The middle-aged Babalawo pounced on Djola. “Kyrie set a barbarian on fire with sparks from her fingers, then like a Zamanzi warrior ate his heart while he watched.”
“Nonsense, Haji.” An Iyalawo spoke for the first time. “Burning alive, the man’s not watching anything.”
“Perhaps Kyrie’s folded space corridors are spreading void-storms,” Haji shouted.
“You’re jealous.” The Iyalawo shouted over him. “You can’t make a corridor.”
“Women’s conjure wreaks havoc with the everyday!”
“And men don’t add to the void?” The Iyalawo rolled her eyes. “You lot tried to assassinate Kyrie behind Urzula’s back. You’re mad at Kyrie for surviving.”
Haji poked Djola. “Follow your own theory to the source. I’ll wager it’s Kyrie.”
Djola attended to his breath, willing himself to be patient. “What other ideas to stop void-storms and poison desert?”
“The mainland has doomed itself,” the oldest Babalawo said. “You seek the impossible.” Everyone nodded, poured more wine, and chewed at dried figs.
“You feel safe with your pirate ships and Lahesh conjure!” Djola closed his eyes on an image of the wise men and women going up in flames. Luckily he couldn’t pull enough fire, or he would have blasted them. “We’re wasting our time.” He grabbed Orca.
“What language were you speaking?” Orca asked as they stormed off the garden barge.
“Lahesh.”
“The trickster’s language.” Orca smiled. “That’s why the wise men laugh at us.”
12
Libraries
It was a day’s walk over many bridges to reach the biggest island Yidohwedo made as it reached to the stars. Djola’s last shreds of hope were dissolving into panic, so they hired a canoe to travel the waterways to the peak-island in an afternoon. Colorful fish darted in and out of undulating seaweed and coral reefs. Curious sea turtles nudged their boat, and Orca and Djola took care with their paddles. The docks were jammed. Farmers came to tend vegetable and grain fields. Pilgrims in feathered hats headed for the observatory at the mountaintop: a stone fortress with windows to catch stars at dawn, twilight, and during the night.
Climbing the steps to the summit, Orca was breathless, yet he squealed at golden domes and sun-and-moon dials. “The griot of griots claims there are more than a thousand windows filled with Lahesh wim-wom: celestial wheels, tubes with eyepieces, star-catchers. Under the windows are scrolls and paints to create a record or render a vision.”
“A thousand?” Djola darted by sweaty farmers. “Yari may have exaggerated.”
“I hope it’s true what vie said about sky windows.” Orca grinned. “Pezarrat didn’t want you coming alone. He said you could escape through a window to another world.” Orca was a terrible spy. “If you don’t return … He says he’ll kill Vandana.”
“A lie. He’d sell her. What does Yari say about the observatory?”
“Special windows open to the heart of sparkling demons. At night, when darkness invites demons to hold still a moment in the sky, you might step through the window and greet them without fear of being eaten. No escape though. If you don’t step back, you’d be lost in the dark between stars.”
Lahesh whimsy cheered Djola. “When I visit Urzula go look through the windows.”
Orca agreed, even though Pezarrat wanted him to tail Djola everywhere.
The library was the dim heart of the observatory. The whoosh of reed-wheels made Djola’s skin tingle. Lahesh wim-wom kept the sea’s dampness out. Adjusting to near darkness and cool, dry air took a moment. Shelves cut into Yidohwedo’s walls were augmented by wooden scroll-cases from the old cities. Books filled the mountain. On trips with Yari, Djola had roamed the library for days. He’d learned antidotes for everything and the language of dirt, water, and wind. Afterward they made love under the stars, whispering about wonders they might discover the next day.
“Who has time to read everything?” Orca peered into a cave of bark-paper codices.
Librarians wrapped in coarse cotton had black eyes and knotty egg-white beards like Azizi’s Master of Books and Bones. Everyone reminded Djola of his other life. The librarians were cordial and sent word to Urzula—her residence was nearby—that Djola wished an audience.
Like the Babalawos, they lamented a ruined mainland and then drifted back into the shadowy aisles of books. The head librarian blamed greedy citizens and barbarians for void-winds and poison desert. “Only a fool brings a whole forest to its knees or plants corn without beans and gourds. Who shaves sweetgrass to a nub or gouges Mama Zamba’s bosom for poison metals to make baubles?”
Nobody listened when Djola talked like that. “Something clouds our minds and kills our spirits.” Djola tapped his chest. “Poison desert inside too.”
The head librarian pounded his desk. “Know yourself. Know the world.”
“Yes.” Djola was relieved to find someone who understood. “I’ve been practicing a fire-spell. I need your help, your wisdom, to hold chill in my heart and hands.”
The librarian chuckled. “Don’t believe the griot tales. Fire-spells are dangerous, but novices never burn to death. They can’t pull enough fire.”
“I need to pull a lot of fire.”
The head librarian leaned close and grinned. “I have only modest skill, but I’ll share a secret. Kyrie was my student. Of course, I can’t take credit for her ferocity.”
Djola smiled. “No, of course not.”
“Clumsy at first but so much power, Kyrie was someone who might have burnt herself up. But I knew just what to say.” He savored some insight he’d doled out. “What are you trying to do?”
Djola licked dry lips. He hadn’t told anyone his plan. “If I dance Xhalan Xhala at the border between green lands and poison desert, reckoning fire might show what led to poison sandstorms. Then I could find an antidote.”
“No,” the librarian roared, “too dangerous.” He switched to Empire vernacular and waved a spark torch, warding off evil. “Only a madman—”
“Xhalan Xhala is a prophet’s tool.” Djola effected a calm manner. “I could look at now and see the future and call it forth.”
“You’d conjure one future. There are so many. You’d add to the void.”
“No, a meal for the crossroads gods.”
The librarian sneered. “Who can count on those tricksters?”
“I found a book in Kaharta,” Djola said, “Amplify Now—”
“Amplify Now—in Kaharta?”
“Kaharta had the best library on the mainland,” Orca blurted.
The librarian aimed the torch at Djola. “Rogue pirates burned Kaharta, looted the library.”
Orca pushed the torch aside. “Pezarrat dumped the book out a porthole.”
“Good. Amplify Now is a few notes written by desperate Elders.” The librarian came to the front of his desk. He was taller than Djola. “What are you, Sorit and Zamanzi?”
“Anawanama and Zamanzi.” Djola corrected him. “My brother is a chief—”
“You should know better.” The librarian narrowed his eyes. “You can’t rip up the fabric of ancient wisdom for a few convenient threads.”
“I seek the whole cloth.” Djola clenched a fist behind his back.
The librarian sighed. “Xhalan Xhala is sacred ritual, a lifetime practice. Who learns that from a book?”
“That’s why I’ve come to you.” Djola tugged the frothy cloth at the librarian’s neck, cutting off his air. “We’re running out of time. We have to do something. Soon.”
“Stop.” Orca pulled Djola’s hands away and stood between them. “Forgive us. Too many months at sea. Loved ones lost. Djola would learn anything to master the spell.”
The librarian rubbed his throat. “Nobody masters Xhalan Xhala—you surrender to it.”
“I would surrender,” Djola declared. “I would do anything.”
“I’ll bet you would.” The librarian almost snarled, “I can’t teac
h what is impossible.”
“You mean you won’t try.” Djola’s chest was fire again. “Ignorance can’t save us.”
The librarian pounded the torch on the rock floor. “You need a Lahesh conjurer, like Yari, the griot of griots and master of nothing. Who ever knows all the stories?”
Djola grabbed the librarian’s rough cotton sleeve. “Yari hides from the world.”
“Empire citizens call vesons abominations and string them up. Can you blame Yari?”
“Yes.” Instead of pummeling the librarian, Djola raced down the corridor and out into the sunset. Great gulps of salt air quenched the fire in his chest and belly.
Orca scurried behind him. “We should come back tomorrow and reason with—”
“Librarians and Babalawos won’t help. They think ignorant, foolish people have called disaster upon themselves—a cure for that is impossible.”
Orca clutched Djola’s shoulders, his face open, his smile deep. “You’re a master. You can learn anything, even the impossible, without anybody’s help.”
Djola shrugged Orca off. “I’m not who you think I am.”
“Of course you are.”
Instead of arguing, Djola sent Orca to the sky windows and tromped across the ridge to meet Queen Urzula.
13
Fortress
Yidohwedo’s head was the pirate queen’s fortress, a serpent’s face with fire eyes overlooking the sea. The queen’s mountain chambers never went dark. Spark torches lit the night without burning tree oil and lasted who knows how long. This Lahesh wim-wom was one of the floating cities’ most closely guarded secrets. Impossible conjure until Lahesh tinkerers mastered it. The floating cities could have shared their fire-spell with the world and saved a hundred hundred cathedral trees or more, but they were greedy, stingy pirates. Djola squashed a gout of anger.
Urzula sat alone in a courtyard on a stone bench, watching the sunset. A mosaic of crystals at her feet soaked up the last rays of light. “Too beautiful a night to waste in a cave.” She smiled. If she had bad news, she wouldn’t flash her teeth at Djola. Silvery white stars made half circles above her dark eyes. A white line crossed her purple-tinted lips going from chin to nose. She wore a tight tunic and loose-fitting pants gathered at the ankle—pirate gear. On Yidohwedo Urzula was almost unremarkable. “Why have you come to see me?”
Djola would not start with family. “The wisest conjurers in the world, Babalawos, Iyalawos, and librarians, offered nothing new to solve the poison dust mystery.”
Urzula flicked her fingers. “Of course you know more than librarians and Iyalawos sitting in the middle of the Salty Sea.”
“If they applied their wisdom to the problem,” he retorted, “we could solve this.”
She kissed her teeth. “You think you’re the only one who looks for a solution?”
“They were patronizing, indifferent. They’ve already given up.”
“Why should anyone trust a savage rascal?” Urzula glowered at him.
“We northlanders have much to offer the world.”
“Do you?”
“I didn’t come to burden you about void-storms. What news of my family?”
Urzula looked away from him to the water. “I hear of your adventures at sea.”
“I hear Ernold and Money plotted against Nuar, Samina, and my children.”
“Lilot says Council talk is of pirate raids—barbarian cities burn in acid-conjure and scoundrels steal Zamanzi children for brothels, mines, and warships.” She blamed Djola for Pezarrat’s breaches.
“Zamanzi villagers are easy prey with their warriors out raiding Empire caravans.”
Urzula gritted her teeth. “So much unrest since you left my husband’s side.”
Djola stepped between her and the sea. “He banished me.”
“The masters wanted to kill you. Should Zizi have let them?”
“You’re my wife’s friend. Have you seen her?”
“I travel the coast from the Golden Gulf to the Zamanzi north, trying to hold the peace against renegades.” She lit a spark torch. “Lilot, my cook, watches over Azizi while I’m gone. Rebels run riot and Council plays into their hands.” Lilot was a more powerful witch than Urzula. Griots claimed they were lovers, and Lilot was willing to do anything for her queen. “I’m here visiting my children. They study at the library.”
“Did you see my children before you left?” Djola lay on the ground at her feet, his face in gravel. “Please. Tell me.”
“They came to Arkhys City a while ago. Why do such a thing?” Urzula sighed. “I hear rumors of a trial. They live still.”
“Alive, but in the hands of my enemies.” He struggled up.
“Azizi’s masters say you’re a rogue pirate who deserves worse than death.”
“My family suffers”—his voice cracked—“in my place.”
“Azizi and the Master of Arms won’t let anyone hurt your family.”
“This is my hope.” He leaned close. “Perhaps you could—”
“Samina waits for you”—Urzula’s jaw was set, her dark eyes slits—“to finish your mission and rescue her and your children.” She took his hand. “What will you do?”
Djola snatched his hand away. “I’ll make my mind a fortress.”
“Iyalawo crossroads conjure. You could lose yourself.” Urzula sighed. “Do what you must do, but hurry.”
Djola raced off, arguing with Samina all the way down the mountain. Why take the children to their enemies, even searching for him? Nothing reasonable occurred to him. Spark torches glittered on the walkways—weapons and nightlights. He wanted to steal one, storm Council, and blast his enemies like a fire-breathing beast of legend. But men had burnt themselves up trying to wield stolen torches. “Zst!” Djola longed for a flask of seed and silk.
On a barge to the flagship, Orca chattered about stepping through a sky window, being touched by a demon, and seeing wonders no one had painted before: a bridge of stars and a great blue eye watching over the light. “In sky windows, you see what you imagine.”
Pezarrat ignored jumba jabba and agreed with Djola that lingering in the floating cities and paying docking fees was pointless. As the fleet headed out, Djola chased the old healer from sick bay and sat on a prayer rug with Vandana and Orca.
“I’ve lost too much time”—his voice cracked—“distracted or blank or addled from seed and silk.” He held up a hand as they protested. “Don’t argue. To master new conjure, I’ll make my mind a fortress and seal my heart. Otherwise I’ll go mad.”
Vandana pursed her lips. “You’ll be patient. You won’t believe lies or crave seed and silk, but it’ll be hard to feel anybody else’s pain, joy, or fear.” She stroked his face. “Take care to banish despair. Locked inside, despair will fester and ruin you.”
“Samina and the children wait for me to rescue them,” Djola sputtered. “I’ll hold fast to memories of them.” He thought of Quint’s musical laugh as he soared through the air; Bal’s pout when she couldn’t ride to Council and protect him from fools and haints; Tessa’s grin as she offered a scroll-spell for avoiding danger. Instead of a good-bye embrace, Samina balled her fists and pounded his chest. “My wife’s hands always smelled of almonds and raintree blossoms. Conjuring these memories will clear despair.”
Vandana grunted, unconvinced, but she sharpened the chisel and every needle. She mixed blue-green Anawanama dyes and silvery dust from Lahesh gate-mesh. Orca shaved Djola’s head and chest. Peering into the cracked mirror, Djola drew Vévés on his skull and over his heart: a lattice of interlocking roads and spirals, shooting stars and spiderwebs that invoked crossroads deities.
“I’ll also hold fast to my mission.” His voice ached. “I don’t know if what I seek is possible, if what I do matters…”
“Everything matters,” Orca said. “That’s what you say to me.”
“I can’t recall why my wife and I fought that last time.” Djola poured a libation to the crossroads gods. “With this conjure
and everything I do from now on, I ask for her forgiveness.”
Vandana cut the Vévés into his flesh and filled the wounds with the fortress-spell.
14
Surviving at the Crossroads
When the stars aligned, Green Elder clans from across the Empire and beyond the maps gathered at a secret oasis in the sweet desert for a crossover festival. They honored the dead, welcomed the future, and celebrated freedom. Feast tables were laid out around a gurgling spring in a windswept canyon. Honey wine cooled in cisterns belowground. Potions were brewed, and Elders crafted masks, instruments, and dances. They found lost words and invented new ones.
Intoxicating aromas wafted from a dozen cook tents nestled in scraggly midnight-fruit trees whose roots dipped in the spring below. Berries had fermented in the rocky soil. Drunk crows hopped underfoot, screeching and teasing everyone as if they were honored guests. Wine from fermented midnight berries was a festival treat and made everyone’s eyes glow in the dark.
Awa and Bal had turned seventeen and decided to cross over. Bal was as tall as Yari and as ferocious as Isra. She crafted powerful bows and sleek arrows that flew true. She forged Lahesh blades to cut through stone and metal. Everyone loved to watch her dance along tightropes and ridges, balancing anger and love. A true shadow warrior, Bal preferred cunning to spilling blood.
Awa drew sky maps, silver stars on dark brown cloth, for all the seasons. She wrote stories in Anawanama, Lahesh, Zamanzi, and barbarian tongues, for every region west of Mama Zamba. She knew a few dirt poems and the language of bees and trees. A true griot, she could puzzle her way through any knot, squabble, or mystery and then offer a good story. All of Yari’s and Isra’s Sprites did amazing conjure, and the Elders boasted about a bold new world coming.
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