“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 taught 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.