Best of all was Smokeland. Awa’s trips beyond the border-void were long and luxurious. She mapped and catalogued many wonders. On one trip, Awa passed through a border realm of exploding jellyfish, lightning bolts, and deadening void-smoke. She barely held onto herself but came upon a village in the treetops: a weave of houses, balconies, bridges, and temples. Lovers with spiderweb hair and cloud-silk robes swayed in the branches. Their pleasure rippled through the leaves and through her body too. New aches surprised her.

In another region, Awa discovered underwater river forests undulating to the melodies of golden behemoths who sported white speckled fins. She swam beside creatures twice the size of elephants against the currents. She wove her song into behemoth sounds that she could feel but not hear as they swam among seaweed bushes and feathery trees. Iridescent eyes peered at her from murky caves, and tentacles reached out to greet or eat her.

The behemoths nudged the curious tentacles aside with a flap of tail flukes and a roar of bubbles. She laid her cheeks against cold skin, grateful for their caution. Exuberant behemoths flew with her out of the water and plunged deep again. In a third region, a city of boats—floating towers with sails or spinning waterwheels—washed in on a blue-green tide and out again leaving iron horses and singing books on a rocky shore. Distant cook fires on the waves twinkled like stars. The metal beasts frolicked to the music the books made. Enchanted, Awa danced with them until they disappeared into caves.

Awa returned to the everyday exhausted and delighted after this long trip. While she’d been in Smokeland, weeks had passed and the Elders traveled beyond the maps to a wild side of the Mama Zamba mountains. They camped far from any barbarian or Empire city at a rocky oasis in the sweet desert. As long as the rains came and the desert bloomed, the enclave enjoyed peace and posted few guards. When the dry season unleashed deadly storms, foolish men became desperate. They’d attack anyone anywhere, even Green Elders who knew the most powerful weapon-spells in the Empire. Today was peace.

Yari cornered Awa and Bal at the cook fires. Vie smelled of cinnamon, jasmine, and sweetgrass. “Tell me, what do you say to people in Smokeland?”

“Nothing.” Awa cringed, embarrassed. “My tongue knots up.”

Yari feigned shock, rattling moth cocoon anklets. “Knotted tongue. You?”

“Yes. Me.” Other smoke-walkers, their starlight hair glinting and volcano hearts pumping fiery blood, were too beautiful for words. “Nothing comes.”

Yari turned serious as a knife thrust. “Avoid anyone whose heart is an ember.”

Awa grumbled. “You told me before. A hundred hundred times.”

“You might lose yourself in their eyes. Spirit slaves are Hezram’s weapon.”

“Not just Hezram,” Bal interjected.

Yari bristled. Too angry to mask it. “Hezram is the worst.”

“I’ve only seen a few,” Awa said. “They were too sluggish to catch me.”