“You’re brave to travel Smokeland alone.” Bal used a solemn warrior voice. “We must tell Yari to weave a story of your courage.” She pulled a tight curl-bundle of Awa’s hair straight and released the sentinel.

“I’m never alone. I have the bees.” Awa grinned. “I’m glad to have a shadow warrior along this time.” She filled her lungs with the sweet expiration of the elder tree. “Take a deep breath. The hard part is leaving Smokeland.”

Bal filled her lungs, and Awa flew them to the border-void. Bal ground her teeth as smoke invaded them. Awa felt as if she was home again, and Father, Mother, Kenu, and her younger brothers had just abandoned her in the desert to dry up and blow away while they enjoyed life in a lush oasis.

Bal whimpered. Caught in despair also, she was a heavy weight. The border-void was endless, the smoke thick and sticky; escape seemed almost impossible. Sorrow began to fade along with the thrill of clutching Bal to her heart.

“We’re too heavy and there’s more void-smoke than usual. Sorry.” Awa jabbed Bal’s neck with a bee sting and then her own neck too. After sharp, burning pain, they swooned.

19

Vandana

Pezarrat dropped anchor at Arkhys City. No slaves allowed inside the capital, but trade at the docks was swift. Djola gave a supply list to Pezarrat’s men. If Council spies saw him on deck, they’d send an arrow his way. Why give high priest Ernold or the Masters of Money and Water opportunity for murder? Djola paced the half-empty sick bay, muttering. He should get word to Rano for Samina or maybe word to Yari that he needed help. Yari was always ready to forgive. Samina too.

The old healer pointed at blood-soaked bandages on their patients. “They’ll bleed out, unless we sew.” Thread, sutures, and needles weren’t on Djola’s supply list. Nothing for sick bay was. “I’ll get what we need.” The old healer threw on a cloak.

“Can you deliver a message for me?” Djola stammered.

The healer scratched his few hairs. “I’ll tell Pezarrat you do this.”

Djola scribbled Lahesh to Yari and Samina. “To the veson who cleans the library. Bring me vie’s seal.” The old healer took the tiny scroll and left him alone with wounded captives who groaned and whimpered. Djola downed half a bottle of seed and silk potion to lift his mood and dull his mind. He sank into a pleasant haze and watched the moon rise from inky water and climb high in the sky. Time dissolved.

The old healer returned carrying months of supplies and a scroll with a Vévé to the crossroads gods: the moon caught in a spiderweb. “Your friend had just finished scouring the windows.”

“Friend?” Djola grunted. “No. Just someone I know.”