“Yari said it was beautiful.” Azizi looked ready to throw up. “What’s happened?”
“Void-spells,” Awa said. “Lost futures, like Hezram’s Nightmare Gates.”
The mountain quaked underneath them and a storm gathered. Azizi glanced around, panicked. “What spells do you offer?”
“I offer a moment or two.” Faint music made Awa smile. “Do you hear? Someone plays a shield-spell.” She pulled Azizi under her Mama Zamba cloak and followed the music trail through the storm to the boat people. They floated on turquoise water under cloudless skies. Colorful sailboats resembled giant birds or lizards with wings. A few jackal-boats had waterwheel butts. Behemoths leapt from the waves adding their voices to the drumming and singing. “Here is Yari’s Jumbajabbaland.” Awa flew low over the decks. Lahesh performers cavorted in carnival attire. People, who might have been Empire citizens, northlanders, or barbarians, waved.
Azizi waved to them. “Who are they?”
“Lahesh, and I don’t know. Their friends who escaped a perilous everyday?” High in the sails of a blackbird boat, lovers with spiderweb hair and cloud-silk robes folded into each other and swayed in the rigging. Treehouse refugees! Awa felt a thrill and then anger. “They’re hunted in Jumbajabbaland, by Hezram’s fiends and other spirit slaves. Nowhere to run and live free.”
“They look free.”
“In hiding? Under siege?” The music swept away void tendrils clinging to Awa’s cloak.
“The voices and talking drums clear the air,” Azizi whispered, fascinated, amazed.
“We are the weather.” Awa quoted The Songs for Living and Dying a second time. She was turning into the boring Elder she swore she’d never be.
“Our thoughts make the world.” Azizi spoke the next line and seemed lighter. He tapped his chest. “I can’t catch their rhythm. Do you know these songs?”
“Bal does.” This filled Awa with hope. Djola’s conjure bag weighed nothing again. Riding the crossover rhythm, she rose high and aimed for a faint glow: the light bridge. Stars and cold comets rushed by, and in no time, they stood on a rock by a hot spring. Silver trees nodded a welcome. Deep snow around them sighed and shifted as someone played an ice harp in a cave overhead. Awa pressed her cheek against the giant beehive resting in warm heather. The roar of many wings comforted her.
“Whose realm is this?” Sleet blew through Azizi’s flimsy robe. Breath froze in his scraggly beard. He touched a thirty-foot icicle melting into the steam from the hot spring. Or was it growing?
“A difficult region to find. Almost impossible—” Awa sputtered.
Behind Azizi, a spirit slave with Hezram’s face tumbled from the star bridge to the rock ledge, carrying a bundle of rags. This fiend had trailed them to the seventh region. Azizi turned to see what terrified Awa then shoved her against the beehive. The rag bundle the fiend carried was a limp woman. She’d been in the cell when Soot rescued Meera and Mother.
Fresh blood was quick fuel, not the slow burn of tree oil and blood. The fiend jolted at ice-harp music and slitted empty eyes against bright snow. Light drained from its heart. Awa gripped the viper necklace at her neck as the fiend chomped granite teeth into the woman’s shoulder and sucked greedily. Its heart burned bright again. The woman’s spirit body turned to ash and void-smoke that got swallowed by crystals at the cave mouth. Awa’s lungs burned, her heart ached. The fiend crouched and blinked empty eyes wide. Azizi gazed into endless darkness, transfixed.
“No.” Awa shook Azizi and focused on the fiend’s bright heart. “Don’t lose the speed of thought. We don’t have Bal to rescue us.” She pulled a snake head from around her neck and, faster than thought, flew at the grinning fiend. They passed in the air. As Awa spun around, the fiend pinned Azizi to the ground by the hive and reached down to bite a trembling hand. Awa screamed. A hundred hundred bees burst from the hive, swarming the fiend, stabbing fat, hot stingers everywhere. Several sentinels were the size of hummingbirds and had three or four stingers. Flailing, the fiend snagged a few bees and swallowed their sparks. Before more sentinels perished, Awa raced through the blur of wings and plunged snake fangs in the fiend’s heart. Indigo sparks filled its body as it crumpled. The bees returned to the hive. Awa snorted a puff of void-smoke and let hot tears flow.
“Look.” Azizi gasped.
Hezram’s smirk faded from the fiend’s face. Color returned to the cheeks of a wizened Empire citizen with a knotty white beard. His heart beat lightning bolts.
“A haint dead to the everyday, but free,” Awa said.
“Curses on you all.” He scowled and flew away.
“You broke Hezram’s spell!” Azizi stood up, sweating and shaking. “That was my cousin, the Master of Books and Bones.”
“The librarian?” Awa shook her head. “Yari spoke well of him.”
“Not lost in his labyrinth of books.” Azizi shuddered. “Who did this to him?”
“Hezram. The librarian wore his face.”
Azizi’s heart blazed as bright as hers. Anger, resolve, fear? “With the blessings of other masters at my table.”
“The bees resist.” Awa stroked the hive and looked up to the cave. Why hadn’t Samina helped? “Are you there?” she shouted. “Please. I’m Djola’s friend.”
The ice-harp music came to an abrupt end. Samina dropped down to the hot spring. A cloak of sleet swirled around naked breasts, hips, and ankles. Her eyes and lips were the blue of glaciers. Her heart beat a lightning storm.
“Samina? Can it be?” Azizi stepped back. “What are you?”
“Every day, I’m more ice storm than anything.” Samina shook a snow squall from red-streaked silver hair and walked through Awa, like a shiver of horror—an unnerving experience. “I have few visitors. Thank you for dispatching this one. A wise woman helps spirit slaves across the star bridge.”
“Tembe,” Awa and Azizi said in unison, then cursed.
“I knew Tembe once.” Samina ground her teeth. “My music distracted the others trying to break in. Without you two as guides, they’re lost, for a while at least.”
“We’re all under siege,” Awa said. “But Djola has a plan.”
Samina smiled, granite teeth covered in frost. “Djola would come and stay with me.”
“He can’t, not yet,” Awa declared. “Azizi needs him.”
“Is that so?” Samina shook sleet from her eyes. “What do you two want from me?”
Azizi stuttered jibber jabber about spirit debt and how helpless he’d been without Djola and how helpless he still was against Hezram, Ernold, Money, and the others. “Hezram grows stronger every minute.” He leaned against Awa, repeating lies and denying truth, another weak good person who’d lost his way. “Djola abandoned me, but he’s come back, and— Can you forgive me?”
Samina walked through him. The blood seeping from his wound froze and he clamped his lips on more excuses. Samina’s heart flashed brighter. She gathered strength passing through smoke-walkers.
“Council sits tonight,” Awa said. “We want to do a Dream Gate spell, to protect the city and Mount Eidhou, the bees, everyone. To give us time to make a different story.”
Samina gave her a bag of Lahesh crystals like the one in Djola’s foot. “For the gates.”
“Our last chance.” Azizi sighed. “Hezram would rule.”
Samina’s granite teeth glinted in the sunlight. “But I am the queen of misrule.”
13
Council
Mount Eidhou was a purple giant roaming midnight gloom in an ice-blue cap, settling down to sleep across Thunder River. A full moon rose above Eidhou’s peaks, offering itself up to greedy demons. A breeze whispered mountain gossip to oasis trees while the river gurgled mountain secrets against the shore. Djola leaned against Mango who was damp and cool from a mud bath. They stood just inside the new city wall at the silver-mesh gates to the river. Vévés on the gates were roads and spirals, shooting stars and spiderwebs, and also the full moon rising.
Tears
flooded Djola’s cheeks, blurred his vision. So much to celebrate! The elephant, Vandana, and Orca/Boto had survived, had become rebels. Harsh Kyrie, proud Kyrie never betrayed Djola’s family. Awa and Bal called Djola to his right mind and loved him like a father. They saved Azizi. Soon Djola would greet Samina at Mount Eidhou, perhaps Tessa and Quint also. So why so many tears and a deep ache at the end of each breath?
Mango reached her trunk around Djola to examine the gates. In his marble eye, Djola spied tendrils of void-smoke trying to lap over the silver-mesh at the top of the wall—only a thin thread made it. Kenu, Kenu’s father, and other masons were securing final hinges, latches, and Lahesh whimsy wheels with foul-smelling concoctions. Tedious spells, but when done right, the gates would hold spirits and haints to resist a void-storm or poison desert encroaching. Kenu had even put silver-mesh around the iron citadel gates.
If Hezram conjured Nightmare Gates, Kenu and the masons would share the spirit debt. But any spell could be perverted. If Awa conjured true Dream Gates, Kyrie would extend her gates to Azizi’s citadel, which lay across the river and outside the city wall, but was surrounded by trees. Azizi would gain access to Eidhou’s resources, but only on Kyrie’s terms. And despite his father, Kenu would be a hero. Which story would it be? Mango rumbled, impatient. Djola stroked her trunk and said what he desired. “Awa will make our Dream Gates soon.”
Azizi strode from the oasis garden, brandishing Urzula’s spark torch. The trip to Jumbajabbaland with Awa had invigorated him. “Abelzowadyo,” he said to Djola. Zamanzi in the crowd echoed him. Azizi raised the torch high then low, and a hundred hundred lights in the shape of raintree blossoms lit up dark citadel windows. Floating-city conjure honored wise Samina tonight, eight years too late. When Council betrayed Nuar and Samina, Urzula had used her powers just for Azizi and their children. Tonight, the queen would dance an Anawanama moon masquerade with the rebels. Djola might forgive the queen and all the others. He might even forgive himself.
Stick bugs rubbed their legs together and frogs bellowed. Djola scanned the riverbanks, taking pleasure in oozing mud, river grass, torch-bugs, and countless mysteries unfolding in the moonlight. A hundred crows headed for their night roost in the oasis garden trees, squabbling and screeching. Djola smiled. He’d come to the end of his world, and everything was new again, wondrous. Impossible is a word for yesterday. He had little appetite for killing but felt ready for anything else. His spirit debt had come due. Tomorrow he’d be free, a flicker in the moonlight, a shadow on the water.
Angry voices wafted through the air. To the dismay of masters plotting to assassinate the emperor, Azizi had called Council an hour earlier than planned. He moved the gathering outdoors and invited festivalgoers and performers to attend Council deliberations and the gate-conjure ritual. Arms commandeered a stage table carved by Anawanama craftsmen in the shape of a winged jackal. Candles burned in its mouth and at the tail; wings were tucked against a broad flat back. Lilot’s helpers hung spark lanterns along the city wall and laid out a feast—fish from the river, groundnuts, seaweed, and mountain greens.
Azizi strode to the Lahesh waterwheel chair that Arms set at the fiery tail. He sat down with his back to the river. Faithful guards stood behind him with Arms. Kitchen helpers brought out Djola’s Anawanama chair and Grain’s sweetgrass one. Across the river at the cook’s entrance, Urzula fed a hyena pack the goat feast Djola and Azizi had picked at earlier. Warriors and festivalgoers shuddered as the beasts gobbled great hunks of meat and gristle and sang their high-pitched, rollicking odes. Griots readied a new hyena tale. Djola readied himself for battle.
The Masters of Water and Money—still silver-eyed rogues—stormed across the citadel bridge. Unnerved by hyenas and witch-woman conjure, they fumed to high priest Ernold, who was gaunt, ashy brown, and irritable too. Boto shadowed them, head bowed and eyes hooded, actually an excellent spy. The hyenas disappeared into the trees or the citadel maze. Ernold tightened his butt and chomped his teeth to walk through northlanders, barbarians, and veson-shapeshifters to reach the Council table.
“Fatazz!” Money swallowed more curses. “Is Council a masquerade to entertain the mob?”
“We gather around an Anawanama jackal?” Ernold glared at the emperor.
Azizi fed a rat groundnuts. “No one has moved the stone-wood table in a hundred years.”
Dressed in Aido cloth, Grain snuck in from the trees, refusing to look at anybody or perhaps vie just avoided Djola’s eyes. Gone was the bold young rascal. Tonight, Grain was a steely survivor, tense and guarded, yet still carrying a talking drum. Vie grumbled to Arms who grumbled back. Flirting.
“Grain,” Djola shouted and then added a name. “Adeley!”
Grain stepped under a light. Deep blue eyes were unreadable. A purple scar ran from ear to chin on otherwise smooth, blue-black skin—a good story there. “I’m glad to see you returned from pirate exile, Djola. We need heroes more than ever before.”
Djola snorted, embarrassed. “Zizi, Kyrie, and Arms spread that pirate-hero lie.”
“What lie? Pezarrat no longer plagues the waters. You’re the hero who saved—”
“Ha.” Djola shifted to Anawanama, certain Grain would understand. “A friend on Pezarrat’s ship said—if it’s so bad, you need gods or heroes to save your world—” Regrets and doubts shook him and perhaps Grain also. “Well, it’s time to pull together.”
Grain tapped the talking drum to say: “Isn’t it always that bad?”
Djola had cursed Grain’s cowardice just this morning. “Thank you for the letters.”
Grain also spoke Anawanama. “Spit on the wind.”
“No. Water in the desert.”
Grain drummed thanks, but was drowned out by singers and djembe drummers heralding Hezram’s entrance. The old carnival hack appeared in a puff of blue smoke at the jackal’s head, almost blowing out the candles. Seashells scattered in Hezram’s luxurious hair framed handsome features. He wore power-blue robes, a torch-bug eyepatch that sparkled iridescent blue, and a calm-in-the-face-of-any-danger demeanor. The crowd applauded. Ernold and Money fussed and fumed. Hezram shushed them, grinned at Djola, and marched around with a Lahesh timepiece, prodding acolytes, masons, and everyone else. “The sooner we start, the better for the city and the Empire.” Hezram sat down next to the emperor in Djola’s old chair.
Azizi whistled at him. “You’re not yet a master at this table.”
Hezram jumped up, and pointed at the bandage on Azizi’s neck. “Someone try to slit your throat?”
Arms had a blade at Hezram’s head before Azizi took a breath. Hezram’s acolytes readied poison darts. Emperor guards drew swords. Warrior-clowns aimed bows and spears from the shadows. Few weapons were allowed in the citadel chamber, but under the stars, Arms had little control. Azizi wore an Anawanama outlaw cloak like Djola’s, impervious to arrows, darts, and blades. Mesh dangled from Zizi’s headdress, protecting the back of his neck and forehead. Assassins would need perfect aim to bring him down. So many others could suffer if—
“Are we dead before we begin?” Sparks leapt from Kyrie’s fingers and fresh Vévé wounds as she paraded in, fearless. Mountain jewels graced her hair. Cloud-silk pants and tunic accentuated her round, flowing figure. Her Anawanama cape snapped in the wind. Drunk on snake venom, poison sap, and rock runoff, she, like Djola, was ready for anything. She carried her conjure book. Warriors bristled and glanced about, uncertain. Mango trumpeted and touched her trunk to Kyrie’s nose.
An entrance to rival Hezram’s.
“You!” Iyalawo Tembe covered surprise and shook a raffia fan at acolytes till they lowered dart pipes. Her gold hair and tattoos reflected torchlight. She sat a respectful distance from the Council table on an Iyalawo stool—carved giraffes adorned with cowry shells, crystal beads, and an Aido cloth cushion. Tembe was a fortress of knowledge not to be discounted. She bowed as Kyrie sauntered toward the table. Tembe’s talking drummers played a praise song for a carnival clown who juggled fi
re.
Kyrie bowed to Tembe. “I was sorry to hear about Ice Mountain.”
Tembe’s lips trembled. She’d loved her mountain. “Tonight we protect Mount Eidhou from a similar fate.” She glanced from Djola to Hezram and smacked her fan against acolytes who had yet to lower weapons.
Kyrie wiggled between Hezram and Arms’s sword. “Let’s not waste more blood.” She tugged the red beard frosted silver at Arms’s chin.
“Our blood is precious,” Tembe said, Iyalawo of transgressor huts. Her pronouncement made Djola’s foot throb, yet others took up her words and weapons disappeared. Arms lowered his sword.
Hezram grinned. “Poison master, why stand in the trees grinding your teeth? Come over here.” He put on a friendly command voice. “Sit. You’re injured.”
Djola wanted to shove his poison foot down Hezram’s throat. “I must stand.” Pain and distance from Hezram and Azizi would keep him focused.
“Djola’s lost his appetite.” Azizi cut cold eyes at Hezram. “You look hungry. Sit at least for food.” He pointed to Djola’s chair and piled fish and greens on the plate. The Master of Illusion barely skipped a beat and dropped down with a carnival smile. Anawanama spells in the chair made him chafe. He poked the food.
“Do you worry that Lilot might poison you?” Azizi ate from Hezram’s plate.
Djola munched berry bread lest someone think he was afraid to eat with Council.
Hezram chuckled and gobbled a piece of fish. “No man wants to die this night.”
“Dochsi,” Djola disagreed.
“It’s always a good night to die for what you believe,” Kyrie and Tembe said together and laughed, deep, throaty, dangerous laughs.
Hezram smirked at the women, too confident. “Are we all here?”
“We wait on the witnesses,” Azizi said. “Two women who escaped your transgressor huts.”
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