Awa had considered hiding the food, not sharing, to spite the greedy ones, but she feared what they might do to her or Meera if they came back empty-handed. She also feared feeling so cruel. Every day new cruel thoughts. That’s why she’d tucked mango in her Aido bag for the newest arrivals—Zamanzi twins, a boy and a girl, acrobats from a carnival troupe. She wanted to hate them, but they reminded her of Bal, muscular and fierce, balancing on one arm, dancing on high branches. What lies had folks told on them to land them here?
“Do you juggle fire? Shapeshift? Tease peaceful haints?” Awa offered the fruit.
They stared at her, surprised by Zamanzi words in her mouth. “We’re warrior-clowns and we see what you do for us,” the boy said. He was sharp angles.
“We remember this,” the girl added. She was intense and earnest. Wearing Aido cloth robes, they almost faded from view, but weren’t quite shadow warriors yet. They grabbed the last of the mango, nodded thanks, and swallowed quickly. Who had time to taste sweetness?
Meera pulled Awa down in the drafty corner near the door.
“You sleep first. I’ll keep watch,” Awa said.
“They fear you.” Meera nodded at transgressors scuttling away from them.
“Me? You’re the fierce one.”
“You speak with crows and horses and the river. They don’t know what other tongues you have, and Tembe trusts you.”
“Tembe thinks we can be redeemed from the huts, like some of her drummers. Then we’d be loyal to her, even after death.” Awa sneered. “That’s not trust.”
“You scare them. That means we can both sleep.”
Awa groaned. “Someone could jump us in the night and—”
“All right. I’ll keep watch. You’re exhausted. Put your head in my lap.”
Awa curled up against Meera. “If we die before the festival—”
“We’re almost there.” Meera stroked Awa. “Think of smoke-walkers escaping, indigo fire on their last breath.”
Awa held up her Aido bag. “If I don’t make it. Keep this. A shadow warrior gave it to me.”
Meera put a hand to Awa’s lips. “You get worried at night, but I say Hezram will choose someone else to sacrifice, not us. Someone worthy of the gods.”
“He doesn’t do it for the gods.”
“I’ll sing Rokiat’s song. You’ll dream of green hills and sea creatures dancing and you and me riding to Arkhys City.” She sang softly in Awa’s ear. Not the best singer, yet Awa drifted off and dreamed of Holy City exploding. She and Meera rode warhorses through indigo sparkles.
To have found such a good friend was impossible luck. Begrudgingly, Awa thanked the crossroads gods.
7
Yari
The Wild Dog whimpers. Yari shoos him away. The Dog woofs and stands his ground. He must warn Yari. They tussle outside a clay cottage built over a stream of water from Ice Mountain’s glacier. Hezram’s cottage. It reeks of the witchdoctor, of blood and oil, void-smoke, and the power piss of a big predator.
The Dog jumps up and licks Yari’s face. Vie turns from his reassuring tongue and sets paws on the dirt. Vie smells of cinnamon, jasmine, and desert rose. Nut bread crumbles in a pocket and goat skin on vie’s talking drum tenses in the chill. Dry cocoons on swollen ankles smell of bugs long gone.
Yari should leave. The Dog sniffs fresh blood conjure on the wind. Hezram approaches, from a nearby waterfall. The temple stink clings to him despite a shower. It is still dim. The sun hides behind the mountain, lighting the sky, and not the bushes. They could run away. Hezram would not catch them. The Dog is strong. He jumps against Yari’s chest, knocking vie to the ground. He grips a sleeve and tugs vie toward an escape route.
“Stop,” Yari says. Vie glares at the pathway from the temple.
The Dog sits and sniffs. Yari is a jumble of feelings: anger, fear, frustration, and other scents the Dog can’t quite read.
“You’re a loyal friend.” Yari scratches the Dog’s head. The Dog puts a paw on vie’s shoulder. “I must persuade Hezram, trick him to his right mind.”
The Dog tilts his head, whining. Yari should prepare for a hunt, a fight to the death.
“If I can’t talk sense into this witchdoctor, go find our friends and get them far away from here. Survive!” Yari hugs the Dog’s neck, tears rolling down vie’s cheeks. The Dog whines too. “You don’t understand me, do you?”
The Dog wags his tail and growls. Hezram is close. The Dog turns his head into the scent. Too close. The Dog wants to rip Hezram’s throat out.
“He’s coming.” Yari grabs a handful of the Dog’s neck fur and drags him to the bushes. “Stay here, out of sight, even if something bad happens.” Yari shakes vie’s finger at the Dog’s nose. “Hezram would put a bolt in your heart.”
The Dog crouches in shadows, ready to pounce if Yari needs him. He knows this hunt, one out in the open, one downwind from the prey. Hezram is startled by Yari and halts at the edge of the clearing, uncertainty on his breath. Yari marches toward him.
Hezram has a hand on a knife. “Is this an ambush?”
“No.” Yari steps close. “You trusted me once. Trust me again.”
“I was young and you seduced me out of my right mind. I’m a grown man now.” Hezram pats Yari’s cheek. “I hear you made fools of Zamanzi war chiefs and escaped.”
Yari pulls Hezram’s hand away. “Your spies are wrong. Zamanzi are rebels now. Warrior-clown allies.”
“Forgiven?” Hezram wags his head. “How do you do that?” His voice is hollow.
“You talk your way into people’s minds too.” Yari’s face twists. A smile fails.
“Zamanzi raided your enclave and murdered Isra. Why not kill the bastards?”
“I forgive them for myself.” Yari tries to relax. The Dog tenses. “Lahesh diplomacy.”
“The Lahesh have been wiped out.” Hezram wants to bite someone.
Yari should bite him first. “You aren’t the only master of illusion.”
“I know why you’ve come.” Hezram claws his hair. “You’re against my gates.”
“You invite the void to the everyday.”
“Not just me.” Hezram backs away from Yari. “Everybody is doing that.”
“I can’t reach everybody. I start with you, then the pirate master.”
“Your wayward Sprites.” Hezram laughs, but he smells sad. “I thought you gave up on the Empire and ran away, beyond the maps to make bridges to the future.”
“The rebels are finally getting organized. I join them.”
“Of course you’d join the clowns!”
They sniff each other, panting to stay cool. Hezram kisses Yari, but it is a lie. There is only fear in Hezram’s sweat and bloodlust on his breath. A hunter hugging a deadly prey … Yari’s breath is sour, a tangle of emotion. Vie clutches Hezram. “Let me show you what you’ve done, what you’re doing.”
“All right.” Hezram leads Yari into the cabin and shuts the door. A bolt slides. The Dog runs close, whines, and paces. He hears murmurs and catches a jumble of scents coming from under the door—joy, fear, lust. They argue and laugh and curse. Silence. The scents fade. The Dog jumps against the door and scratches. He digs in the dirt till his paws bleed. He can’t get in. Tunnels under the cabin take mountain water to the Amethyst River and also lead to the temple. The Dog has wandered there trailing Awa and caught Hezram’s scent. If he goes to the temple he might find Yari and Hezram, before Hezram sucks Yari’s blood and eats vie’s heart.