“Don’t sing Elder songs to me.”

Bal swallowed a retort.

Awa emptied the gourd in two gulps. “Not today. Sing at me tomorrow.” Bal touched the Aido bag on Awa’s belt, almost empty now. For two impossible years, Awa had managed to keep Bal’s treasures safe but then gave them away to Djola.

“You used to love my songs,” Bal murmured, “anytime.”

Stung, Awa leaned into Fannie. The mare nipped Bal’s shoulder.

Bal offered her figs and a sack of sweetgrass. “I’ve found myself.” She struck a carnival pose again. “I’m a veson and a Green Elder shadow warrior.”

Joy waylaid Awa. The dancer’s grace, sleek muscles, ranging choir of voices—Bal was just more of what vie had always been. “I thought you’d choose shadow warrior.”

“And you a griot, like Yari, conjuring this world and the next.” Bal brushed crumbs from Awa’s nose. “You knew my story before I did.”

“My story too. We’re one spirit in two bodies.” A lie. Awa cringed. Outside of Hezram’s Nightmare Gates lies were easy. Bal’s and Awa’s bodies had changed and so had their spirits. Who would they be to one another?

The talking drum grumbled, bells and seeds rattling.

Bal tapped the goatskin. “Since when do you carry such an elegant talking drum?”

“Since…” Awa choked on her words.

She’d never held a story she didn’t know how to tell.

9

Reprieve

Crows screeched and hollered. They swooped from every tree, a storm cloud of iridescent feathers. Several pecked Djola’s bald head. The crystal jammed in his foot spewed rainbow spirits and scattered the birds. Agitated cathedral trees flung seeds and spiderwebs into the wind. Fannie pawed the ground, ready to charge. Awa’s skin crawled; her mouth tasted foul. The wild dog nipped the back of her knees.

“What’s going on?” Awa said, happy for the distraction.

Awa spit out the foul taste. “Not just rain in the air.” The black-and-white crow circled her, squealing an alarm. She followed it to a thicket now blocking the road. “Crows always know something we don’t.” She fingered boulders, brambles, and a tangle of woody vines. Unruly shadows made a tight weave up into cathedral tree crowns. Weaver ants spit venom. Haints whispered ancestor words too softly for her to understand. “Djola and I came in this way. What happened to the opening?”

“The Mountain Gates close to protect us. What do the trees sing about?”

“Danger. Coming our way.”

Bal nodded, unperturbed. “Good citizens lay siege to Kyrie’s gates. For two weeks, I’ve patrolled around the mountain. Nobody has gotten through except a few days ago, Zamanzi twins on a red warhorse, escaping transgressor huts in Holy City. Warrior-clowns.”

“I know them. A boy and a girl. We shared a hut.” Awa was glad they escaped even if they were Zamanzi. “Anyone else?”