A thief-lord transported her to Holy City as a blood offering to the gods of Ice Mountain. High priest Hezram paid well for Sprites—good blood, no family, and not yet dangerous.

Awa’s first transgression was singing tree song under the scar moon, actual sacred cathedral tree melodies that only high priests should know. She’d learned tree song in Smokeland. Her second transgression was talking to the Amethyst River. The river was sick. Anyone could hear that. A person didn’t need medicine-woman skill or priestly dispensation.

The barbarians didn’t know that Awa was a smoke-walker. Women supposedly polluted Smokeland. One transgression meant exile, slave labor on an Empire caravan or merchant ship. Two meant a slow death, toiling and bleeding for the glory of the supreme god. For three transgressions, the punishment was spirit torture too terrible to speak of.

Awa wanted to curse the crossroads gods, but she refrained. Cursing the gods wouldn’t help her survive.

15

The Future from the Past

Many conjurers collected fire-spells. They showed off at carnivals, throwing sparks, exploding leaves, even eating flames. Only the Lahesh burned through this moment to ones that were coming: reckoning fire. Everyone said Xhalan Xhala was impossible conjure, but Djola had yet to admit defeat. Samina would never forgive that. Impossible was what lazy, ignorant fools said when they reached their limits. Djola had to push beyond himself. Hadn’t he always done that? He was the first northlander at the stone-wood table, and for twenty years, second only to Azizi! After mastering Xhalan Xhala, he’d sit at the emperor’s table again.

Pezarrat and his pirates were well-fed and spirited. They cheered a clutch of merchant vessels sailing in on a good wind. Hefty boats with bright sails rode low in the water. Pezarrat hurled Djola’s acid-conjure at one ship. When the hull dissolved into sludge and sizzling vapor, the other ships blew horns signaling surrender. Pirates looted the ships without suffering many casualties, although a few merchants lost their heads protecting trinkets. Grateful for an empty sick bay, Vandana and Orca joined the victory celebration. They gobbled shrimp, drank too much wine, and slept like the dead on plush pillows and blankets—merchant booty.

Up on the deserted deck, Djola swept feathers, medicine bags, and discarded trinkets into the sea. A scar moon sank into rippling water. Samina’s moon. He was clean-shaven and clear, his fortressed heart a faint smolder, closer to the chill he needed to pull fire. He found a merchant blade and stowed it in an empty sleeve. Dead merchants floated by, and he wondered if they’d been slavers. A few unlucky pirate lads floated with them. Djola turned away, unmoved thanks to his heart fortress. Orca and Vandana had helped him fashion silver-mesh gloves, cold conjure impervious to hot spells. Singing, he put on one glove and left one hand bare.