Awa stared through a gap in those gates to Fannie and Bibi, head-to-head, conferring and gnashing teeth by Meera’s cage. Bibi reared up, straining against hobbles. She shoved Fannie and nipped her flanks. Meera rattled the cage as Rokiat raced toward them.

“Do not worry.” A figure in a flame-cloth robe and pirate pants cinched at the ankles jumped down from the cave of mirages and blocked Awa’s view. “Basawili.” The voice was a round, fierce woman, with silver tattoos, silver hair streaked red, and blue-violet eyes like Samina. Calm as dirt and clear as a drumbeat, she chanted Lahesh, Anawanama, Zamanzi, and languages Awa didn’t yet know. Trees echoed the woman’s songs and haints danced to her rhythms.

“Iyalawo Kyrie.” Terrified, Awa wriggled free of brambles. She spread her arms wide, and bowed. Kyrie acknowledged the greeting, flicked sparks from her fingertips, and headed for Djola, who still lay slumped against the boulder. Fannie galloped through the narrowing gap just before vines, branches, and roots closed tight again. The sun broke apart clouds, and the rain subsided. Had Kyrie conjured the storm?

“Warhorses try to break free, kicking and biting. Acolytes run shrieking down the road.” Bal swung down on a purple vine, singing harmony with vieself:

Warrior, warrior, why do you lament?

Are the arrows in your bow all spent?

My song got lost late last night

Running from a quaking tongue

My burnt lips refused to fight

My rebel heart was undone

Stiff fingers stroked deadly air

Tomorrow’s songs dying there

As Bal gathered sword and bow, Fannie nosed vie, approving of Green Elder music. Bal scratched velvet ears and sang on.

Warrior, warrior, sweet enemy mine

Why do we squander so much sunshine?

Our songs won’t run far away

Just into another day

Warrior, warrior, have you forgotten?

Greed makes even sweet apples rotten

With no stout hearts to keep time

Or breath and bones for good reason and deep rhyme

Doesn’t really matter, your breath lost or mine

No songs will save this fine day

I say, warrior, warrior sweet enemy mine

With no stout hearts to keep time

No songs will save this fine day

Green Elder music energized Awa. Meera, Rokiat, Bibi, and the herd were alive. Awa would free them from Hezram with Fannie and Bal’s help. Somehow. Awa hugged the warrior and the horse in bright sunshine.

“Don’t rejoice yet.” Kyrie prodded Djola. “Hezram will head to Arkhys City. He brings Azizi warhorses, an army of acolytes, and transgressors to bleed.”

“I saw my friends from Holy City,” Awa said.

“Yes.” Kyrie scowled at her. “The gates opened at your request.”

“I made no request.” Or maybe she did. Awa pushed confusion aside. “Meera and Rokiat escaped when I did, but Hezram must have captured them and the horses.” Curses filled Awa’s mouth. Perhaps Rokiat had betrayed Meera. He wasn’t in a cage.