“Awa tells me you’re a very wise man”—Bal stroked Yari’s talking drum—“a great teacher who can explain what the wind means, why rocks are hard and metals melt instead of burn, why this tree sings a different song than one with similar leaves.” Bal licked dry lips. “She says you are barbarian, Anawanama, and Zamanzi. Ancient enemies war in your blood, yet you know how to talk adversaries to a peace fire.”

“I did once. Years ago…” He sighed. “Or perhaps chiefs, masters, thief-lords, and pirates sat down to peace of their own accord.”

“You kept them there till you had a treaty.” Bal leaned into Awa. “She loves you like a father. I’m jealous.”

“Do you want her love all for yourself or do you crave a father’s love?” Djola asked.

Bal blinked away a tear. “Awa says you’ll tell me of Yari’s death.”

“Not now.” He tasted the wind. The afternoon storm might come sooner than expected. “That’s a story for after the masquerade.”

A voice like Yari’s jolted Djola. “Sing! I am Eidhou, Eidhou!”

Griots on fast ponies paraded past them. They were smooth-cheeked Green Elders, dark eyes outlined in black kohl and wiry hair knotted around glass beads. Red mica glittered on their palms. “We celebrate tomorrow in yesterday. Sing with us.”

Eidhou! All rivers flow from my heart

All the light comes from my dark

Stillness follows my fury

Love is never my worry

Bal played a rhythm that captured everyone’s heartbeat. Mango was delighted and tapped Bal’s nose. Kyrie and Awa leaned into Bal’s music. Djola squinted through the marble eye. He wanted to peer through Bal’s skin, beyond blood and bones to first moments, to origins. Awa’s Bal was a grown veson with scars on an angular face. Djola’s Bal had been round-faced, pouting the last time he saw her. Awa’s Bal could braid sweetgrass rope strong enough to hold a caravan of elephants. Djola’s Bal had also been a weaver, a little dancing soldier, a singer. Djola’s Bal wanted to ride to the capital and protect her father from foolish, greedy men, and now Awa’s Bal did exactly that.

If his Bal was Awa’s Bal, could vie forgive Djola, could vie love him?

The alley came out on the river end of Rainbow Square. A rambunctious audience cheered their entrance. Someone shouted, “The horse is almost as tall as the elephant.” Any of the young people squealing at an elephant with a snake brow and a mangy hound in a trickster hat could have been Tessa, Quint, or Bal grown into themselves. Djola rode to Council, for them, for all the children.