“Are you?” He glanced back, running his thumb over the top of my hand. “Please keep up, Tarisai. I wouldn’t want to lose you.”

My head swam in confusion. Had Sanjeet … forgiven me? Did he trust me again? No. He was only being kind so I would calm down and we could escape the Bush. I let him tow me over the meadow, which thickened with hills and trees.

We walked for what felt like an hour. I admired the back of Sanjeet’s neck, where loose curls grazed the top of his weapon halter. He hummed a song in his cavernous bass: an old lullaby I had heard from a maid at Bhekina House. I remembered the moon streaming through my window, and the evasive scent of mangoes as I drifted to sleep.

“That’s from Swana,” I mumbled, feeling warm and sluggish. “I didn’t know you knew Swana songs.”

Sanjeet did not reply. We had stopped in front of a cave, sunken into the face of a brush-covered hill. Corkwood trees surrounded us on every side.

“Do you need to rest?” he murmured, touching my arm. His expression, soft and earnest, made my knees buckle. I resisted the urge to trace his slanted brows, his ridged nose, the deep creases beneath each eye.

I asked, “Why are you being so nice to me?”

“You’re tired, sunshine girl,” he sighed into my turban. His embrace was sudden, catching the air in my throat. “I’m sorry for taking you so far. The sun’s too high for walking. But it’s cool in that cave. We could rest for a while. Sleep.” He pulled back and smiled, his tone gently suggestive. “Or not.”

“I—” I shook my head, as if to clear it. “I don’t understand.”

“What happened last night wasn’t your fault.” His lips brushed my forehead. “I see that now. Your mother forced you to hurt Dayo; you had no say in it. I’m sorry for saying those cruel things. You’re nothing like The Lady.”

“Nothing you said was wrong,” I faltered. “I am The Lady’s daughter. And I chose to join the council. Even though I knew it would put Dayo in danger—”

“It wasn’t your fault,” he insisted. Slowly, my muscles relaxed. He unwound the turban of my disguise, letting my braids spill heavily over my back as his fingers grazed my neck. “You did nothing wrong. There is no reason to feel guilty.”

It was more soothing than his lullaby. More potent than any of Kirah’s chants. It was all I needed to feel blameless and beloved, and everything I wanted to hear.

“Tarisai,” said Sanjeet. “Come into the cave.”

My blood cooled. In a daze, I extracted myself from his arms and backed away.

“What’s wrong?” Sanjeet’s face was a perfect portrait of concern. “I need you, Tar. I trust you more than anyone. I never should have doubted—”

“Stop,” I rasped.

“Tar? I don’t understand.”

“Sanjeet of Dhyrma would never lie to make me feel better.” I snapped a slim branch from a tree and brandished it in front of me. “What are you?”

The person froze. Then he—it—smiled with Sanjeet’s face. The Bush-spirit distorted, body rippling as it melted into acrid fog that billowed around me. I couldn’t move—couldn’t see. Ghostly laughter shook the corkwood trees.

My feet began to advance, laboriously, as though a powerful weight pressed behind each heel. I realized with horror that I was heading toward the cave. I was sure it led to the Underworld, or some horrible limbo like it. If I entered, would I become like it? A malicious Bush-spirit, trapped for all eternity?

I pulled against the weight, fighting, thrusting myself in the other direction. For a moment, it worked. But I was aimless; the fog muddled all direction. Before long that push, push, push toward the cave returned. I threw myself again. I was tiring. I would never keep this up for long, and then the only thing left would be to—

“Give in,” the spirit murmured, still using Sanjeet’s voice. “You would be safer with us. Dayo would be safer. Don’t be selfish, killer-girl.”

“Shut up,” I growled. But already my muscles were weakening. My feet began their advance again. One step. Two. Three …

And then a new voice echoed from the ground, vibrating in my limbs, as though it had traveled through thick layers of dust and leather. But it wasn’t someone. It was Aiyetoro’s drum, strapped to my back, pounding of its own accord: pum-bow, pum-bow, gigin, go-dun-go-dun-bow.

The meaning of each pitch came together in my mind: Stone. Stone. Vine-covered stone.

I peered wildly through the mist. There, beyond two trees, a rock lay covered in vines … and in its shadow, a kiriwi bush.

I lurched for it, scaling the ground as the Bush-spirit howled, doubling its efforts. But the closer I got to the kiriwi, the thinner the fog became. I saw through illusions everywhere—trees grew transparent, and a path previously concealed sprung into view. The kiriwi bush was one of many, dotting the way I had lost earlier. When I reached the path, the pull on my limbs melted away. I looked back. The circle of trees and Bush-spirit were gone … but the cave remained. That ominous place had not been an illusion.

I shivered in a heap on the ground, wanting to vomit. But I couldn’t rest. Not now.

“Sanjeet,” I whispered. “Where are you?”

I WOULD NOT DISOBEY CAPTAIN BUNMI AGAIN.

Stay by the kiriwi. I walked so close to the fragrant bushes, their branches scraped my sore legs. The Bush had transported me away from the border the moment I left the path. Sanjeet—the real Sanjeet—must have watched me disappear. Had he made it through to the other side?

At least I didn’t have to worry about human adversaries. Most bandits and thieves valued their lives too dearly to risk the Bush.

With each step, my head throbbed; the afternoon heat stifled me. I had not eaten before I left Yorua, unwilling to face my council siblings at breakfast. Kirah had lied to them and said Thaddace had sent me to officiate a court case. Far, far away. If I died in this wilderness, my only friends would never know what had happened to me.

Phantom murmurs seeped from the shadows of the corkwood trees. I heard the voices of my council siblings, sweet and forgiving.

“Tar? Is that you?”

“It is! It’s Tarisai!”

“Thank Am …”

“We’ve been looking ever since you left the keep. We don’t blame you about Dayo, Tar. We know it wasn’t your fault. Come home—”

“Stop trying so hard,” I snapped at the shadows. “I’m not leaving this path, so you might as well shut up!” Then I summoned the last of my strength and flung the Ray’s heat into the Bush, searching. I felt him. Sanjeet was still alive.

Hope buoyed my footsteps, though when I tried to Ray-speak, he didn’t respond. His mind felt submerged in water; the normal guard around it was gone. A snippet of his thoughts bled through the fog.

Look at you, brother. I can’t believe you’re so strong.

Sanjeet was happy. Delighted. Who on earth was he talking to? I searched with the Ray again, and sensed him farther up the path. I heard young voices, and a sound like the clack of wooden practice weapons.

“What in Am’s name?” I muttered. Then, with a single step, the landscape changed.

I spun and blinked rapidly. Tents dotted the previously empty grass, and smoke rose from campfires. Scruffy uniformed youths drilled with their captains, each bearing the sigil of a cobra. From their accents, the warriors appeared to be Dhyrmish mercenaries. Cautiously, I stepped back.

The camp disappeared.

I crept forward, and the mercenaries blossomed again into view.

The scene was staggeringly lifelike. I could even smell the cooking spices wafting from each fire. But when I hunted for mistakes in the illusion, I found them. Tents that failed to cast a shadow. Warriors wrestling on the ground without making an imprint in the mud. “Am’s Story,” I muttered. Why would the spirits make such an elaborate pantomime?

Then I saw him: the only living person in a camp full of ghosts.

“Jeet,” I cried out.

He was facing away, laughing. That rare, thunderous sound gave me so much joy, I wondered if the Bush had conjured it to seduce me. But it was real. He was real, the solid center around which the transparent illusion shifted. Sanjeet was sparring with one of the mercenaries, a clean-shaven young man with a scimitar.

“Jeet,” I repeated, grinning and waving at him.

He turned at my voice. But his deep brown eyes were glassy: He couldn’t see me.

“Follow my voice,” I said. “It’s all an illusion. You’ll see when you—”

“Careful of ghosts, brother.” The young mercenary stepped between me and Sanjeet. “We lose rookies every time we cross the Bush. Spirits always imitate people you know.”

My jaw dropped. This spirit had the audacity to pretend that I was one of them? I noticed then the resemblance between Sanjeet and the mercenary. The same copper complexion, heavy jaw, and protruding ears. But the spirit’s hair was straight, unlike Sanjeet’s loose curls. His face was soft and shy, a dramatic contrast to Sanjeet’s own.

“Sorry, Sendhil,” Sanjeet replied, shaking his head. “I just … I thought I heard someone.”