What you predicted comes true. Strength to you, Djola, in exile
No rainbow fish run the rivers—revelers at the Water Festival go hungry
Kyrie sends honey, mangos, and goats for Arms to distribute in the Arkhys market
Empire coffers are full, though few can afford taxes
Azizi hoards money for the coming wars over water, grain, and tree oil
I persuaded Council to build storm shelters throughout the capital
Shelters are Zamanzi conjure against void-storms, and nobody sneers
I waited, hoping we’d catch a culprit but after months of investigation Arms still cannot say who murdered your men
Only six were found—I saw the bodies—they put up a good fight
The other six are still missing
I suspect they protect Samina and your children, wherever they hide
Kyrie sends hope and power to your conjure hand
Djola let the scroll fall to the deck. His heart hammered at his veins.
Orca dug at tension in his back as Djola whispered, “They saved my life many times.”
After he and Arms liberated Holy City, thief-lords surrendered and swore an oath to peace. Celebrating, Djola and everyone got drunk on tainted wine. Just a few warriors stood watch. Rogue barbarians mounted a cowardly ambush, no hope of victory, just terror. Sober Rano sounded the alarm and took a barbarian arrow in the shoulder pulling an unconscious Djola from a burning tent.
“My best friend, murdered, because of me.” Djola gripped Orca’s shoulders. “Tortured for my family, my secrets.” Honorable to the end, Rano had died without revealing where Samina and the children were. He doted on Bal, Quint, and Tessa most of all—the children he never got to have. “Rano was a true friend.”
Orca pulled Djola close, kissed his cheeks, told him to breathe.
“Has Kyrie gone mad?” Djola trembled against Orca. “No more hope for rainbow fish or Rano.” His family must still be at the hideaway or on Mount Eidhou with Kyrie, who told nobody, not even Grain. “Basawili, Rano.”
Vandana appeared. As Orca told her the news, Djola choked on sorrow. He was the fool Rano and his guard died for. Vandana grimaced. “Pezarrat says we’ll be in the floating cities in a few weeks.”
“He lies.” Djola collapsed into Orca.
“We’ll get there, eventually,” Vandana insisted.
“Too long,” said Djola, mumbling. He fell asleep in Orca’s arms, grateful for the boy’s warm body.
The elephant with a broken tusk trumpeted, flapped enormous ears, and spewed poison sand in his dreams. Djola shielded his face and called to her, bitter. “Did you hear? Rano and my men were murdered, but we’ll reach the floating cities.” Eventually.
22
Out of the Void
Awa’s stomach gurgled at the smell of nut bread. Her head ached, burned, as if her hair was on fire. Bal caressed her cheeks and sang an ancestor song from the Smokeland talking books. Awa opened her eyes. They’d come through the border-void back to the everyday outside Yari and Isra’s goat-hair tent. Isra was a warrior-scout from the south, an Aido cloth weaver, the love Yari always returned to. Some Sprites claimed Isra was a reluctant Green Elder, yet vie was the anchor to Yari’s wandering spirit, to all their wandering spirits.
Awa shook off void-smoke clinging to her hair and smiled. Swampy wetlands turned silver in the twilight. Twisted tupelo roots clutched the banks of a gurgling stream. Demon-flies flashed green and blue butts, making love, eating foolish enemies. The enclave had marched from the northern desert to old Anawanama territory.
Yari and Isra carried their breath bodies around for weeks and set them on mats in this grassy knoll. A few moments in Smokeland could be days in the everyday. Moans and grunts poured from the tent. Bal pointed at a tangle of shadows. She and Awa giggled. Yari and Isra were noisy lovers. Both used many voices.
“Yari would kill me if I left your breath body unprotected and went off for a roll in the sand with a lover,” Bal said.
Awa poked Bal’s bony chest. “You don’t have a lover.”
“But if I did…”
“You don’t!” Awa was jealous of Bal’s shadow lover. “How long were we gone?”
“I don’t know.”
A wild dog shoved a cold nose in Awa’s face and licked her hot forehead. They wrestled in the grass. The dog pinned her down and nipped her nose. She rolled him over and tickled his mottled tummy. Her headache faded and jealousy burned off.
Bal laughed. “Stray dogs always smell Smokeland on you.”
“He trailed us from the border.” The dog sprawled by Awa’s side. She scratched his big smoke-gray head. “What did you see in the void?”
Bal broke off laughing, her breath suddenly short.
“Never mind,” Awa said. “Shall I tell you how I was sold to the Elders?”
“You’d tell me that?” Garden Sprites were usually too ashamed to tell who sold them or why. Poison desert turned good citizens into slavers who stole children, who sold their own daughters or even sons to buy food or passage on a pirate ship to the floating cities. Sprites imagined horror scenarios for each other. “Are you sure?”
Awa shrugged. “It’s what I saw at first in the void.”
“Why risk the ire of—”
“It’s not bad luck for Sprites to trade stories. Cowards made up that tale. Crossroads gods are tricksters, but they don’t care what we say to each other.”
Bal looked unconvinced. “I guess…”
“I want you to know me.” Before she lost heart, Awa blurted her saga in coarse detail, no music or dance embellishments, no poetic flourishes. Even such an awkward telling made her feel better. Sold to save a farm and send her brothers to study in Holy City wasn’t the worst Sprite saga. “Mother was right about Yari and Smokeland—traveling through the regions, understanding the rhythms, a treasure. But—”
“What?” Bal hugged away Awa’s sadness. “What?”
Awa savored Bal’s sweetgrass and iron scent before answering. “My family is a wound, but you’re a balm.” She stroked her friend’s bold cheeks. “Now you tell.”
“I can’t,” Bal stammered.
“Why not?” Awa trembled. The wild dog whined and licked them both. “Don’t you trust me?” She loved no one more than Bal, except maybe Yari. “I told you everything. Even older brother Kenu’s cowardice.”
“I can’t tell you, because—”
“Were your parents desperate savages selling daughters?”
Bal snorted at her. “Savages don’t sell their daughters.”
“Everybody sells their children. To slavers or brothels or enclaves.”
“Empire citizens tell this lie when they steal Zamanzi or Anawanama daughters.”
Awa didn’t believe this, but decided not to argue. “Were you stolen?”
Bal shuddered. “My mind was blank in the void.” She looked away, embarrassed. “I have no memories of before joining this enclave.”
“Oh.” Awa took a breath and scratched the dog. “What’s that like?”
“Like carrying a bit of void inside you all the time.”