“Oh. I forgot to tell you,” he said. “After you fainted, we—ah—received a message from . . . an old friend. It was on her advice we brought you to the temple.”

I watched, speechless, as the tutsu hummed and spun, growing denser as they descended. At last, the glowing swarm took the shape of a hunched, scowling old woman. Hands on its hips, the being made of tiny sparks stood before us in the clearing.

“Well, Wuraola?” it demanded. “How did you like your bath?”

“Old Mongwe,” I squeaked, gaping at the priestess’s shifting form. “But . . . how? You’re—How are you—”

“I cannot see or hear you. Talking through these sprites is exhausting enough as it is, let alone trying to cast a message back,” the hermit priestess huffed, speaking over me. “So this better be you, child, and not some other yam-brained royal. I told the sprites to find the wuraola, but they can be thick-thick in the head, especially during mating season—”

I tried again. “How—”

“—or if they sense that the land is in mortal danger, which, if I’m being honest, is more often than not these last hundred years. Anyhow. I assume you want to know how I’ve appeared before you. Well, I haven’t! I’m home in Swana, inhaling a fresh brew of kuso-kuso leaves. The fumes let my soul leave its sorry sack of bones every once in a while, which is nice for errands, when the weather is bad.”

Mongwe paused, observing the air where she assumed I stood.

“The sprites whispered of you,” she said quietly. “‘Mongwe,’ they whined, ‘the Wuraola is in a bad-bad way.’ It took me an age to make sense of their stories. Shades that return more than once? Children like reanimated corpses? But once I figured out it was ojiji . . .” She inhaled sharply. “I know their tricks of old. You have been in grave danger, child, and you are not cured yet. Though you’re feeling better now, I expect. Baths can treat a staggering number of ills, and you won’t find a more luxurious tub than the pools of Iyaja.” She chuckled to herself, then sobered. “The temple has bought you time, but once you leave it, the hauntings will return. The ojiji will do their best to confuse you, but remember this: Do not confuse guilt with conviction. Guilt is self-centered, and leads only to destructive obsession. But conviction brings balance—a sense of purpose beyond oneself. The abiku want to keep you when you descend to the Underworld. I don’t know why. But let me be absolutely clear.” The old woman hovered close, her stern, sparkling eyes inches from my face. “Wuraola: Under no circumstances should you enter the Underworld, unless you are certain that you will return alive.”

I opened my mouth to object. She seemed to sense this.

“No buts,” she snapped. “Yes, breaking your vow to the abiku would mean disaster. A supernatural war, and a terrible one. But those futures pale in comparison, I fear, to what the abiku could accomplish with you in their clutches.”