
“I couldn’t see another way.” He sank down by Awa. A trickster crystal from the cave lodged in his foot wound, replacing one pain with another. He tugged it.
“Leave the crystal be.” She gripped his hand “A Lahesh cure for blood poisoning.”
Djola sighed. “Calling reckoning fire was not as I expected.”
“The People burn. Everywhere.” Samina stood over him. “Now what?”
“Awa carries Vandana’s bag and Yari’s drum.” He stroked Awa’s wiry hair.
“Exactly. You know what to do. You’ve always known.” Samina crouched down. Her violet eyes dazzled him. Raisin navel and nipples poked through her cloak of sleet, a challenge. “Come to Mount Eidhou.” She’d begged him to do this when she lived and there was hope, and now she asked whenever he came to Jumbajabbaland, yet—
“Impossible. I cannot walk away from the reckoning fires I have started.”
Samina stabbed a large bee stinger in Awa’s chest. The girl faded into the steam from the hot spring. “Work with Awa to put the fires out, then come.” Samina passed through his flesh, a cold shiver, a heartache. “Isn’t that what you want?”
“I’ve poisoned my heart spirit.”
“Remember what you always told me?”
“I’ve told you many things.” A hint of her raintree scent lingered on his lips. “Now my mind dissolves.”
“Green Elders say, At the crossroads, change. Then you find another story, another way.”
“Abelzowadyo,” he murmured.
“Yes. The work is never done, but—” She stabbed Djola’s golden heart and whispered, “Impossible is a word for yesterday, not tomorrow.”
8
Return
Awa’s head was trying to catch fire. Hair sizzled and smoked in chilly mist. She was slumped next to Djola who had no hair to burn. A murky crystal was jammed in his foot. They leaned against the elder tree in the foothills of the Eidhou range just beyond a thicket of haints and vines. The sun hid behind fog, offering muted daylight. She pressed her hands into damp earth and tasted tree oil on the air. She blinked several times, happy to see brambles and weeds, delighted by crows strutting along the cliff face eating poison berries. Another miracle—she’d made it back to the everyday.
A cave mouth in the ledge near the top of an outcropping spit sparkling dirt. Awa marveled at this wonder—certain it had been a solid rock wall when they left for Smokeland. And how long ago was that? Time was different in Smokeland. Djola moaned, not all the way to the everyday. Awa refused to worry. Everybody takes their own time on the light bridge. Awa put her hand to his heart Vévés. She felt the wheel whirring underneath. A wild dog shoved a cold nose in Awa’s crotch and licked her face. His bushy tail was familiar. Fannie reared, as if to pummel him.
“Whayoa, Fannie!” Awa struggled up and clutched the mare’s mane. “We’re safe, for a moment I hope.” Fannie nuzzled Awa’s heaving sides. Standing up almost made her dizzy. The wild dog butted her again and she hugged him.
“While you wandered Smokeland, Fannie let nobody near, for weeks, only the cheeky dog for a sniff.” Bal, in silver-mesh armor and Aido tunic, stepped from the cave mouth. Awa shouted and squealed at this vision on a ledge above her. Bal laughed and climbed down the steep incline, an acrobat still. At the bottom, she stood a prudent distance from warhorse hooves. A sword rode her hip; a bow was slung across her back. Braids threaded with leather were pulled into a tight knot. Behind Bal, the cave opened onto a corridor that wavered like a mirage. She struck a pose worthy of a carnival player. Green in dark eyes caught the light. Fierce chin and cheeks framed a crooked smile. Did Bal look like Djola or Samina? “Strays love the smell of Smokeland on you.” Bal sounded like herself.
“It’s always the same dog,” Awa replied.
Tears streaming, she fell into Bal’s arms, into the sweetgrass and iron scent, into the steady heartbeat of a shadow warrior. They stood tight, savoring each other. Fannie nosed a stranger, cautious. The dog licked Bal’s knees and raced around them wagging his butt. “Two years,” Awa said, “I feared you were a story, a lie I told.”
“You always tell true stories.” Bal kissed the nape of Awa’s neck, setting off a cascade of sparks just under her skin. A thrill shivered through them both.
“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.” Awa admitted losing hope. “I planned to look for you though.”
Bal squeezed her closer. “Weeks we waited, worried that a witchdoctor or priest might snare you in Smokeland. This morning, Iyalawo Kyrie said you and the poison master would return.”
“You know Kyrie?”
“We’re the Iyalawo’s guests in this mountain realm.”
“Guests or—” Terror arced up Awa’s spine. She stepped away from Bal. “Or prisoners?”
“Why would Kyrie take us prisoner?” Bal furrowed her brow.
“She’s a witch woman who loves only her mountain.”
“Yari wrote praise songs to Kyrie: Iyalawo of Miracles.” Bal searched for a tune. “Remember?”
“No.”
Bal sang, “Kyrie, wise woman, a lightning bolt about to strike…” Had Kyrie enchanted Bal? Djola banged his mangled foot and mumbled Anawanama, as if scoffing at Awa’s fears. Bal drew her sword. “Does he fight fiends in the void again?”
“Again?” Awa stepped between them. “You saw us fight fiends?”
“A nightmare battle. Your skin sizzled
and your eyes were fire. His foot withered to ash and smoke. You both turned ice-cold, breathing out snowflakes. Kyrie roamed Smokeland, but she’s a terrible mapmaker and couldn’t find you, or rouse you in the everyday, even calling on haints to spook you.”
Awa gripped Bal’s sword arm. “Djola takes his own time coming back.”
Bal rubbed a scar along her jaw. “Spirit slaves are lethal even in the everyday.” She eyed Djola. “No matter who they once were. We can’t be sentimental—”
“I know.” Awa pulled Bal away from Djola. “Better than you think.”
“Tell me.” Sword still raised, Bal narrowed her eyes at Djola and waited.
“Now?” Awa set down Djola’s bag. It was heavy in the everyday. Yari’s drum was heavier, but she held on to that. “Well, in Jumbajabbaland—”
“Where?”
“Smokeland. It’s overrun. Fiends rule the six regions of my heart.”
“Zst! What do priests do with so many spirit slaves?”
“Power their gates and other nightmare spells. I had to stab a fiend’s heart…” Awa sputtered. Bal would have found a way to save herself, Djola, and Yari too. “The fiend burned from the inside out and I…”
“You were brave.” Bal scanned brands, scars, and crooked bones. Patchy hair ran riot across Awa’s head. “A hero.” She stroked Awa’s snake birthmark.
“No.” Awa cringed. “I’m—”
“Exhausted.” Bal reached for the withered hand that had killed Yari.
Awa shied away. “This is—” not quite the reunion she’d imagined. “I am changed.”
“Kyrie says you escaped a transgressor hut in Holy City.”
“How does Kyrie know that?” Awa’s blood boiled, her breath was steam. She wanted to smash or burn or destroy something. She turned away from Bal.
“Tell me later and I will tell you how Yari and I escaped the savages.”
“You mean Zamanzi.”
“Who else? No other savages raid—”
“You could be a northlander.”
Bal sheathed her sword. “Yari enchanted the uhm, the Zamanzi with tales every night. Soon they were dancing to vie’s drum and turning into rebels.” Bal wanted to say more, but instead pulled mangos, goat cheese, and honey cakes smeared with nut butter from an Aido bag. “You must eat. Still your favorites, I hope.”
Awa snatched the feast and crammed her mouth. Eating was better than quarreling over who the real savages were or telling how she’d stabbed Yari.
Bal forced a smile. “We have many stories to share.”
Awa scratched her patchy scalp. “I’d like to burn the last two years from my mind.”
“That’s what you think now.” Bal wrapped Awa’s head in soothing cloud-silk and kissed her wiggly birthmark, the way Meera kissed Rokiat when she just felt grateful he was alive and standing close. Awa felt Bal’s lips everywhere—down her face, belly, all the way to the tips of her toes, an ache, a delight. What conjure was this?
“Thank you.” Awa gulped down cheese and a hunk of mango. The mango taste was sweeter than ever. “But we can’t change the past.”
“Dochsi.” Bal used a Lahesh word for arguing against negativity and handed her a gourd of frothy fruit wine. “The future changes the past.”
“Don’t sing Elder songs to me.”
Bal swallowed a retort.
Awa emptied the gourd in two gulps. “Not today. Sing at me tomorrow.” Bal touched the Aido bag on Awa’s belt, almost empty now. For two impossible years, Awa had managed to keep Bal’s treasures safe but then gave them away to Djola.
“You used to love my songs,” Bal murmured, “anytime.”
Stung, Awa leaned into Fannie. The mare nipped Bal’s shoulder.
Bal offered her figs and a sack of sweetgrass. “I’ve found myself.” She struck a carnival pose again. “I’m a veson and a Green Elder shadow warrior.”
Joy waylaid Awa. The dancer’s grace, sleek muscles, ranging choir of voices—Bal was just more of what vie had always been. “I thought you’d choose shadow warrior.”
“And you a griot, like Yari, conjuring this world and the next.” Bal brushed crumbs from Awa’s nose. “You knew my story before I did.”
“My story too. We’re one spirit in two bodies.” A lie. Awa cringed. Outside of Hezram’s Nightmare Gates lies were easy. Bal’s and Awa’s bodies had changed and so had their spirits. Who would they be to one another?
The talking drum grumbled, bells and seeds rattling.
Bal tapped the goatskin. “Since when do you carry such an elegant talking drum?”
“Since…” Awa choked on her words.
She’d never held a story she didn’t know how to tell.
9
Reprieve
Crows screeched and hollered. They swooped from every tree, a storm cloud of iridescent feathers. Several pecked Djola’s bald head. The crystal jammed in his foot spewed rainbow spirits and scattered the birds. Agitated cathedral trees flung seeds and spiderwebs into the wind. Fannie pawed the ground, ready to charge. Awa’s skin crawled; her mouth tasted foul. The wild dog nipped the back of her knees.
“What’s going on?” Awa said, happy for the distraction.
“I don’t know.” Bal scanned from roots and brush to the treetops.
Awa spit out the foul taste. “Not just rain in the air.” The black-and-white crow circled her, squealing an alarm. She followed it to a thicket now blocking the road. “Crows always know something we don’t.” She fingered boulders, brambles, and a tangle of woody vines. Unruly shadows made a tight weave up into cathedral tree crowns. Weaver ants spit venom. Haints whispered ancestor words too softly for her to understand. “Djola and I came in this way. What happened to the opening?”
“The Mountain Gates close to protect us. What do the trees sing about?”
“Danger. Coming our way.”
Bal nodded, unperturbed. “Good citizens lay siege to Kyrie’s gates. For two weeks, I’ve patrolled around the mountain. Nobody has gotten through except a few days ago, Zamanzi twins on a red warhorse, escaping transgressor huts in Holy City. Warrior-clowns.”
“I know them. A boy and a girl. We shared a hut.” Awa was glad they escaped even if they were Zamanzi. “Anyone else?”
An explosion shook the ground. Horses yelped, horns blasted, and a horde screeched and cursed. The smell of boiled blood and tree oil made Awa gag. Mango and nut butter churned in her stomach, threatening to surge back up. She bent over and sucked deep breaths. The wild dog licked her face.
Bal crept into the bushes, fearless. Fannie trotted close behind vie, fearless also. “Who knocks at the gates today?” Bal hissed.
“Hezram.” Awa felt him. He probably felt her as well. “Witchdoctor of Illusions.”
“What does he want?” Bal halted at the burl-mottled trunk-tower of an elder tree.
“Djola’s conjure bag.” Awa crawled to it. The wild dog flanked her. “I carry it.”
“That’s a good story, I’m sure.” Bal took off the bow and sword. “Did the poison master really stuff a library from the floating cities in that?”
“Vandana did. He added song cloth from all the ancestors.” Awa heaved the bag across her shoulder. Yari’s songs to Kyrie would be in there, and Dream Gate conjure, maybe even a spell to find Meera and Rokiat if they were alive. Awa let Yari’s drum slide to the ground. She couldn’t manage both. Bal would carry the drum easily. “Yari said Hezram would hunt me and Djola, in the everyday, in dreams.”
“You talked with Yari?” Bal circled the tree. “Impossible. How? When?”
Another explosion knocked Bal over before Awa had to answer these questions. Axes rang against stone-hard trunks. Oily smoke seeped through the brambles. Bal scrambled up the trunk-tower. Vie leapt from lumpy burls onto flimsy branches and disappeared behind elephant leaves. Awa crept to Bal’s tree. The mist turned to a downpour that penetrated the canopy. In a breath she was drenched.
“I see warrior priests, drummers
, cooks, and cages full of prisoners. Jod, from our enclave. Fatazz!” Bal screeched over the twang of bows. “Fire arrows! Take cover!”
Too many bolts whooshed through branches and vines. Fannie dragged Djola behind a boulder. Awa hugged the wild dog and flattened herself against the trunk-tower. Djola was right. Hezram would spread disaster across the Empire and beyond. Awa regretted not stabbing him with a viper’s fang in the temple when she had the chance. She’d been a coward, saving her own life and dooming others, dooming Yari … Wet soot smacked her cheeks and interrupted self-pity. Blobs of ash plopped on Djola’s bald head, knees, and everywhere.
“Kyrie’s Mountain Gate conjure turns fire arrows to sludge.” Bal cheered.
Shrieks and wails poured from the other side, but nothing more fell from the sky, except cold rain. Fannie whinnied relief. The dog wiggled free and shook off a cloud of gray. Awa patted his scruffy head. “Shall I call you Soot?” Soot wagged his bushy tail.
“Fire arrows bounce back or turn to ash in a blink. Cathedral trees refuse to burn and axes fly off the handle. Amber pitch oozes from tree trunks, paralyzing anyone who climbs.” Bal cheered. “A blue-robed conjurer stumbles around in circles. One eye is covered by a blue patch.”
“Hezram.” Awa’s heart raced. “If you see him, he might see you. Come down.”
“Don’t worry. They see only shadows.”
Awa slowed her heartbeat. Djola insisted that nobody in the Empire, not even he, could breach Kyrie’s gates. Maybe they were safe. “Worry is a bad habit.”
“Since when?”
Awa sneered at Bal’s ridiculous question. “I wish I could see what they’re doing.”
A stiff wind blew aside vines and brambles to reveal a chaos of smoking drums and burning bodies on the mountain road. Awa froze. Nobody from the other side looked her way—too busy surviving Kyrie’s conjure. Warrior acolytes had been pierced by their own fiery bolts. Many lay dead because of Hezram’s arrogance. Others howled and limped as rain turned to hail and battered them. Cooks smothered flames with heavy cloths. Drummers gathered their fallen weapons. Hezram had recaptured many transgressors and the warhorses they rode. Jod, in a bandage and splint, hobbled about smacking prisoner cages. He stumbled to the ground, clutched his leg, and groaned. Awa felt no pity. Jod wanted to be Hezram.
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