More freak storms harassed the fleet, coming too fast and often sinking boats. Djola danced in snow and lightning, trying to make sense. He swam naked in cold seas whenever behemoths swam near. Stuck in a cove waiting out gale winds, he made Anawanama outlaw armor, impervious to wild winds and most weapons. Few conjurers still knew this ancestor craft.

Djola fashioned deep-throated djembe drums and a kora—a calabash harp with twenty-one strings like Samina’s. His music kept spirits high. Pirates thought his trance dances were harmless carnival acts or Green Elder jumba jabba. Orca knew better. He pestered Djola and Vandana to teach him Lahesh. “You asked what I wanted? A trickster’s tongue.” Djola warned that every language changed the mind. Orca shrugged. “You say ignorance won’t save us.”

“Since when do you want to save the world?” Djola asked.

“Aren’t I part of the world?” Orca kept Djola company, reading in the night and arguing as the sun rose.

“You use too much tree oil in your lamps,” Pezarrat complained.

“You keep track of all my debts,” Djola replied. “I pay you in enemy blood and gold for a bit of light in the night. Why pretend to be angry? Are you teasing me?”

Pezarrat laughed. “You’ve become so affable and amusing. Orca claims a good spirit reasons with you in your dreams, and Vandana says only Basawili.” Pezarrat licked his teeth. “I don’t believe in good spirits or Anawanama jumba jabba.”

A chill wind tickled Djola’s neck—Samina, saving Pezarrat’s life. “Basawili means we survive to change—”

“The gods of the crossroads are tricksters!”

“Vandana makes sure Orca and I always have good to do.”

Djola never set foot in the Arkhysian Empire or any of Azizi’s protectorates. His chair at Council remained empty. According to Grain, Masters groused, yet Azizi refused to name a new Master of Poisons while Djola lived. A good sign. Kyrie still provided Azizi with mountain herbs and secret counsel while smuggling reports from Grain to Djola. Most of the news was bad: poison desert encroached; grain stores dwindled; rebels raided and citizens rioted. Kyrie’s Mountain Gates held as did her hope. Nobody had seen the bodies of Djola’s children.

Djola practiced patience. Whenever he drank a mild seed and silk potion and flew to Smokeland, Samina spoke of days to come. She swore greedy fools had yet to conquer the future. She loved the world and held to hope like sister Kyrie. Samina never let Djola apologize for past arrogance or terrible decisions, never let him talk of revenge or speak of the children. She’d made peace with their actions and insisted all was not lost.