“Don’t die tonight.” Awa gestured and hugged Yari, relishing the scent of desert roses. “Not losing myself in others’ thoughts is one of my strengths.”

“Is it?” Yari pulled away. “You shall find out.”

Vie shook bristling braids loose, played calm-heart rhythms on the talking drum, and sauntered into the enemy’s camp as bold as a sunrise. “I am Yari, the griot of griots. You’ve been chasing me and my people, so I thought I’d let you catch someone.”

The Kahartans looked as stunned as Awa. They exchanged glances, drew weapons, but hesitated. “The griot of griots,” the captain yelled, “is only a legend.”

Whirling in Aido cloth, Yari disappeared and reappeared several times, singing harmony with vieself: Warrior, warrior sweet enemy mine, will this be our last time? A blotchy-skinned barbarian lunged and sliced shadows. He kicked dirt up in his oiled beard. Braids came loose from his topknot and blood dribbled from cuts and gouges.

The captain blocked a second lunge. “Save your strength.”

“Yes. Why waste ourselves in battle?” Yari said. The wild dog chased the goats to the captain. “I bring you bunchgrass from the north that survives drought and sprouts after deluge. This we Green Elders can spare. But raiding us, you will die.”

The captain sucked deep breaths. One hand hovered by his sword, the other over a pounding heart. The dog growled and Yari sang in many voices. The rhythm of the drum, the jingle-jangle of seedpods, and vie’s hair dancing in the wind was hypnotic. Shadow warriors clanged swords and spears, and sent fire arrows over the Kahartans’ heads.

Bolts landed in a circle, illuminating gray hairs, young boys, and battle-weary regulars who should have stayed home. Shadow warriors brandished blades in crevices and bushes, reflecting the firelight and creating a fearsome display from mist and shade. Even Awa thought there could be several hundred scouts.

The barbarians backed away. The blotchy one almost slid over a ledge. Yari gripped his cloak. Looking into his fearful, despairing eyes, Awa let go of the contempt in her heart.

“You have great numbers in your walled cities,” Yari said. “But in the mountains, deserts, and swamps, you cannot defeat us. Take this offering, go home, live well.”

The Kahartans shifted and wheezed, not the battle they’d expected. Who ever knew what Yari might do? Vie leapt in the captain’s face, talk-singing, “You think: Our homes are rubble. Fields are sludge. Babies eat soot or go hungry. Tomorrow the sun won’t rise.” Yari saluted the purple sky. “Yet the light comes.”