Yari, the high Elder who brought Awa into the enclave, said, “Anything you believe could be wrong.” Yari was a graying veson, the griot of griots, once advisor to Emperor Azizi. A trickster, vie had sparkling eyes and a lightning smile. Ropes of vie’s hair, adorned with seedpods, bells, and whistling reeds, danced even when Elders stood still for meditation.

Tapping and squeezing a double-headed talking drum, vie could seduce a snake or a crocodile. Yari’s lovers—good citizens, barbarians, savages, witch women, Council masters, perhaps even Azizi—would fill a pirate ship. Who could resist Yari’s charm or brilliance? Certainly not Awa.

“For wisdom you must intertwine passion, faith, and doubt,” Yari said. “Like drumming four beats to seven or weaving Aido cloth, every color strong but a play of shadows for untrained eyes. A righteous person sings harmony with themselves. Holding contradictions and polyrhythms in your spirit, that’s the basis of all conjure.”

Other Garden Sprites did this easily. Bal, who joined the enclave a few months after Awa, could sound like a fleet of drums and a choir of voices her first week. Bal wove Aido cloth robes to disappear in and crafted flimsy sweetgrass into weapons, boats, and bridges. Awa was all thumbs. Her Aido cloth regularly unraveled. The best she ever managed was three beats to two on a drum and a single overtone when she sang. Drums, thread, and song were wasted on her. Indeed, Awa was so inept that—

“I worry Yari might sell me to thief-lords or abandon me to poison desert.”

“Nonsense.” Bal stood behind Awa on cliffs above the Salty Sea. They were becoming fast friends. Arkhys City’s sandstone towers and domes shimmered far across the bay. “Why chant nonsense?” Bal’s cheekbones were high and sharply etched; her limbs long, elegant, and muscled. Round Awa wanted to look like her. “Yari loves us all, but you the most.”

“No.” Awa raced along the cliff edge, doing a rock, water, and shell dance. Tons of black and white fish flesh jumped from the waves and trilled at her clumsy gyrations. When she flapped her arms, the behemoths mimicked her with stubby flukes. Bal applauded. “You’re a shadow warrior, Bal. You carry shade with you. You can hide anywhere and seem like a hundred warriors. What conjure can I do?”

“You call giants out of the sea and conjure moon-bridges to Smokeland. I can’t do that.” Bal pulled Awa back from the edge toward scraggly laurel trees. “We all love you. It doesn’t matter what you do or don’t do.”

“People love you and sell you too.” Awa hissed. Mother and Kenu had let Father sell her, so Kenu could build towers to the stars. “Love isn’t enough.”

Bal looked stricken. She hadn’t told Awa who’d sold her to the enclave. Awa leaned close, hoping for this secret. Bal only said, “That’s true, I guess.”