“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.”