to a tiny thatch farmhouse. Beyond the gate, tendrils of acrid smoke rose from the overgrown courtyard.
“Are you just going to stand there?” called out a nasal voice. “The sprites said you two would be late, but they did not mention that you were dawdlers.”
WE CREPT UP THE SHORT DIRT PATH, through a broken gate, and into the courtyard. At first, I thought the mud-thatch house was covered in bits of glass. But every minute or so the clusters of bright specks moved, adjusting themselves in the sun. Tutsu. Hives of them.
A green mound rested by a cookfire. No, not a mound: a woman, barely four feet tall, wearing a cloak woven from fresh leaves and rushes. A wizened arm stuck out from the cloak, stirring a pot of bubbling brown slime.
“You have come on soap day,” she complained. “If you had waited a week, I would have had solid bars. Eh! You will have to wash with mash. Beggars cannot be choosers. Not even fancy beggars in imperial armor.”
A mud-and-stick mural of a woman’s face splayed across the ground. Her nose was soft and broad, and her lips dark and full. Round stones swirled to form a crown of hair. I had not been brought up in a religious sect, but I had seen this sacred mural before. Mbali had tried to teach me how to make one, since Swana belonged to People of the Clay. The believers often meditated by assembling portraits of Queen Earth, made from natural or living materials.
Beyond the mural, a rough linen screen flapped on a clothesline. Behind it sat two washtubs, towels folded neatly over each rim. Waiting.
The woman turned her ear toward us when we didn’t move, rustling the leaves on her hood. Her eyes were milky glass.
“Are you Old Mongwe?” I asked.
“No,” said the Clay priestess with a straight face. “I am Mongwe the Newborn Babe. Old Mongwe is in the other sprite-covered earth shrine in the middle of the wilderness. Sit down and drink your tea, you tiresome child.”
A kettle and two cups of golden liquid rested on mats beside her. We hesitated, then sat obediently and claimed the clay mugs. The tea didn’t smell enchanted or poisoned, and the steam relieved my lodestone nausea instantly. Sanjeet frowned at Mongwe before taking a sip. “How did you know we were coming?”
Mongwe rolled her sightless eyes. “How could I not know? Those chatter-mouths love stray adventurers.” She gestured toward her house, where tutsu hovered sleepily in the eaves. “All day they whine, ‘Mongwe, a boy is on the road taking a magic cow to market. Mongwe, a dairy maid is running away to be with her true love. Mongwe, a wuraola and her friend have come to seek an ehru.’ You are all the same, young people. Full of questions and deaf to ugly answers. Leaving your safe homes, your warm beds because—let me guess—you want to follow your heart.” She laughed, a dry, wheezing sound. Then she turned back to her pot, stirring as she muttered. “Should a fool follow his heart? A thief? A murderer? Your heart is not your friend unless you know who you truly are.”
“Thank you for the tea,” I said after a confused pause. “What’s a wuraola?”
“How should I know?” She sniffed the pot, then dumped it in a vat of ashes. “You will have a hard time convincing them to take you to Melu. Protective of alagbatos, the tutsu. Especially when it comes to him. The last time they helped someone find Melu … Well. He suffered.”
I stared at the bottom of my teacup, heart sinking. If the tutsu knew that my mother had enslaved Melu, they would never help me.
“Name your price,” Sanjeet told Mongwe. “The tutsu will listen to you. We’ll pay anything.”
She snorted. “Haven’t the two of you slung gold around the savannah enough today? You will be robbed and toothless before the evening is out.”
“Please,” I begged. “Dayo’s life depends—”
“What am I supposed to do? I am a priestess, not a sprite whisperer. You need a bath, a cure for the common cold, I’ll help you. But tutsu?” She sucked her teeth. “I just let them nest on my home. In return, they keep beetles away from my yams. They also guide me to honeycomb, if they are feeling grateful. But other than that, I ask them no favors. You will just have to convince them that you are someone worth listening to.”
I sighed, glancing at the roof. “At least