“Yes.” Raintree blossoms brushed Awa’s hot cheeks. The buttery, honey smell soothed her belly. “A grove like this saved me and Djola from Hezram.” Shadow warrior-clowns bounded past them in scant attire. They winked and flirted, muscular physiques and warrior prowess fading in and out of view. Bal beamed at them, and jealousy ambushed Awa. A waste of heart spirit, but what could she do? “I won’t be a weak good person,” she whispered. “Do you believe me?”

Bal frowned. “Of course.”

“Hezram’s power is illusion.” Awa clutched Bal’s hand. “One lying voice from many mouths. We must chant the world we want.”

“Keep reminding me.” Bal sounded vulnerable.

Awa leaned back into vie. “I’d do anything for you.” Give up her life even.

“Yari enchanted the Zamanzi with good stories, not lies. Zamanzi chose to join the rebellion and stop the poison desert. We tried to forgive each other. Yari’s Lahesh diplomacy, that was our escape.” Bal hugged Awa, breathing against her ear, stroking her shoulder, a lovesick hero from one of Yari’s tales. “On missions for Kyrie, Yari and I searched for you everywhere. After almost two years, I lost hope, but Yari went to Holy City, to Hezram and the transgressor huts, looking for you.”

Awa stiffened. “And Yari never came back.”

“Not your fault. Yari thought vie could reach Hezram.” Bal kissed her neck. “Yari was right. We can’t give up.”

Awa shivered. “Agreed.”

“Did you know Kenu in Holy City? Did he build huts?” Bal pulled a strand of hair and startled a bee who flew to another tight curl and settled in.

“That bee is my sentinel guard.” Awa squirmed. “Leave her be.”

“You don’t have to say what happened in those huts. But don’t be ashamed either.”

“I can tell you this. We can’t just blame Hezram—” Or Father who must have been young and foolish once like Awa and Kenu, who must have turned the wrong direction and when he realized, perhaps he blamed someone else and kept on going wrong.

“Yes.” Bal sighed. “We all do void-spells.”

“Well, not today,” Awa declared.

At the bottom of the garden was a round wooden stage flanked on each side by a three-story onion-domed tower. Cathedral-trunk doors filled the center of the back wall. Storm-cloud curtains fluttered under balconies connecting the onion towers to the wall. The emperor’s citadel across Thunder River looked like part of the set. Ramps ran from the stage almost to the citadel bridge and also up through the raintree groves where an excited audience gathered. Treehouses, connected by rope bridges, swayed in the breeze above the crowd. Awa thought of Jumbajabbaland lovers and tears puddled in her eyes. As a young Sprite, she’d dreamt of being a famous griot in Arkhys City, telling Smokeland tales. She’d imagined Father squirming in the audience as Mother, Kenu, Yari, and Bal applauded. Petty dreams.