“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.”