whirl of heat and wind, until at lasted we jolted to a stop.
“Names and reason for travel,” a reedy voice said.
My vision was still blurry. Now we stood atop a new lodestone, slightly smaller than the last. This port rested inside a city; I could hear the bustle of carts and street criers outside the palisade wall. Shaking his head to clear it, Sanjeet produced our council seals.
“Welcome to Kofi-on-River,” said the guard, stepping aside. “Enjoy your stay in Nyamba, Anointed Honors.”
I smiled at him shakily and stepped off the stone. The world tilted, but Sanjeet caught my elbow. “Inn,” he said, clutching his stomach, and I nodded.
“The best accommodations are toward the city center,” the guard called after us. “I’d be wary today though, Anointed Honors. The streets are rowdy.”
When we reached the city square, indignant roars echoed off the stone high-rises. Smoke rose to the sky, and Nyambans shrieked objections from every direction, crowded around something I couldn’t see.
“That’s not fair—”
“… older than the empire—”
“How dare you erase our griots’ legacy—”
I gasped as an imperial crier yelled above the din, reciting words I recognized: Thaddace’s Unity Edict. I hadn’t known it would be enforced so soon. Sanjeet stood head and shoulders above the crowd, and grew rigid as he watched the square.
“What do you see?” I demanded. When he didn’t answer, I elbowed my way through the angry citizens.
A towering bonfire burned in the square. Imperial Guard warriors wrestled drums and scrolls from a trembling line of griots. The stories—some no doubt hundreds, thousands of years old—were cast into the flames. The imperial crier thanked each griot curtly, and handed them new drums and crisp imperial scrolls.
My face grew wet with tears, and I stepped back into the crowd, back, back, until strong hands found my shoulders.
“We should go,” grunted Sanjeet.
“Why take their drums?” I asked dazedly. “Isn’t taking their stories enough?”
“The drums carry their own stories,” Sanjeet reminded me grimly. “I guess Thaddace and the emperor didn’t want to risk it.”
We found an inn several streets away. When night came I tossed and turned, though this time our room had wood floors, and sweet-smelling down pallets instead of straw mats.
Thaddace had made the Unity Edict sound so reasonable. He had been right—the disunity at Ebujo had been disastrous. If the realms had only put aside their differences and worked together, fewer people would have died. But …
I remembered a griot from the town square, an old woman with sad, sunken eyes, wailing as her drum was wrenched away.
“That can’t be right,” I mumbled. Could it?
We were supposed to wait a month before traveling via lodestone again. We waited only a week. I was eager to find Melu … and to leave Kofi-on-River. When at last we left the town, the smoke of griot drums still stained the horizon.
The lodestone to Swana was ten miles west of the city, in a lush Nyamban valley. My stomach lurched as we crossed into Swana. When we came to a stop, I crawled across the lodestone and vomited over the edge.
“Names and reason for travel,” came the expected demand.
An eerie feeling crept over my spine as I took in the lodestone port. I had been here only once before: when strangers had taken me from Bhekina House. My palms began to sweat. This was her turf. Her domain of power. Already I could see the walls of Bhekina House rising around me. I was a child again, friendless, windowless, trapped—
“Tar.” Sanjeet was crouching beside me with a hand on my trembling back. “Your home realm is beautiful.”
I blinked, staring dumbly at him, and then looked around.
“It’s just like the memories you used to show me,” said Sanjeet, sounding almost shy.
A copse of slender acacia trees and vibrant green grass surrounded us. The air was sweet with honeysuckle, and winked with whorls of lavender light. “Tutsu sprites,” I whispered. “I haven’t seen them since I was small.”
“Those only exist where the land is especially fertile,” said the Swana port guard, standing straighter with pride. I smiled weakly—even while trapped in his grassland, a little of Melu’s blessing still remained in Swana. I wondered how much longer that magic would last.
The port was located in a secluded crossroads. As we left, our stomachs still sloshing from the lodestone, the sound of singing and plodding donkeys greeted us.
Oluwan and Swana bring his drum; nse, nse.
Dhyrma and Nyamba bring his plow; gpopo, gpopo.
“It’s market day,” I observed.
“Good,” said Sanjeet, heading toward one of the caravans,