Intoxicating aromas wafted from a dozen cook tents nestled in scraggly midnight-fruit trees whose roots dipped in the spring below. Berries had fermented in the rocky soil. Drunk crows hopped underfoot, screeching and teasing everyone as if they were honored guests. Wine from fermented midnight berries was a festival treat and made everyone’s eyes glow in the dark.

Awa and Bal had turned seventeen and decided to cross over. Bal was as tall as Yari and as ferocious as Isra. She crafted powerful bows and sleek arrows that flew true. She forged Lahesh blades to cut through stone and metal. Everyone loved to watch her dance along tightropes and ridges, balancing anger and love. A true shadow warrior, Bal preferred cunning to spilling blood.

Awa drew sky maps, silver stars on dark brown cloth, for all the seasons. She wrote stories in Anawanama, Lahesh, Zamanzi, and barbarian tongues, for every region west of Mama Zamba. She knew a few dirt poems and the language of bees and trees. A true griot, she could puzzle her way through any knot, squabble, or mystery and then offer a good story. All of Yari’s and Isra’s Sprites did amazing conjure, and the Elders boasted about a bold new world coming.

The night before the crossover ceremony, Isra made a new loom and Yari crafted a double-headed talking drum. Vie decorated it with Aido cloth, cathedral seeds, and glass beads. Gifts for Bal—Awa was pleased and jealous. Isra and Yari wouldn’t let Awa open a bag of story-spells and Lahesh wim-wom. Awa hoped this was her gift. As everyone gathered for the Sprites’ last story celebration, Yari slipped with Isra behind a midnight tree and used hand-talk from the Ishba people. Awa picked berries across from them unnoticed, not spying, just overhearing.

“We haven’t seen these people for years.” Yari pointed at a man and woman, Elders Awa had never met, Zamanzi perhaps, with spiral scars on brown cheeks and thick locks arranged in a crown. “Anyone could betray us.” Vie pointed at Bal talking with shadow warriors. “Our own Sprites.”

“Not Bal. Stop worrying.” Isra pulled Yari to the enclave fire. Awa joined them. Yari kissed the top of her head. Isra stroked her cheeks and whispered in Yari’s ear, “Take better measure of yourself.”

Griots told a story on the sentimental griot of griots and the fearsome scout vie loved: