“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 throat. “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.